CARRIE

“Principal Grayle” by Spencer Bainbridge

“We escaped England to get away from the cold,” John Smith grumbled as he put another log on the fire and dusted his meaty hands. “’Tis as cold here in Jamestown as any winter in Sussex, says I.”

“John Smith, temper your moaning.” His goodly wife, Mary, frowned over her knitting. “You know as well as I we came here to practice our religion freely. So don’t utter such blasphemy of this beautiful land we call Virginia.” Even when she was cross with him, John Smith could see the sparkle in her brown eyes, and he couldn’t help but notice the heave of her ample bosom as her fingers worked the thread.

“You are right, Mary,” he said. “’Tis such a blessed place, we named it for our savior’s virgin mother. But that needn’t mean there be any virgins in this house.”

She smiled coyly, turning away slightly. “Why, John, there is much work to do on this wintry night if we’re to survive.”

He put his hand on her left breast and felt the erectness of her nipple. “Then let us be warm.”

She rose, letting her garment fall to the wooden floor. “Ravage me, John,” she whispered. “I want you to attack my feminine mound like a tribe of warring Iroquois.”

“I shall,” he said. “I’ll get on my knees and eat a mighty feast. Then you’ll take my stiffened manhood in your sweet mouth, as that is the spirit of Thanksgiving.”

“Ah, John. I would receive your… your…”

Damn it! Stuck again. Henry Grayle had been on such a roll. Who knew writing an erotic novel about colonial Jamestown would be so difficult?

It was a Friday afternoon, always a quiet time at Thomas Ewen Consolidated High School. This was Henry’s favorite part of the week. He deemed it more wonderful than Spaghetti Wednesdays, the highest praise he could bestow. As quiet finally fell over campus, he’d reach into his top desk drawer, pour himself a paper cup of VO, and settle in to work on his long-gestating masterpiece.

Being a high school principal was hard enough. But finding the time to write historically accurate colonial eroto-fiction was damn near impossible. Research wasn’t necessary; he had been a history teacher for seventeen years and he knew the ins and outs of early American copulation. It was the sheer hours it took to find precisely the right words to express his most vivid fantasies of pre-Revolutionary rumpy-pumpy that delayed his progress.

His latest roadblock was finding new synonyms for erection. He stared out the window, his hands hovering over his Adler Eagle typewriter. “Boner…,” he muttered aloud, not for the first time. He said the word again, carefully considering every letter. “Boooonnnnneeeerrrr.”

The intercom buzzed. “Principal Grayle?”

“Uh, yes, Catherine. What is it?”

The last thing Henry wanted to hear was his secretary’s nasal whine crackling over the intercom, not while he was struggling with penile synonyms.

“I just wanted to remind you you’re meeting with Chris Hargensen’s father first thing Monday.”

Boner. It just doesn’t sound very seventeenth century, he thought.

“Principal Grayle?”

“Uh, yes, thank you, Catherine. You can go home now.”

The intercom clicked off. Sinking back in his chair, Henry could hear Catherine gathering her things in the outer office. Funny, he thought. She sits just feet away, behind a flimsy wall, and even she has no idea he was cooking up such steamy yarns.

Suddenly, Catherine entered, startling Henry. “Oh, didn’t mean to surprise you,” she said. “I left my coat in here this morning.”

“Actually, Catherine, can I ask you something?” he ventured.

She looked at him quizzically and sat. “Sure.”

“I know you’re involved in the community theater.”

“Oh, yes. Well, a bit. I assist with the costumes when my aquasize schedule allows.”

“So you’re a creative type. I feel we can discuss this as colleagues. I’m working on a project. I can’t tell you too much. But I’m afraid I’m a bit stuck.”

“I see. Is this about your book?”

Henry froze in terror. “Uh, I’m sorry?” He could already feel beads of sweat forming all over his lumpy frame.

“Your book. The sexy one about the pilgrims. Are you having trouble?”

“Catherine, how did you know about my book? That’s private!”

