0 comments/ 14707 views/ 11 favorites An Experiment By: justtheone Until two weeks ago, Carrie happened to be one of those unfortunate girls who find it really, really hard to have an orgasm. Frigidity, doctors called it. Sex was always disappointing for her. Worse than disappointing, it was ghastly. Even by herself, she didn't have much luck. Like she could never get into the right spirit for it, no matter how she went about the act, however she might try to stimulate herself both physically and mentally, it just only made her feel foolish and she would have to quit. Some of it was shyness, as you might guess. Tension was also a problem. She was high-strung, jumpy, skittish. An all-round inability to relax, not even alone. Been like that all her life. Did the tension come out of her shyness, or did it flow the other direction? Maybe it didn't matter, but she spent ages trying to figure it out. In the forlorn hope of analyze the problem away. She was too easily embarrassed. That, most likely, was the main issue—the root of all the rest. The fundamental flaw in her personality. She was too easily embarrassed, and the reason for that was because she was too proud. Too concerned with her dignity and everybody respecting her properly. Her parents had drilled that into her. They were to blame. Her upbringing had made her overly sensitive to being laughed at. She didn't handle teasing well at all. Nobody likes it, of course, but she would completely flip out. Emotional meltdowns. This tendency when she was little had often caused lots of nasty playground fights and other troubles at school. Since she knew she had this weakness—this short fuse—she did her best never to put herself in a position where teasing might occur. Of course it's not actually possible to do that, and live a life. Even if you hide under your bed every day, people would tease you about that itself, wouldn't they? Life is not good for dignity. Life, for the most part, is not a dignified business. Facing any potentially awkward or ridiculous situation—and sex almost always is, on the surface level; it's unavoidable—it made her temperamental, and then, usually accusatory. Even just talking or thinking about things like that. As a defensive mechanism, she would go on the offensive—and get snappy. It almost wouldn't matter what anybody did or said to her—anything could set her off. If you smiled at her, she could take it wrong. But if you didn't smile, she'd take that just as bad. Felt like the whole world was out to get her, when she got like that. She knew it was crazy, but she couldn't help it, no matter how hard she tried. Couldn't do anything about it. And it really made her hate herself. She got a little suicidal, for a while. And then of all things she decided to try hypnosis. Ridiculous idea. But she had an uncle who said it helped him quit smoking, and she knew a hypnotist personally—the stepmom of a good friend. The woman was different than you'd expect. She wasn't flaky about it. Carrie and her had some good talks about all the bullshit versions of hypnosis you see on TV—dredging up repressed memories of past lives and UFO abductions and devil worship. All that scary stuff that hypnotists supposedly uncover from people's subconscious ... the woman said all that shit was a scam. Absolutely all of it. Shady hypnotists feed those stories to their patients with leading questions. Some of them don't realize what they were doing—most do. They're assholes and they do it deliberately, creating the problems that poor dumb suckers are paying them to find. Perhaps that same con could be put to good use. Carrie's thought was why not try to have the hypnotist plant some suggestions in her subconscious to "loosen her up"? To reprogram her mind to make sex easier and better for her ... If a hypnotist could help remove or control her uncle's desire to smoke, couldn't her sexual desires theoretically be affected the same way? Except she needed the reverse treatment. She needed her sexual urges and physical responsiveness to be heightened and improved, instead of erased or suppressed. The woman was skeptical this could work. In her opinion, all real world hypnotism was good for was as an aid to relaxation and meditation. "It's just a series of concentration techniques. Helps temporarily calm anxiety and that clears your thinking. Which in turns I believe unfetters an individual's imagination and creativity ... Hence, all these vivid emotional fantasies people unfortunately confuse for 'uncovered memories'." She went on that it was doubtful hypnotism really helped Carrie's uncle all that much. At least in the way he believed. At best, it may have helped him help himself. The good ol' placebo effect. He convinced himself he had his craving hypnotized away, so he stopped feeling it. His own conviction had done it, not whatever the hypnotist did or said to him. "But he got what he wanted. Doesn't make a difference if he was tricked or tricked himself—the trick worked!" So in the end the woman had agreed to have a go at it. "If you think it might be beneficial, we may as well try." But she had refused payment for the session. "Wouldn't feel proper. This is not what I normally do." Unlike in the movies and so on, Carrie retained a complete memory of the entire twenty minute session, and of the suggestions that the doctor had attempted to implant into her subconscious. Probably that meant they weren't really subconscious suggestions, since she remained fully conscious of them ... The doctor had tried to make the suggestions very specific. It wasn't enough just to say "From now on, you will enjoy sex like you never have before." More was needed, she felt. Carrie had provided two of the basic strategies—but then the doctor embellished the instructions considerably, and added a third idea. "We are now going to implant a series of brand new behaviors into your personality. We can do this, as we discussed, because your consciousness has been rendered into an extremely passive and suggestible state ... the state of hypnotism. This is going to work just like it does in the movies and on TV, because you want it to work and because you believe it will work. I cannot truly take control of your mind this way. No one could. But the strength of your own desire will make these changes—I am only serving as your instrument to accomplish those changes. I am not reprogramming you, but I am enabling you to reprogram yourself ... "Therefore, from now on, whenever you take your clothes off, you are going to experience extreme sensations of excitement and sexual arousal. And all your body's senses will become heightened. The nerves of your skin, most of all, but also all your other senses. Your sight, your hearing, your vision ... All of these will instantly seem two or three times as strong as