Christmas Carrie

A light snow was falling. He could see it out the windows. It was early in the season and it wasn't going to stick.

He was laying around his cheap apartment in the late afternoon, taking a break from a homework thing that bored him half to death. He thought about going for a walk, in the snow. Get some exercise. Then he got a call from Wholesome Carrie. He had to try to get used to the sense of excitement he got when she was around, or even on the phone. He kept trying to fight it; it wasn't working at all. Not at all. Not since the day in the field.

She said she was in the neighborhood and asked to stop by for a visit. He said yes and then frantically straightened up, stuffing clothes in the dresser whether they were dirty or not, and quickly wiping off the bathroom. The kitchen was largely untouched and he left it. He had just finished up when the doorbell rang. He walked down to the entry.

She smiled at him, stepped into the hallway and headed up the stairs. She had on a long, slim, black coat that extended nearly to her ankles, and her hair was done up in a kind of 'do. She was also wearing a pair of shiny black high heels, the first pair of those he'd ever seen her wear. He felt well under dressed in his drawstring pants and sweatshirt, but then, he wasn't doing much but sitting around the house, so... he also hadn't shaved in a couple of days.

In the apartment Carrie unbuttoned the coat and he helped her slip it off, and when he did he had to gawk more than a bit. She had on a tight black pencil skirt that didn't quite make it below her knees, and a tailored white dress shirt with shortened sleeves. The outfit was far more form fitting than anything he'd ever seen her in before, and it was surprising and, he had to admit, kind of shocking. Not because it really was, but because Carrie was wearing it. He noticed the shape of her legs, encased in dark tights. The whole thing, combined with the high heels, made her look like a fashion ad.

She turned around and smiled at him.

He moved closer, like a magnet to another, and could smell her. She smelled like she always did, organic and earthy, but fresh and delightful.

He had to ask: "What's the occasion? You're dressed up."

Carrie turned her mouth sideways. "I have Messiah performances at the Catholic church. I guess they have a shortage of alto-sopranos." She stayed silent for a bit, then said, "They asked us to wear black lower and white top. I had to borrow clothes from a choir member, and this is how she dresses."

He had to wonder why Carrie didn't just go shopping for an outfit, but had the thought that he'd never heard Carrie discuss shopping, clothing, food, or any consumer habits at all. She seemed, he had to think, unusually cheap, or frugal, or something. All her clothes were comfortable, understated things, built for work and tasks, or for the weather, and that was it. He decided to consider himself lucky to get to see her dressed up at all. He was thinking about her appearance, when she said something that was typically weird.

"I'm not comfortable. I'm very uncomfortable. This skirt-" she looked down- "is kind of, well, it's indecent."

He had to stop and stare at her. Indecent? Huh? He didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything. The outfit wouldn't have raised an eyebrow, from anyone, anywhere, in any office, or even church, in the United States. To him it was shocking because he knew she never, ever dressed like this. It was, he knew, the contrast between how she usually looked and how she looked today that was making her so intoxicatingly sexy.

Carrie wandered around the room, shifting her weight from one high-heeled shoe to the other, in the first indication of a womanly sway he'd ever seen her perform. She always walked like she was gliding. In the black skirt and plain white blouse she looked elegant. She was elegant. She swayed and undulated, gently thrusting one hip, then the other, from side to side. He honestly wasn't ready for it; she was always so understated in her movements. In this case the effect was sensual and arousing, seductive and insinuating.

She turned her back to him and shifted her balance point, making her hips sway. He had to watch her ass move in the skirt, and he noticed the skirt had an understated, but profoundly sexy, little bow on the back waistband.

He thought, "Unhgh." He tried to be cool; at least on the outside. Inside, no way. .

Carrie surprised him again. "Do you have anything to drink? Alcohol?"

He started. He was pretty sure Carrie didn't drink at all; at least, she'd never indicated a desire for any alcohol on any of their 'dates', and the last time he'd offered she'd turned him down. For some reason today was different.

"Uh..." He thought for a minute. "Actually, all I've got is Scotch." He shrugged a little, honestly apologetic. It was unlikely Wholesome Carrie was going to slug hard whisky. She surprised him, again.

"Scotch? Perfect."

He stood still for an incredulous, long minute. "Really?"

She smiled and said, "Sure. Listen, I worked with commonwealth expats; I know how to drink." She swiveled and showed him the indecent skirt and its delightful bow. "I just don't generally. Oh." She turned back to face him and said, "No ice."

He turned to make her drink, which he knew would involve pouring some whisky into a tumbler and... that was it.

Carrie asked, "Is that strange?"