“It’s not that private, Principal Grayle. You just leave it sitting in your desk drawer with the whiskey. I’ve read it many times. I think you’re coming along nicely.”

“Well… thank you, but that’s not the point! Drinking my whiskey during school hours, that’s all well and good, even expected. But how dare you read my private fiction?”

Catherine arched an eyebrow, giving a sly expression Henry had never seen. “Oh, come on. I think you wanted someone to read it.”

Henry, apoplectic, could barely summon coherent speech and sputtered an embarrassed string of discordant syllables.

Catherine reached for the paper cup and took a swig, then offered it to Henry. Obediently, he sipped. The two sat in silence for a moment.

“So,” Catherine said at last. “Where did you get stuck in the story? Has John Smith’s comely sister-in-law already discovered how to flick her bean?”

“Catherine, when did you decide you could speak so freely to me?”

“Can it, boss. You know you want to ask me something.” She licked her lips slowly in a clockwise motion. “So ask me.”

Henry reached deep inside himself and summoned the courage he needed for such situations. It reminded him of when he told his father he wasn’t going into the napkin-folding business or the difficult day he had to choose between gray kitchen marble or light green. Finally, he had the nerve to speak.

“Well, Catherine, I’d like to ask you. Do you have any, uh, ahem, suggestions for further synonyms for… for… for an erect male member?”

“Oh, Principal Grayle!” She threw back her head and let out a powerful, single-burst laugh. “I thought you’d never ask.”

She produced a small notebook from her skirt pocket and flipped back several pages. Clearing her throat, she began.

“Hard-on. Stiffy. Rod. Sex stick. Big hard cock. Blackbeard’s flagpole. Love bulge. Flesh axe. Mighty pants oak. Sword. Cum musket. Wooly willy. Engorged member. Third leg. Furry hot dog. Cucumber down under. Dong. Thor’s hammer. Pussy drill. Pleasure zucchini. Captain’s baton. Splooge hose. Travolta. Rolling pin of delight. Swinging John Thomas. Tallywacker, I barely know her. Diiiiiiiiick. Broken flashlight. Give her hell, hairy. The long arm of the balls. Bearded gourd. Trouser fugitive. Hymenus interruptus. Brian de-palm-ya. Skin sledge. And, of course, boner.”

Henry was absolutely stunned. “My God,” he said. “Catherine, that was remarkable!”

Catherine nodded with satisfaction and put the notebook back in her pocket. “My pleasure, Principal Grayle.”

“I appreciate your help, but we must keep this strictly between the two of us. I don’t think people at Ewen High would be very understanding about this project of mine.”

“Of course,” she said. “You’re right, they wouldn’t be able to handle it. Nothing exciting ever happens at this school.”

“Teenage Dream: A Friend-Fiction Period Piece” by Lily Miller

Tommy had been going steady with Sue about half a year. He was into her slammin’ bod and sweet demeanor and had already asked her to prom. But ever since the newest student transferred to Ewen High’s senior class, Tommy wanted nothing more than to make love to her and moan her name: Tina Belcher. The eighteen-year-old New Jersey transplant captured Tommy’s eye as she slumped and schlepped past his locker every day.

Tina and Tommy only shared one class—health—where the teacher’s monotonous droning had put nearly everyone to sleep. While Tommy’s attraction to Tina was intense, not even the sound of her sexy, uninterested sigh could deter his sleepiness.

“There is more to the female anatomy than the vagina; the vagina is merely part of the vessel of life,” the teacher said, barely eliciting a response from the class. “The uterus, ovaries, fallopian tubes, and cervix all play an integral part of human reproduction.” Tommy’s eyes glazed over as he glanced at the female anatomy poster, aroused only by the thought of Tina’s drooping knee socks. “The menstrual cycle is a result of monthly ovulation…” Tommy tuned out; he was done. He closed his eyes and gave in to sleep, still thinking about Tina.