normal. Everything you physically experience will become much more vivid and powerful—almost excessively so. This affect will persist as long as you remain unclothed. Your senses will return to their normal levels as soon as you get dressed again. But there will be no other way for you to control the affect. From this time forward, for you individually, it is a simple fact of nature, an involuntary reflex. Regardless of the setting or other circumstances—this will happen to you whenever and wherever you take your clothes off. Even if you're experiencing other emotions that might normally inhibit or spoil one's capacity for sexual excitement—sorrow, anger, fear, embarrassment—in your case, those other sensations and mental states will not be able to block or adversely affect this particular reaction. Now, nod if you understand." Carrie had nodded on the couch, as instructed. "Next, whenever you experience sexual arousal, this will include not just an urge for your own physical gratification, but an equally intense desire to cause sexual gratification in anyone else you find attractive. Just like your new arousal-reaction to nakedness, this is a desire you will have no control over. You'll just always feel it, in your heart and in your guts. Anyone you find beautiful and exciting, you will feel a mighty compulsion to give them great physical pleasure. For your own sake as much as theirs. For you will feel as much sexual pleasure in the act of giving sexual pleasure as you do in receiving it, from a partner. You will no longer find it disgusting and humiliating to touch or even to look at men's penises, like you said you have always felt up until now. After this session, cocks will look beautiful and exciting to you, so long as they are attached to men you find beautiful and exciting. And just so we've covered all possibilities, let's also say that this same need-to-please will apply to other women, should you find yourself attracted to any. If not, you won't. But if a female ever happens to catch your eye and takes your fancy, you will feel this mighty need-to-please the same as for any man that turns you on. Now, once more, nod if you understand." Again, Carrie had. "One more thing. This is a bit more ambitious. We're going to establish a new network of mental links, through your body. The physical wiring for these links already exists—your nervous system. But we're going to slightly change the way those wires are used. We're going to enhance the connectivity. We're also going to change the network protocol, so to speak. Since you're in a state of hypnosis, this is easy to do. All I need to do is tell you how the nerves of your body will respond to sexual stimulation, after this session. And they will. So, here we go ... All physical contact, as we've already established, will feel much, much stronger. But also, from now on, whenever you become sexually aroused, then whenever someone or something touches you, or you yourself touch another person or object or surface, that contact will register not just at the particular point on your body where it occurs—be that your fingertip or your foot or even your earlobe or the end of your nose—but also and at the same time you will feel the contact within the interior surface of your vagina and your entire clitoris. As if you are being touched and stimulated all three places at the same time. Actual contact within your vagina or upon your clitoris will trigger a different response—the sensations will diffuse throughout your entire body, from head to toe, for as long as the contact persists. This is not something you have to think about or make any kind of internal effort, to experience. It will just happen. It is just the way your body works, from now on, because I have said so. Once again, nod if you understand. Good. Now I think it's time to end our session." 3. She put the procedure to its first test an hour later that afternoon at Target, of all places. She'd gone there for some new workout clothes ... Well, she thought that was why she went. That was what she told herself when she drove over there. Grabs four or five things, takes them to the fitting rooms. The place had recently remodeled—now the fitting room is unisex. Seems like all the stores do them like this now. She wonders why this has changed. Of course when she was little and they all had two sides, it was always kind of pointless because of moms with their sons. Either they had to take their boy in the girls' side, or go with them in the boys' side. The moms never cared, but either way it was embarrassing for the boys. And no doubt it also happened now and again with fathers and daughters, that same silly dilemma. Now it's just one corridor for everybody. But they make the rooms more like real rooms, with real walls. Not so much like rickety bathroom stalls, like they used to be. The doors still don't completely fill the doorways—spaces at the top and at the bottom. But less space than they used to leave. They can't make the rooms too private, for all the obvious reasons. People would come in and do all sorts of sick shit—and some freaks still do anyway, probably, from time to time. But it would happen more often. All kinds of messed-up people would be screwing around doing bad things in these places, every single day, if the doors filled the doorways. Crazy smelly bums and junkies and perverts. A guy comes up to the counter for a number tag, same time as she does. He's trying on a bunch of jeans. Got a ponytail and he's too tall for her taste, but he's still fine and he gives her the eye. And she would have been sad if he hadn't. He wasn't bad about it, either. It was just a look—but not just a look. It was the eye. And she noticed him notice the workout clothes in her hands. He wasn't gonna get to see what she looked like in them—but you could tell he would have liked to. You could tell he would be wondering about it, while he tried on those different jeans. Just from the tight set of his mouth, you could tell. Half a smile and half a frown. She was curious if he'd take the room right next to or across from the one she picked, but then he didn't. He went all the way to the end of the corridor, the last door. Putting some distance between them—she wondered how deliberate that was. Did he notice her notice him checking her over? He could have done. So marching all the way down there might have been his way of saying "Look this shows I'm decent and I'm not gonna pester you even if I was just imagining you in those tight stretchy gym clothes so don't worry I'm not a sicko." Or it could also mean: "I don't wanna any dumb girl making me think about her right now. I just wanna get myself new pants." Might just as easily not meant anything at all. She couldn't stop wondering about it, as she was undressing. And wondering