Carol Ch 04

It was five in the afternoon on a Saturday, and my phone rang.

"Hey T, it's me," said Carol.

"What's going on?" I could tell by the tone of her voice that she had something to tell me.

"My dad's friends from the factory are coming over, for the game. They're going to be here before my dad gets back from work."

"Uh-huh?"

"Well... you know our kissing thing? I was just thinking about that. These guys always kiss me on the cheek. But does the lip-kissing hold for them? For old guys like my dad's friends?"

"Yeah, honey, it does." I covered the phone and laughed for a second. How else could she possibly expect me to answer that? Of

course

I wanted her to fuck with them.

"You're laughing at me!"

"Only because you are so cool."

"So I'm going to kiss them? These old guys?"

"Don't worry," I said. "They'll love you."

"I know they will," she said. "They're big fuckin' horndogs."

"You can make them love you more, you know."

"What does that mean?" her voice was suspicious.

"You could put on some cute clothes. Like a nightie. Bare feet. Something that shows some leg. When they show up, give them the

whole

treatment -- kiss them, lead them into the kitchen or living room or something. Get them something to drink."

"Oh, sheesh," she said.

"Then say you have to go change. When you do, call me on the phone."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to call you right back while you're changing. You're going to have to let them bring you the phone, while you're half-dressed."

"It's not a cordless. I'm going to have to come to the phone."

"All the better," I said. I was getting pretty excited. "You come out, all embarrassed, trying to cover yourself. And then you have to stand there talking to me."

"In a towel?" she supplied.

"No. We'll do a towel next time. This time, come out in a tank-top and undies."

"This is so fucked," she said. Her voice sounded harsh, but I could hear that she was smiling. "You know that, don't you?"

"But you'll do it," I pressed.

"Of course," she said. "But you dont' understand. These are all big, hairy, scary guys. I'd normally cross the street rather than walk past them. They're lewd and nasty. You don't know them. And here I am running around in panties?"

"If they're that scary, lock yourself in your room," I said. "But I

know

you're smiling. Think of it this way... you're not doing them any favors. You're teasing them mercilessly -- you're not doing them any favors. It's not like they can make a pass at you."

"That sounds pretty dumb," she said thoughtfully. "But it works for me. I guess it's all in how you look at it." Then, quickly: "A car just pulled up. I have to go change quickly."

She hung up the phone without saying goodbye.

I couldn't concentrate after that. I turned off the TV and paced around the apartment.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang again.

"Hello?"

"It's me!" came Carol's hushed whisper. I heard voices in the background, as well as television sounds.

"That sounds like a lot more than a few guys," I said.

"Hmmm, yeah. There are four of them. Two I haven't met before."

"Did you put on a nightie?"

"Yeah," she laughed nervously. "I didn't have time for anything fancy -- I just stripped and put on the first thing in my drawer. You'll like this: no panties, no bra. Just a frilly white thing that goes to my thighs, and splits up the hip."

I gulped. "Shit yeah, I like that."

"I'll show it to you someday," she giggled. "When I have the nerve to dress up in lingerie for you."

"How did it go at the door?" I asked.

Her voice still low, she answered, "About like you'd expect, for the first one.

Hi, kiss.

Then: 'What? Your dad's not here yet?' Then they kind of stared at me closely, and they weren't casual any more. For a few seconds it was pretty strange, with my nightie sliding off my shoulders, and me trying to crawl up their chests to kiss them. From then on, it was like,

kiss kiss kiss

. Nice to meet you,

kiss kiss kiss

."

I laughed. "You gave them seconds?"

"Seconds, and thirds, and fourths," she snickered. "Tyler, I was getting

mouth juice

from them. They were like drooling over me. They stood around as I got them their drinks, staring and talking to me. They kissed me when I gave them their glasses. They were

polite

for once. I remembered what you said. When I caught them staring at my legs, or at my chest, I made this nasty voice inside my head say: '

That's

for the tit jokes.' Or, 'You'll never call me a late bloomer again!' It was pretty ludicrous, but it got me into the mood."

"So you weren't nervous or anything?"

"Hell, no!" she exclaimed. "They were

scared

of me, can you believe it. They jumped around when I squeezed past them. They fidgeted nervously when I talked to them. It's a dream. I know how to control these guys, finally."

"You're a wet dream, honey," I sighed. I had a raging hard-on.

"I'm like a dominatrix," she bragged, laughing at herself. "Just get me naked enough..." she burst out giggling. "I have my back to them, they're staring at me through the doorway from the family room."

"Is the TV room dark?" I asked heavily.

"Yeah...?"

"The light through the doorway is going through your nightie," I said.

"I think you're right," she said, cheerfully. "They're tricky bastards! I guess I have no more secrets!"

"I want to see that nightie someday," I said, trying not to groan. She had me

so

turned on.

"Someday, someday. Are you still going to call in a few minutes?"

"Sure. Still want me to?" She'd been so accommodating, I thought I should give her the chance to back out.

"Yeah, I'm not done screwing with them yet."

She hung up the phone.

I gave her a good three or four minutes to get back to her room and change.

Then I dialed her number. It rang four times, before someone finally picked up. "Okay, Carol, I said I'd get it! Hello?"

The voice was deep and masculine, with the expected Queens-y New York-y accent, but more guttural than Carol's.

"Hi. I need to speak with Carol. Is she in?"

"Um, no," said the guy. "Carol is not available for the phone."