Suddenly, he could see her clearly. He dreamt of Tina naked in the girls’ locker room shower. Water dripped from her short black bob down her mosquito-bite-sized breasts; steam filled her thick, square-rimmed glasses.

“Oh, the humidity!” Tina said, smiling over at Tommy. Her feet squished into the mildewed tile floor as she walked over to him. “Isn’t it just too much? You should drop your towel.”

Tommy glanced down—he only had a towel neatly wrapped around his hips. Blood was starting to rush to his groin.

“Uhh… I’m not wearing anything else,” he said, blushing, as he clutched the towel and readjusted.

“It’s okay, that’s just how I want you,” Tina said, pushing him up against the wall. Tommy could feel her majestic bush rubbing against his terry-cloth-cloaked erection as she leaned in for a kiss. Just as Tommy puckered his lips, the bell rang.

“Quick! We have to hurry!” Tina grabbed his hand.

“Where are we going?” Tommy asked.

“I’m taking you to class—to a special class,” Tina said, leading him to the pool. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t require any clothes.”

Tina yanked Tommy’s towel away from him and dove in. Carrie and Sue, also totally naked, were on the other side. Carrie floated around while Sue kneeled at the edge of the pool.

“Today’s lesson is about how to eat pussy,” Sue said. “Tina, get over here. This is really important.”

“Sorry, I was distracted by Tommy’s butt.” Tina’s glasses reflected his tan, perfectly sculpted cheeks as she continued to stare, mouth agape.

“Tina! We don’t have all day!” Sue yelled. Tina made her way over to the girls, where Carrie was absentmindedly stroking her engorged clit. Tommy leaned against the bleachers, not sure what was happening.

“Okay! So.” Sue cleared her throat as she spread apart her knees. “To review from last week, you can stick your fingers up inside the vagina to find your G-spot. This is what most boys think is what makes us come, but REALLY what we want is more clit action. By the way, good job with your clit action, Carrie!”

Carrie smiled and continued to euphorically flick her bean. Sue glanced over at Tina, who had stuck her fingers into her pussy and let out a llama-esque moan. Tommy had never been so turned on before.

“Excellent work, Tina,” Sue said. “But there’s so much more to female pleasure than penetration! Carrie, are you ready for a demonstration?”

Carrie blissfully nodded and stood up in the pool as Sue slid in. She joined her mouth to Carrie’s tight pink cave; the lights flickered as Carrie gasped and sighed. Sue popped back up. “See? You can lick too. We call it ‘eating out.’ You know, like takeout, but with pussy instead of burgers.”

“That’s incredible,” Tina murmured in amazement as she continued to pleasure herself. “Can I get a piece of that double-trouble action?”

Sue and Carrie pulled Tina closer, and the three girls started making out as they furiously fingered each other.

Tommy just stared as he watched the girls go at it. They splashed and licked and kissed and moaned. Sue hopped out and kneeled at the edge of the pool. “Eat the food, Tina,” Sue groaned. “Eat it.”

Tommy let out an audible choke as he watched Tina lick Sue’s pussy from crack to front.

The girls turned around and gave Tommy a come-hither look. “Come on, Tommy, join us,” Tina said, beckoning him into the pool. “Don’t be such a heinous anus.”

Tommy stammered nonsense as he tumbled his way into the pool, paddling toward the girls. Carrie and Sue started nibbling along the sides of his neck as Tina straddled him. Tommy’s member hardened, rubbing ever so slightly against Tina’s clit. He slid into Tina easily while inserting his fingers into Sue and Carrie. All the girls moaned in unison, the water splashing rhythmically against them, and Tommy leaned his head back in ecstasy. He sat up after a minute and opened his eyes to take in everything, only to yelp and jump out of the pool—Sue had started menstruating.

“Gaaahhhhhh! Go clean up,” Tommy said nervously, trying to avert his eyes. He rubbed his fingers hastily and stood with the girls at the edge of the pool. “I’m sorry. That’s just a lot of blood.”