if he was still wondering about her. And wondering what his legs looked like, when he took his pants off, and his underwear, and underneath them. She looked at herself in the mirror and realized she'd taken off much more than she needed to, just to try on the workout clothes. She'd taken off absolutely everything. Hadn't really thought about it—it just happened. She stood there stark naked in the fitting room looking at herself and then realized she was more turned on right that moment than she had ever been in her life. Just as the hypnotist had programmed her to become, whenever she got naked. The expression on her face in the mirror was really something. She looked stunned, like she'd just been slapped for no reason. Or maybe even struck by lightning. It was a pretty comedic look, like you'd see on a cartoon character that just walked off a cliff ... It was also a little terrifying, or maybe more than a little. Her heart was pounding in her ears, and she couldn't stand still. Her bare feet were too fidgety; she kept hopping and scuffing around. Kind of like she had to pee really bad—and partly she did, all the sudden, yeah. But mostly she was doing that just 'cause the carpet felt really good under her feet, when she shuffled and scuffed against it. It tickled—but it was good nice tickle. And she wasn't only feeling that tickle with her feet and with her toes. Just as she'd been programmed, she felt it in her crotch. Felt it really strong up inside there. God. Golly. Oh golly God! It was too hot in the room, like the AC wasn't working, but if anybody saw her nipples, they'd think she must be freezing. She looked at their reflection ... Couldn't believe how big they'd become, and how dark, and how far they were sticking out. Like spikes. What would it feel like to press her real nipples against their reflections in/on the mirror? She didn't dare try it. They were aching too much—a good ache, but dangerous, too. She looked pretty damn good, overall, didn't she? Yeah, mostly. Recently people kept telling her she looked like Christina Ricci, since she turned skinny again. They always added that bit—like they had to make sure they weren't telling her she was too chunky. Not that Christina Ricci had ever really been fat before ... but for a while she hadn't been rail-thin like she was when she was still just a kid in crap like the Caspar movie or The Addams Family. Then she must have starved herself for that Black Snake thing, and so far after that she had stayed rail-thin again in everything she did since. Also seemed like she was getting naked in every single movie she did anymore, showing her shit off. Probably she had some image issues she was working through, and they'd find her dead on her face someday, pumped full of dope. Nice to get compared to a movie star, anyhow. Did she really look like her? Maybe just the face, the cheekbones—maybe more. She had a good tiny waist, compared to her not-so-tiny bosom and her hips—a real Barbie Doll hourglass waist. Kind of waist other women would kill for. It wouldn't stay like that forever, but she had it now. Her bush could sure use a trim—or maybe she'd shave the whole thing off. She'd never tried that before. Her pussy looked different—like the lips had got bigger. Like they were hanging down more than they used to. Could that happen? Could those things grow or stretch? Did they swell up when you got turned on? Or had they always looked like that and she just never took notice? Wasn't like she spent a great deal of time examining her own snatch. But did most other girls? Actually they might, come to think of it. She had just always been too prudish before—but no longer. That was all changed, thanks to the hypnotism. It seemed to have worked! It was like she was a whole new girl, with a whole new body. That guy in the other fitting room would never know it, poor bastard, but he could have come over into this room and done anything he wanted to with her, just about. She really wished he would—wished she could think of a way to signal him. But she couldn't come up with a good way that would work. And that was a good thing, too. They'd end up making too much noise in here and get busted. She considered running over into his cubicle. But again, she didn't dare. Really thought hard about it. But no. All that would happen was she'd get in trouble. Too many other people around. Moms and kids. Plus even if she could get over in there to the guy without people noticing and screaming, he'd probably just have a heart attack, when she burst in. Anyway, he'd have locked his door. Wasn't like she could knock and wait. What would she say? And if she just smashed right through, they couldn't close it afterward. She could have tried diving or crawling under the door ... What would that feel like, in the state she was? But God, he wouldn't take it the right way. No chance. He'd just be freaked out, whatever method she used. It wouldn't make a difference. Finally, she put her regular clothes back on—it was tough to do, but once she had, the craziness quickly faded. Not completely but most of it. And then she left the store, fast as she could. Had only been in there two or three minutes, just standing there staring at herself ... Well, no—not just standing. Prancing around in front of that mirror like she had ants all over her, shaking her tits at herself. She never got around to actually trying on any of the workout things. Hadn't even got as far as pulling them off their hangars. Just couldn't focus on her original mission, not with that guy in the other room to keep thinking about ... Anyway, she didn't really need that stuff. Not desperately. Yeah, the whole thing had only been an excuse to test her treatment. Time to face up to that fact. An Experiment Ch. 02 Part the Second: 1. It was a college marching band thing. A secret mission, except it wasn't really very secret since everybody knew about what they were up to, at least everybody in the band. But it wasn't the whole band. Only like twelve or thirteen of them that Sunday night. Most of the drum line was participating; most of the boys. All it was, they were just gonna TP a house. Nothing major. Nothing too evil. A bit of payback. The house was the head cheerleader's. Well, her parents'. Maggie Jay was her name. She was absolutely everything you'd expect, all the stereotypes and cliches—she was the living embodiment. Like, totally, for sure, ya know? On Friday just before the big game—the biggest game of the season, in fact—she'd dumped the quarterback. And the guy she was dumping him for happened to be the star player for the opposing team. Their man didn't handle this very well, oh no. People don't realize, but oftentimes these scary hardass meatheads are really the biggest cornball softies in your school, under the surface. Poor goon threw three interceptions that night before the coach finally swapped him out. By then it was way too late. They didn't just lose; what they got was buttfucked on the field. No other word for it. Couldn't have been more humiliating. So they went out to TP the fucking cheerleader's house. Not that any of them really cared about the loss all that much, bad as it had been. They cared a tiny bit, a smidgeon—but mostly it was just an excuse ... None of them needed any more reasons to hate Maggie Jay, anyhow. And yeah, to be fair, this whole idea was pretty juvenile, pretty stupid. Still good for a lark. And her parents were supposed to be pretty uptight, real houseproud. They'd give her a hard time over it. Hopefully make her clean up the mess all by herself. She'd sure love that. 