"I just spoke to her five minutes ago," I said.

I heard Carol shouting in the background. "Who is it?"

"Who is this?" the man asked me.

"This is Tyler, her boyfriend," I said, emphasizing the boyfriend part. "Listen, it's pretty important."

The man called out, "Carol, it's your

boyfriend

. He says it's

important

."

I heard masculine laughter in the background.

I heard Carol call back, "I'm half naked, can it wait?"

The guy on the phone quickly shouted back, "No, you need to get out here right

now

."

Carol gave an aggravated groan, and I heard a door open and close. The voices in the background grew hushed immediately. She said, "Thanks, sweetie." Then, into the phone, "Hello?"

I said, "Oh jeez, you must be the bravest girl I know."

"Tell me about it," she said. "Hang on Tyler. You there, what's your name?"

"Jim," a voice answered her.

Carol said, "Jim, don't put your feet on the table, please, okay?"

"Sorry."

She said, "See? They're so easy to handle now. They're like pussy cats. I want to just stand here ordering them around."

I didn't have time for any of that. There was one overwhelming question in my mind. "What are you wearing, Carol?"

"Mmmm," her voice grew quiet. "French-cut panties. Big loose tank-top. It's a wife-beater, the arm-holes hang down to my ribs. I have it tied up, so they can see my underwear."

"Wow. I love wife-beaters, you know."

"I wore it in honor of you. That's why I dug it out. It's Dad's. I stole it one day out of the dryer."

My mind was filling with too many ideas to count, too many desires to tell Carol over the phone. "You should wear that into the city for me."

"Um,

right

. Maybe under a jacket. You mean, wear it by itself? It's

really

fucking showy."

"Yeeeah, wear it by itself."

"I shouldn't have told you about it," she laughed.

"And you're just standing there, and they're staring at you?"

"Let me see, I'll go back to the doorway." She paused a second, then said, "

Everybody

get their feet off the table."

There was a faint chorus of "sorry". Then she was back, "Yeah, they're looking at me. Do you want a beer, Jim?"

"Yeah, please, um."

Carol said, "So, I guess I'm going to run around like this for a while, okay?"

"Fuck yeah," I said.

"I'm gonna stand in front of the TV, and block their view so they

have

to look at me full on. And then I'll tell them that they can't put their feet on the table."

"Yeah," I said.

"And when they do -- you know they will -- I'm going to crouch down in front of them and take off their shoes."

"Great thinking." I could barely speak.

"But I'm going to have to change before Dad gets back."

"I understand completely," I said, dying. "You do what's best."

"I'm killing you, right?" she asked. "I'm as naked as I've ever been for a bunch of strange guys, and you can't see it."

"Yes."

"But you can imagine it."

"Oh, yes."

She said, "T, I am

so

turned on. You know what? I'm stretching now. I'm arching my back and throwing out my chest. They're

all

staring at me."

I wanted to cry.

"Don't worry," she continued, voice going chipper again. It was very discordant with my mood. "I'll give you a repeat performance. You have room-mates, don'tcha?"

She damn well knew I did.

She continued, "Well, imagine me spending a whole weekend in nothing but this old wifebeater and some lacy underwear. The whole weekend. Curled up on the couch with your pervy room-mates." She giggled wickedly. "I better let you go take care of yourself," she said. "Wait... You know, I was thinking about something."

I could only grunt into the phone.

"The rules for skirts, and how they show off my legs, and ass. Like we wanted--" I liked that 'we' she put in. As if it had been her idea all along. She continued, "But we're not giving my breasts the same treatment. Shouldn't I be dressing smaller up top, too?"

"Yeah," I said, almost keening with desire. I wished she was with me, or that I was over there, getting served beers with the other guys. Some more sane part of me was glad I

wasn't

there... I'd try to take things too far, too fast. I said: "I think you're right about that. You should show more of your breasts."

As far as things to say into the telephone, that last phrase sounded strange even to me.

"So make a rule for me," she prompted.

"How are you with bras? Can you go without?"

"Yes. I'm not that big, you know. Half the time I don't wear one."

She wasn't being entirely honest, with that. But then, I hadn't been entirely honest asking if she could go without. When she went without a bra, people noticed from two blocks away. And by this point in time, I knew every dimension, every curve of her torso. But I asked anyway, feigning ignorance, and she played along, goading me. Making it easy for me to say what we both knew I'd end up saying.

"Here's the rule, baby," I said, "On class days, you can't ever wear a bra. And you can't wear anything tight either... it has to be loose. Unless it really highlights your chest. Wear tank-tops, a half-shirts, button-up. But the button-up has to have half the buttons undone."

"This is so fun," she said, throwing me off. (I'd been expecting some token resistance.) "What about the skirts?"

"Oh, you still have to wear your little skirts. I'm in love with your skirts. I think everybody in Manhattan loves your skirts. And if you wear a one-piece dress, no bra, no matter what the day."

"I'm going to start right away," she said, her voice impulsive. "Okay, I gotta go now."

"Bye, honey."

I clicked the phone down. I realized that I had the rest of the weekend to wonder about what she'd be doing with the guys for the next half hour. I had so much to tell her, so much "direction" to give: Let the panties droop off her hips; let them help her get dressed, with buttons up the back or fastening a necklace. I had to trust that she'd think of it all herself.

I knew I'd interrogate her about that afternoon. It was too much of a turn-on for me to

not

ask her about it. Pathetic as it sounds, I actually wrote down all my questions.