“You think you’ve seen blood? I’ll show you blood,” Carrie barked. She closed her eyes and pressed her hands firmly against her hips, and all three girls started simultaneously menstruating.

“AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!” Tommy screamed. He tried to back away but slipped and nearly lost his balance at the edge of the pool. “What the hell?!” His body tensed up as the blood started to gather at his feet, slowly dripping down the tile cracks. Carrie smiled, and the chlorinated water turned dark red.

Tina took a step back, glancing briefly at the girls. “THIS… IS… MENSTRUATIONNNNNNN NATIONNNNNNNNNNNNN!” she screamed at the top of her lungs as she kicked Tommy into the pool. As he came up for air, he felt something hitting his head, like cottony hail. Carrie stared at the rafters and wiggled her fingers, creating a hailstorm of used tampons. Shrieking, he paddled away from the girls, only to slam his head on the pool ladder and suddenly wake up.

“Tommy, are you all right?” Tina squinted at him. Tommy had tumbled out of his desk and hit his head. He pulled himself up, tasting blood—he split his lip in the fall.

“Yeah, I… I… I’m fine,” he stammered, wiping his mouth.

“I hope so,” Tina said as she walked toward the door. Tommy watched her move, still entranced by her uneven bangs, only to notice a line of blood dripping down her left leg. He shuddered in disgust but felt his member stiffen in delight. Tina stopped briefly to glance back at him. “Class dismissed,” she said with a wink as she walked away.

“Carrie” by Virgie Tovar

Thanks to the technology, Carrie was able to be revived from death and begin her lifelong dream of becoming a therapist.

She moved to Pacifica and commuted to the Masters of Social Work program at SF State. She married a dude she met on craigslist Casual Encounters named Raven. Raven was a white man with dreads. They had butt sex twice a week, which Raven found thrillingly perverse. Carrie observed in her private notebook of therapist thoughts that Raven—whose real name was Bruce—rebelled against his upper-middle-class roots by doing things like making marijuana puns at dinner parties and his obsession with “da butt.” He had a strict mother, who gave him an enema every night before bed until he was seventeen. This led to an anal fixation. Carrie knew all about the ways that mothers weave their way into our fantasies.

Carrie began her intern hours. Her primary interest was in patients with unusual sexual proclivities—fetishists, in particular.

The first month of her internship was spent talking with primarily men about things like an unbeatable desire to drink young women’s urine. Her most interesting patient was a man who enjoyed pretending he was an amputee and having women poop on sponges and pretend to trick him into believing the poop was soap.

Carrie had read that fetishists were primarily men. Freud only wrote about male fetishists, but what would Freud say about Carrie’s sexual proclivities, then?

Two months later she got a new patient, a woman. There was something about her that felt vaguely familiar.

Unlike her other patients, Claire spoke very little. This made Carrie flustered and she began to talk aimlessly. Each session she promised herself that THIS time would be different, and each time she talked even more than the last. In their eighth session, Carrie asked, “What excites you sexually?”

“What excites you, Carrie?” Claire responded. The question gave Carrie a massive lady boner.

Afterward, Carrie went home and lay in bed, thinking about Claire. She was uppity and controlling, the kind of woman who’d bring a crucifix or straight razor to bed… or better yet, a bucket of… No. No. Carrie couldn’t. She’d come this far and she wasn’t going to relive those old days. Carrie turned on her Hitachi Magic Wand. She didn’t need to plug it into the wall. It was powered by her telekinesis. Score.

In the next session, despite all her will, she found herself confessing things to Claire. She wasn’t sure who was the patient and… who was the therapist. One afternoon Claire came in wearing a corsage. When Carrie saw it, her eyes began to focus in and then out and then in and then out, while violin-heavy stabby horror music played. She began to sweat.

Carrie turned on her Hitachi Magic Wand. She didn’t need to plug it into the wall. It was powered by her telekinesis. Score.

“A corsage? What an odd fashion choice.”