'Cause it was a big fucking house, on a big piece of property, right on the beach. It had been featured in magazines and on TV. Her parents weren't just seriously uptight, they were seriously loaded. Built the place to look like a castle, with fucking towers and a drawbridge, even. Tons of trees around it. If they did a halfway decent job with the TP, it would take ages to clear the mess from it all. The place also had a wall around its perimeter, and spiky black gates like something out of a horror movie. Since it was right on the ocean, they were thinking they'd be able to get to the house along the beach, from the neighboring lot, which was empty ... Well, it was a construction site. Not exactly empty, but uninhabited at present. Eventually there would be another huge honking mansion in the middle, all glass and circular, real futuristic, but now it was only about half done, draped in plastic sheeting that flapped and crackled in the strong night-breeze off the ocean. That lot wasn't fenced yet. They could run right through there around the incomplete building, to the bare shore. Wouldn't take two minutes. They rode over in three separate cars, and parked right on the curb in front of the unfinished house ... Was close to two in the morning, so the neighborhood was like a graveyard. Not very dark, though—they had a full moon that night. It wasn't hardly dark at all. You could almost read under a moon like that ... They'd have to be careful about making too much noise. The fuckheads living here were so rich, the army would probably send in helicopters and marines, if they got woke up and started pressing their panic buttons. But in as ritzy a strip as this one was, all the houses/mansions were super wide-spaced. Each a little kingdom, all its own. So they should be okay if they kept their heads and didn't act like complete assholes. Of course the whole 'hood had a gate of its own, but they had a keycard to get through it, 'cause Troy (the only guy with them that wasn't a drummer; he was first trombone) used to date a girl that lived in here, the year before, until she graduated and moved across the planet ... Only then when they all finally reached the beach, each of them clutching tight a fat sixpack of TP rolls, there's an unexpected hitch which almost kills the entire mission. The castle's perimeter wall ... turns out it blocks the beach, too. Cuts straight across the sand and runs clear out into the ocean. Doesn't go out a huge distance—but too far for anybody to wade. "Could we swim it?" asks Kelli, second clarinet. "Like Hell," says Brandon. He's the cymbalist, but not what you're picturing. Huge gorilla of a guy. You'd guess he was a bass drummer or a tuba. But nope. Fucking cymbals. The distance isn't the issue. And though the waves are coming in pretty strong, you wouldn't exactly call them scary. The problem is, none of them are dressed for swimming. They're all geared up for this bullshit commando raid, in black jeans and hoodies. And then they've all got their TP packages, of course. Not exactly the easiest thing to carry with you, while you're swimming. They're not exactly airtight and waterproof. Somebody suggests they toss the bundles over the wall, to retrieve off the ground on the other side. Not an awful idea, but when they throw a couple as a test, both get snagged on top of huge bushes, high in the air. The wall seems to have a hedge along its inner side—which also discourages attempting to climb straight over it. "Well, crap," says Troy. Brandon makes a third try, a stronger toss than the others, and seems to clear the hedge ... but even if they go ahead and throw the rest of them, that still leaves their phones, flashlights, and wallets ... They gonna fling over all that stuff as well? Plus their shoes, unless they wanna try leaving them on when they swim. "Trust me, it sucks," says Gordon (fourth snare), "They weigh you down like bricks, believe me. Don't try it, people." "I'm not throwing over my phone," says Kelli, "No chance. Even if it don't shatter, I'll never find the damn thing again over there." "We could leave our shoes and things right here," suggests Jill (third bassoon), "for when we're done and come back." "Well, the weather's on our side," says Gordon. "It's not too chilly or nothing. We could all charge over there in our underwear if we wanted." "We'd all be soaked!" says Kelli. "Yeah," Gordon agrees, "Guess so," and he makes no effort to disguise his enthusiasm for the notion. "In your dreams, Gordo. I'm not gonna do this shit in soaking underwear. You might enjoy that, but not me." "You sure about that?" Gordon asks. "Pretty sure, Gordo." "Too shy? Would you be embarrassed? I don't think you'd need to be embarrassed." "Oh yeah?" She sneers at him, but it's still pretty clear she's pleased by the remark. There's a gleam in her eyes. "Well, it's good of you to try to reassure me. But it wasn't how I might look that was bothering me. I was more troubled by the thought of how you would look, like that." "You might find yourself pleasantly surprised." "More likely I would laugh myself sick. And then I'm sure you'd start crying. We can't afford to make too much of a racket, if we're not gonna get busted out here." "Slam!" says Jill, the way she always does. Far too loud. "Okay, all right," Troy says, "Button it, boys and girls. You two should take your act on the road, someday. Seriously." "Someday," says Kelli, "at least in Gordo's dreams." "You know how much I love it when you call me Gordo?" "Yes," she says, "I sure do." And that was when Carrie cut in. (Second chair trumpet.) First time she piped up, that night. Highly unusual for her to contribute to a discussion at all. Carrie was odd, in that she was always involved in things like this, without ever really participating much. These crazy goofy little group outings ... she was always there, but just on the fringes, in the background. Mostly you never heard a peep out of her. She'd never even giggle—just smirk. She would show up and sort of glide along with the pack, whatever they were doing. Most people wouldn't be able to get away with that. They'd get badgered about their silence, and probably driven off. But nobody ever messed with Carrie for some reason. Everybody seemed to genuinely like having her around, though if you asked, none of them could have told you why. 'Cause she never added anything tangible to the group, not once. Nothing at least that anyone could have put their finger on. She had never done anything that stood out in the memory. No one would ever have predicted it, but tonight that would change. Irrevocably. What she said was: "What if just one of us goes?" They all turned to her, all at once, with their mouths hanging open. Like, huh? Wha'? Who you? You might expect she'd clam right up, under the scrutiny. But she didn't seem to notice how much she'd shocked everybody. "One of us could swim around the wall out there and then run back over and open the front gate, to let in everyone else. Shouldn't take too long. I think I could do it but ..." Some hesitation there. She had to take a breath and swallow hard before she went on. "But one of you would have to carry my things. My clothes and things." "Okay," says Troy, "Now that's sensible thinking, right there." Carrie wouldn't look at any of them now. She was fixated on the end of the wall, out in the ocean. Gauging the distance, preparing herself. Psyching herself up, no doubt. "All of you go back by the cars now. Hunker down and wait 'til you see the gate start to open—then come running, soon as it starts moving." "Won't that wake everybody up in the house?" somebody asks, one of the other drummer guys. Roy or Rick. "I'll do it manually, so it won't be as noisy. There's always a manual lever for when the power goes out or the motor busts, so you can slide it by hand. My grampa's house used to have the same kind of gate. Now all of you go—get going—except Jill—so I can get undressed for this. I can't do it with all of you staring at my butt like dumbasses." "All right, you heard the girl," says Troy, "Let's move! That includes you, too, Gordon." "Can't I stay for her things instead of Jill?" "Slam!" says Jill, even though it really wasn't one. That was how she was. Not the brightest bulb. Troy grabbed his arm to haul him away. "Just come on, jerkwad." That might have been a much better moment for Jill to again say "Slam!" But she didn't think to. To Be Continued ... An Experiment Ch. 03 As the saying goes, one thing leads to another ... This is one of the kind that doesn't play too groovy unless you read the other parts. Picks up right from the last part (well, actually jumps ahead a bit), without much catchup for newbies that just stumbled in. 1. Carrie's got herself into a bit of a pickle now. She's never been the kind of girl that would mess around with a guy in the backseat of a car. In fact she's not sure she's even been in the backseat of a car with a guy, under any kind of circumstances, at least not since she was a kid. If she has, she certainly can't remember it. Now she is, though. And not just with one guy, she's got three of them with her. They're not really messing around; they're all just sort of stuffed back here. Chillin'. Except not really. Anything but, in fact. This is anything but a chill scenario. The polar opposite, har har. This ain't a big car, by any means. In fact it's a dinky piece of shit. The three college guys barely fit next to each other on the backseat, crammed shoulder to shoulder. No room left for her to fit among them, so she had to go on top. She's sitting sideways across all their laps, with her legs kicked up. No safety belt for her. If they happen to hit anything, or just brake too fast, she's Supergirl for the last few seconds of her life. That's not the best part. The real kicker: she doesn't have any clothes on. Not a stitch. All her stuff got left behind. Gone forever, probably. Why isn't she sitting up front in the passenger seat, you wanna know? 'Cause it's occupied. There's another guy sitting in it, with another guy on his lap. The driver happens to be male, as well. There had been other girls with their group before, but in the mad scramble to flee the scene, none of them ended up in this particular tiny crummy vehicle. Just Carrie with these six dudes. It hadn't been planned, just worked out that way. Same as how all her things got abandoned. Everybody had panicked, was the thing. Nobody was thinking what they were doing. No one person was to blame, unless maybe they all were, the entire stupid group. When you go out in the middle of the night to do a stupid prank on somebody, things don't always turn out like you want. People wake up grouchy and make a fuss. Things can turn shitty. Dead silence in the car. Conversationally, anyhow. It's not actually very quiet, what with the engine noises and the fact a couple of the windows are down, letting wind whoosh through. White noise. Hypnotic. 2. They must have got the house wrong. Whoever it was among them that thought he knew where Maggie Jay lived had been mistaken. And they were making too much noise while they worked. Too much chatter, too much giggling. Somebody had knocked over a birdbath or a sundial, some clunky marble doodad in the gardens. Five minutes after they got started, spotlights blaze on all over the yard, and a guy comes charging out the back door. Fat old fucker in a bathrobe; looked a lot like Dick Cheney. That wasn't Maggie Jay's dad. And he had a pump-action shotgun in his hands! Starts blasting away into the sky again and again. BLAM! Ku-chunk. BLAM! "Fuckin' faggot punks!" Ka-chunk. BLAM! He'd loosed three dogs on them, as a nice extra. Dobermans. Tomorrow it would be hilarious. At the time it scared the shit out of all of them. All they could do was drop their toilet paper and run their asses off. Those dogs weren't screwing around. Kept chasing them beyond the perimeter of the property—nobody had the presence of mind to try closing the gate on them—and they charged on straight though and kept after the group down the sidewalk. Fuckers didn't bark as they ran—that made 'em scarier. Like they were too professional and hardass for barking like regular doggies. Then even when the group had got inside their cars, they still weren't safe. The fucking dogs kept jumping up against the widows, clawing and slobbering on the glass, shaking the cars on their wheels. Scary Jurassic Park shit. Dinodogs! Honking horns just riled them up worse. And when they got their engines revved up and took off, everybody's tires peeling out, the tyrannosaur hellhounds still kept chasing the vehicles down the middle of street. Gas floored, it still felt like another five minutes before they finally managed to leave the fuckers behind. So with that kind of crazy coming after them like the wrath of God, no wonder