“I never went to my prom, but I’ve always fantasized about what it could be like. Did you go to your prom, Carrie?”

“Yes, I did.” Despite herself, Carrie began to get moist in her lady parts. She couldn’t control it. She had studied this in her Sexual Deviations class: in some rare patients traumatic events became part of sexual desire, sometimes causing sexual fixation.

There was something about the corsage that loosened something within Carrie, and she couldn’t stop herself from telling Claire all that had happened, and the fetish that was the product of it all.

She told Claire about her mother’s religious fanaticism, the prom… the pig’s blood… the fires. How what she wanted more than anything was a sick and twisted mommy who would throw her into a prayer closet and pour a bucket of blood on her. She wanted to feel that sort of humiliation—and PAIN—again.

There, she said it. Out loud. It was no longer rattling around inside her mind, haunting her. She knew she had broken the code of ethics, but she felt so relieved. After the wave of blissful relief came the embarrassment of having told this to a patient.

She began to stammer: “Well, I’ll see you out and the secretary can offer you some suggestions for a new therapist who is—”

Claire interrupted Carrie: “I want to humiliate you, Carrie.”

Carrie stood wide-eyed, practically drooling lady jizz from her v-hole.

They set up a time and place to meet—there was a motel near the beach. Carrie got there early, waiting.

Claire knocked on the hotel room door.

“Put this on.” She threw a bag at her and there was a tight slinky prom dress inside. “No bra. No panties,” she hissed at Carrie.

Carrie put it on. The woman jumped on top of her, kissing her, pushing her body into her.

“You can’t go to the prom, Carrie! You look like a harlot! Look at your DIRTY PILLOWS!”

Carrie’s nipples stood on end.

“No, Mama. I’m not a harlot. I love Jesus.”

“Jesus McPenis Pumper is the Jesus you serve!”

“No, I don’t even like penis, Mama.”

Claire slid her hand between Carrie’s legs.

“The Baby Jesus Butt Plug is your God!”

“No, Mama, please let me go to the prom.”

Then from out of nowhere Claire pulled out a giant Costco-sized ketchup bottle. She opened the top, teasingly squirting a little between Carrie’s boobies. She made Carrie get on her knees while she stood up on the edge of the bed.

“Announcing… your prom queen… the Queen of Whore Island… Carrie White.”

And with that she squeezed nearly the whole bottle of ketchup onto Carrie’s head. Carrie never knew she was a squirter, but OMG she totally was. And then Claire began to chant:

“Pig’s blood for a pig. Pig’s blood for a pig! PIG’S BLOOD FOR A PIG!”

Arousal turned into the deepest kind of humiliation and then at the edge of her consciousness… a SHOCKING REALIZATION.

“I never told you that the kids at the prom had chanted ‘Pig’s blood for a pig!’ How… did… you… know… that?”

She looked at Carrie and CACKLED. She jumped off the bed and grabbed Carrie by the neck; ketchup and squirt was EVERYwhere.

“You silly bitch! I AM CHRIS HARGENSEN… the one who got kicked out of prom for throwing tampons at you! After the prom disaster I didn’t die. I moved into a lesbian separatist community and learned that my cruelty toward you was a product of my deeply repressed sexual desire for you. I didn’t want to ruin your life. I wanted to FUCK YOU. I had a feeling you’d moved to Pacifica. So I got facial reassignment surgery much like that which was done in the 1997 film Face/Off starring John Travolta. Carrie, that’s not all—I’m… I’m YOUR REAL MOTHER! I had to let you go at birth because… I’m a vampire. Carrie, GODDAMNIT you’re half vampire!”

“OMG. That would explain my telekinesis and also how you looked so young when we were in high school, but I thought vampires couldn’t have children.”

“No, that’s a myth of the patriarchy… and… so… is… the TABOO OF INCEST.”

And with that they proceeded to have the sweetest Mommy Play there ever was—the real vagina-bumping your actual mom kind.