everybody got mixed up in different vehicles than the ones they originally rode over in. This dinky one, the dinkiest and crummiest of the three—Troy's—happened to be first in the line-up along the curb. That was why it filled up so bad; it was the closest available shelter from those snapping evil Doberman teeth, and the first one everybody tried to pile into at once. And now—nobody knows how or why—Troy's car has got separated from the other two, and none of the people in those other cars will respond to calls or texts. Troy's taking them back to the college, the garage behind the band building where the rest of them had left their cars parked. Including Carrie's. Not that she can drive it without her keys. She'll have to get Troy or one of the others to take her home. As to how she's gonna get the door open, that's another concern that will need to be addressed at some point. She doesn't have any roommates to let her in. She'll have to try get through a window—the bathroom one never locks any good. It's awful small and high up. She'll have to find a bucket or something to stand on. Yeah, all in all it's bound to be a fun climb, especially starkers. First she's got to get her ass home. They've still got a bit of a drive ahead of them, 'til they're back on campus. There's not much traffic on the highway but Troy is taking things slow. Doesn't want them getting pulled over. Actually he's probably taking a bigger risk driving too careful—most of the time, that catches cops' eyes worse than speeding. She doesn't speak up about it. She's wondering if it's at all possible that any of the rest of the group have her things, in one of those other two cars. Jill was the one she put in charge of them, when she first undressed to swim around the sea wall. Jill was supposed to bring the bundle along with her, when Carrie opened the gate, so she could get dressed again right away. Only Jill hadn't done that—she'd left all Carrie's things by the cars, on the ground. Just abandoned them. She said she thought that was what Carrie wanted her to do. "Oh, sorry," she had said, "Guess I misunderstood you. Whoops." With Jill, it was impossible to tell whether she did that deliberately as a mean-spirited joke or if she really had just been that dumb. Both alternatives were equally plausible, when you got to know the girl. It was Carrie's fault—why hadn't she asked for Kelli to be the one instead? Was it subconscious self-sabotage? Yeah, it might have been. Whatever was behind it, Carrie ended up butt naked in front of the whole rest of the gang. And not for only a minute like she expected, when she got the gate open. She had to stay that way while they were running around the huge house doing the TPing. She'd asked Jill to go back to the cars and fetch her things for her. Jill hadn't wanted to. "Go get 'em yourself!" Carrie hadn't gone. It would only have taken a minute to hustle out there, but she hadn't done it. Didn't want to take the risk of another car driving by while she was out on the open sidewalk like that. That's what she told herself. More likely that was bullshit. She just decided to stay naked 'cause she found she was enjoying the feeling. None of her friends made any remarks about her choice. No teasing, no compliments, no nothing. None of them, boys or girls, would look directly at her, or at least they were careful not to let her catch them doing it. They tried to act like she wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary. Like they were all too worldly and mature and sophisticated to make a big deal out of it. She had been sort of grateful for that attitude, and yet also slightly irritated. There was a temptation to jump up and down waving her arm and shouting "Hey! God! Look at me! This is happening! Quit pretending it isn't! Just look at me!" Then the Dick Cheney lookalike appeared with his gun and his dogs ... Maybe just maybe Jill or Kelli or somebody else had scooped up her clothes from the ground, as they were diving into the last car—which had been Jill's, and she had said that was where she left the pile, "folded up real nice, ready to go," she'd been careful to point out, next to the front tire on the curb. But come on, hey, let's get real. That was a pretty slim hope. The only one that might have thought to do that would have been Carrie herself—and she hadn't, which pretty much settled the question. It hadn't occurred to her to look for them, let along try to grab them, before she dove screeching on top of these other guys in the back of Troy's car. She didn't think about her things at all until they'd got the fuck away from there and finally lost sight of the evil death dogs and everybody started to calm down. All she'd been concerned about in the heat of the crisis was saving her bottom from getting shot or bitten, or any other part of her. It would have been the exact same for the rest of the group. Yeah. Her clothes were a complete write-off. She needed to face up to that, gulp it down and digest it. Her hair was still damp from the ocean but it wasn't dripping anymore, while the rest of her body was pretty much completely dried off, thanks to the wind. Except one part of her, a little bit, and that was a complete different kind of dampness. Her skin felt gritty all over. Some of that, from the knees down, was sand stuck to her from the beach. The majority, everywhere else, would be salt from the sea water after it evaporated off her skin. She could feel it in her hair, too, and on her scalp. Or she imagined she could, now that she was thinking about it. It wasn't a horrible sensation, just weird. Kind of thing that made you more aware of your skin and your hair than you normally were, just on account of the different texture. And obviously her self-consciousness, in the most literal sense of that term, was already cranked up about as high as the knob could turn, so to speak, from exposure alone. The salt and sand spiked it further. Off the scale, if there was a scale. Danger zone. She kept thinking about the swim around the wall, in the moonlight. It had only taken a couple minutes—they'd been very long, very intense minutes. Longest and most intense of her life, maybe. It really shouldn't have felt that different from a normal swim. We don't wear much in the water. And it's not as if she didn't take plenty of baths in her life. She loved baths. It wasn't anything like a bath. Nothing close. The temperature, the moonlight, and most of all, the motion of the waves. The power of them. Pulling and pushing and pawing at her, the whole time, all over her body. She would have stayed out there all night if she didn't know the gang was waiting on her at the gate, and would start to panic if she made them wait too long. Once she swam around the projecting edge of the wall, she had fingered herself under the surface for a bit before heading for the shoreline. Only let herself do that a few seconds—a few seconds was all it took to make her come. She hadn't meant to push herself that far—but it turned out she was closer to the brink than she'd known. Got a mouthful of sea water when she made herself screech. It was all right—nobody heard, nobody saw, nobody knew anything about it. There was nothing visibly different about her body after she climbed out of the water, to give her away to the others when they saw her. She looked exactly the same when she opened the gate as she would have if she hadn't just had an orgasm in the ocean, as if she'd been completely focused on her task for the good of the group and the good of the mission, and no silly crazy impulse or urge to take advantage of the opportunity for a quick sexual indulgence had crossed her mind. Oh no. How absurd a suggestion! Yet the whole thing from start to finish had been a sexual indulgence. They all would have realized that, no sense kidding herself. They had all known her real motivation for volunteering like she had. They hadn't known she got off—but they definitely knew she did what she did because it turned her on. They weren't blind or retarded. (Unless Jill was, a little tiny bit.) They were all going to have a radically new opinion of her as a person, after tonight. Not necessarily a bad opinion, yet very definitively and dramatically different than whatever they used to believe or assume about her. 3. The funniest part about the current situation was that she could tell all the guys were much more scared and embarrassed than she was. Which wasn't to say she didn't feel any fear or embarrassment—she did. She could still tell the guys had it worse. These were all pretty nice guys, was the thing. Marching band geeks. She was safe with them. They were afraid she didn't know that. They were afraid they'd do something clumsy or say something wrong that would give her the wrong idea and freak her out while she was so vulnerable and keyed-up, and make them feel guilty and hate themselves after she fell to pieces in front of them. So they were all straining to be on their bestest behavior. Nobody was gonna say a word or look at her. Nobody was even gonna move. They were all sitting rigid as statues. Rigid was indeed the word. All three guys had boners because of her. She could feel them bulging underneath her. Iron pipes in their pants. Poor silly fuckers. Brandon—the big meaty cymbalist, if you recall—had it the best or the worst, depending how you look at it, 'cause he was the one on the end that she was sitting upright sideways on. Which obviously put his boner directly underneath her naked ass. Next to him was Gordan, with her knees bridging his lap. And then on the other end, with her feet on his thighs, was a big-nosed guy with glasses named Dudley. Despite the nose and the glasses, and that name on top of the rest, he wasn't as dorky-looking as he sounds. Like Gordon, he was one of the snare drummers. Pretty cut guys, when they had their shirts off during practices, from lugging those harnesses around, and all the arm work. Carrie wondered if Troy had a boner to go with the rest of the party, up front in the driver's seat, and the other two guys next to him. Be extra-awkward for them if they did, with the one sitting on top the other. Billy and Rand, they were called. They'd have to be wondering/worrying if their hard-on's were because of Carrie's enticing nakedness on display behind them or because of squishing against each other on the passenger seat. Now Carrie starts to act a little cruel. She can't resist the urge. She starts wiggling around a lot. Squirming her bottom and her legs, like she's uncomfortable. "Pins and needles," she says, "My legs are going to sleep in this position. My butt, too. Oh crap. Ughh." This is an absolute lie. Just an excuse to wriggle around and torture the three horny guilty guys, while she's got them trapped helpless and at her mercy. She clenches and bounces her butt cheeks on Brandon's bulge, and it feels really good—at least it is for her. Probably not so much for him. Makes him breathe really hard through his nostrils like a bull about to charge. But he doesn't put his hands on her to try to make her stop or shift her position. He sits there silently fuming and takes the torment like a trooper. Her knees can't give Gordon much trouble in the middle, but with her feet, with her heels, she can drive Dudley wild on the far end just as bad as she's doing to Brandon, and she can do it while acting like she doesn't realize. She's rubbing her feet together like she's trying to scrape the sand off them, with her toes and with her arches. She's rubbing directly on top of his erection in the process. She's got quite nice girl feet and she knows it. There are guys that are entirely indifferent to girl feet, or they're turned off by them; then there are lots and lots of guys that aren't. Which type would Dudley end up being? Dudley doesn't just sit there and take it, like Brandon. He grabs her ankles with both hands. "Just hold still," he says, "I'll take care of this." Then he finishes cleaning all the grit off her feet with his fingers. It feels really amazing, when he does that. Whether he intends it to or not, his fingers are magical on her feet and ankles and calves. Because he puts some careful effort into it. He rubs them hard, since he's supposed to be cleaning them, but not too hard either. He rubs them perfect. And she just doesn't only feel those caresses on her feet and lower legs. She feels them up inside her pussy. Nobody's touching her there, but it sure feels like he is. It makes her moan out loud. "Oh! Ohhh! Ohhoohh Dudley! God!" He removes his hands like her feet just burned him. "Sorry. I'm sorry." "No, idiot. Don't stop. Please don't stop doing that. You've no idea how good that feels. You've no idea what that was just doing to me. If you did ... Oh man." "You want more?" he asks. "Yes. Please. More." And when he obliges: "Yes! Wow! Wow! Like that! Like thaahhhht! Ahhuuhh you guys! You guys! Oh my God! You guys!" "Jesus, Carrie," Gordon says, "Are you trying to kill us in here or what? I think I'm about to have an aneurysm. Holy Jesus." She laughs. "I know. I can feel your boners. It's all right, you guys. I don't mind. It's flattering. It's hot. You can take them out, if you want to. I wanna see them. Take them out and lemme see them. All of you. Come on now. What are you waiting for? Don't be shy. Don't be chicken. I've been naked this whole time. And horny just like all of you. Fair's fair. Come on! Show me those boners! And take your shirts off too. Lemme see your muscles! Lemme see your sweat! Please! Please!" They do. Now they get down to business. She's cranking Dudley with her feet, and using her hands on Gordon, bending forward some ... Brandon's got himself inside of her, with his hands under her bottom to guide her motions. And he's stuck his tongue in her ear. She comes in about ten seconds and all the guys follow her within another twenty. Gordon's first to give up his juice for her hands, and then Brandon fills her pussy, and then Dudley goes off all over her feet. Only after that does she realize the car's stopped. Troy's pulled them over and all three guys up there have got out of the car, and they've tilted the front seats forward. "All right, dudes," Troy orders, as he's pulling his clothes off, "Get your butts out of there, all of you. Hurry up." Carrie has to come out first, before the other three can climb free. Soon as there's space, Troy swats her bottom. "Okay, babe. My turn. Get back in there. Quick now. On your tummy, please." She doesn't argue with them. She hasn't the slightest desire to. She looks at Billy and Rand, before she climbs back into the car. "Are you guys gonna fuck me too?" "If you want us to," says Billy, "Is that cool?" "Totally, yeah. I was just wondering," she says. "I thought you two might—" Thankfully she stops herself before she goes any further, realizing they might get insulted. "We might what?" "No, it's stupid. Sorry. I'm not exactly thinking very clearly right now. You might have noticed." She got back in the car and lay flat on her belly across the seat and Troy clambered in on top of her. "Holy shit, this is awesome! This is so fucking awesome!" Billy and Rand take their turns after Troy's, and then the first three ask for another round. An Experiment Ch. 03 "Is that cool?" Brandon asks, "You up for it, girl? How you feel?" "I'm fine. I'm good. I'm good to go. You guys fuck really good and I want more! But can we stay outside this time? The car's too cramped. There's no air left in there and also the seat's got pretty nasty." So the rest of the sex she has with the group that night happens on the hood of the car, and down on the thick grass beside the road. It's all pretty incredible. A few cars race by, while all of this happening. Some people honk their horns, but nobody stops or messes with them, and no cops show up. Then one of the other band cars does, all the sudden. Kelli's driving, with Jill beside her and some others in the back. Carrie will never forget the looks on their faces, through the windows. Their eyes bugging out and their jaws dangling open. Hits pretty harsh. Kick in the belly. Carrie is deeply humiliated, it's true. All six guys, when she glances around at their faces, they also look pretty ashamed of themselves and mortified. Like they've just been busted trying to blow up a building or some shit. Carrie decides she's not gonna let it end this way. Fuck no! She's not gonna let the other girls turn this thing into something it wasn't until they popped up uninvited. So she grins proudly at the other girls and beckons to them. "Park and join us," she shouts, "Come on! You won't regret it! These guys are awesome! Trust me!" The girls don't answer. Their car just roars away like the Dobermans have showed up again. "Chickenshits!" Carrie screams after them, and then she gets back to all the different things she was doing a moment ago, reaching out her hands to Billy and Rand on either side, bending her mouth to Troy, and bouncing her body up and down on Brandon underneath her. Gordon or Dudley is crouched behind her, fitting himself to her other hole. They keep switching out back there every couple minutes, every time either gets close to cumming, so they won't ... so she's not sure which of them it is at that precise second. She's too busy taking care of Troy again to glance behind and check. Probably at a guess it's Gordon. He seems to always be a tad more clumsy about the insertion than Dudley, but then once he's finally fumbled himself in there, she likes the way he fucks better. Dudley's rhythm is more erratic. God he's talented with her feet, though. Can make her come just licking and sucking on her toes. Best is having him do that while another of the guys is fucking her. Doubles the orgasm. Billy and Rand have turned out to be boob specialists—they can make her come from her nipples. Billy does it with his fingers, Rand with his mouth. So they're different kinds of boobgasms, each with its own distinct individual signature or bouquet. She's striving for a triple whammy—three different kinds of orgasms, from different trigger points, at once. She's had half a dozen doubles in various permutations, but no triples just yet. Plenty of hours left in the night. She ain't giving up 'til they get her there, whatever it takes. There's enough of them to keep her covered continuously in some fashion while a few take recovery-breaks, when necessary, so that's not gonna be a problem either. Then five minutes later a girl comes running towards them up the side of the road, pulling her shirt and her bra off over her head as she approaches. It's Jill. Turns out she changed her mind—Kelli wouldn't bring her back so Jill had her drop her off on the side of the road and she's returned on foot, huffing and puffing. The expressions on the guys' faces when they see her coming are hilarious. Mixed emotions. They aren't pissed but they ain't overjoyed either. Jill never notices. She's got tattoos of snakes all over her shoulders and tits—Carrie never knew that about her. She kicks her sneakers off behind her, shouts "Slam!" because it's Jill and that's what she does, and then springs on top of the pile on the grass. She hadn't bothered removing her pants before she leaped in, but the guys take care of that pretty damn fast. ****** The prank-gone-wrong portion of this tale was suggested to me by email a very, very long time ago, from another Literotica contributor calling herself Carrie01, who went so far as to claim something like this actually happened to her, hence the name of my protagonist. I combined it with the hypnosis idea, to give a semi-believable and fairly distinct rationalization for her behavior, as opposed to the typical approach of "well, gosh, the girl just happens to be funny that way". The story has sat for ages half-finished on my hard drive. I decided to publish the completed bits, 'cause the dressing room scene works pretty good by itself, and also in the hope that having the second segment dangling out in public without a satisfying payoff would pressure me into finishing this damn thing. I attempted the same gag with "K's Costume" ... and it worked there too! Got the damn thing done! Although its second chapter got some mean votes from people who apparently didn't appreciate that it was only transitional material, not a standalone episode. Folks on the whole were kinder to this tale's preceding chapter, though it's guilty of the same thing.