He had the glass, then thought, and got another. "What's strange?"

"That I'm weird about ice. There's a reason for it, though. You know," she turned again, swaying, and he overpoured the first glass, hypnotized by Carrie. She went on: "It's just that, you know, you get done with a job or a project and you want a nice gin and tonic on the rocks or something, and the next thing you know you're medevaced. People think about water, but they don't think about ice cubes." She looked at him earnestly. "For real. People do it all the time."

He reflected before he poured the next glass. "I never really thought of that. You're right, I don't think about where the ice cubes come from."

He poured her drink and handed it to her; it was a simple two fingers of decent Scotch in a glass. He never would have expected that from Wholesome Carrie. Never. He almost asked her if she'd like a cigar to go with it, but didn't; it seemed too crude.

She swished the glass a little, smelled the whisky, and took a small sip, tasting. She lowered the glass and smiled at him, again. The effect hit him pretty hard; he had not at all expected this out of his day. He went into the living room area and sat down.

He had to do it: he asked her a personal question. "Where were you? In your NGO?"

He saw it: her back stiffened and she tensed up. He instantly regretted asking the question, thought rapidly, and followed it up as fast as he could. "Sorry. It doesn't matter. Forget I asked." He raised his glass in a small toast, and drank himself. When he lowered his own glass he said, "Cheers, Miss Drinks Scotch with expat people."

Carrie tossed her head back and laughed out loud. It was nice, very nice; she sounded awesome and pleasant, sexy and... well, just sexy. Carrie had a deep laugh, an honest and mature sound; she sounded like a real woman. She sauntered to his battered, duct-taped little boombox on the kitchen counter, a thing he kept out of sentimentality for regional radio and hard-copy music. Then he realized he had a cassette tape in it, one of his own from before. It was a dub copy; the original was stashed in the storage unit, wrapped up and safe. She ejected the tape and looked at it; he knew all it had on it was a name and a date.

Wholesome Carrie turned it over, inspecting, and asked, "Is this a mix tape? For real? An actual mix tape?"

He answered, "Well, yeah. It is." He got nervous, and took a sip of the Scotch. He had the tape because he'd been somewhere where that was people had. He decided to try for a lighthearted approach. "Eh, I'm a retro fan."

She put on a thoughtful look. "Can I play it? Or is it personal?"

"Go ahead and play it." If she didn't like it, that was okay. He didn't feel like lying to her. She put the tape back in, rewound, and pressed play. She took a sip of her drink.

It was scratchy, but it came through easily. She listened to the first few pieces, the death and thrash metal and dissonant noise of aggression, macho, angry shit they'd played on the charlie box. Then it segued into copies of some of the local tapes he'd picked up, foreign and utterly different. When it sank in to Carrie what was on the tape she turned and looked at him intently, a totally inscrutable expression on her face.

She fast forwarded through the rest of songs on the tape, checking the music, stopping to drink and turn to look at him, until she got to the last one. It was a chick singer, sweet and heartfelt, singing a love song. It was something you'd hear on a light rock station. She'd cut in at the middle of the song. She fussed with the tape player, putting it at the beginning of the track.

She asked, or observed, "You really have this song on your mix tape? It's the last song?"

He answered, "...yeah."

Wholesome, Holiday Carrie pushed the 'play' button.

She swung gently and said, "I'm glad it ends this way." She turned and faced him squarely. "It says a lot about you. It's like a journey." Then she started singing along with the music, and he remembered she had a choral performance. Whatever she did at church, or wherever, she had a beautiful voice, and he caught himself totally giving way to Carrie's presence. He felt an actual stab of fear, and that scared the shit out of him. He stood up, finishing his Scotch. He thought about getting another one, but decided not to.

Carrie somehow unhooked her hair with one hand; it cascaded to her shoulders, shining. She sipped her Scotch and walked into the living room area in her sublimely sexy outfit, stepping runway-like in the black high heels, singing softly. Then the song ended, and Carrie stopped singing. There was the telltale 'ker-chunk' of the tape ending in the boom box.

The silence in the room occupied the space, took it up, loading the atmosphere with... something, something indescribable. It felt like the charge air took on before a storm. He made his decision; he couldn't stand it any more. He walked over to Wholesome, Holiday Carrie, waited for a couple seconds, and kissed her carefully on the lips without touching her body. She kissed him back. She tasted like scotch and Carrie, and the mix was so heady he found himself shaking. He also knew there wasn't going to be any way to hide a hard-on in his light pants. He didn't bother to even try: she knew what she was doing.

He felt like he was falling and had to stumble, catching himself.

When he was stable he leaned in and kissed her again, slipping in her mouth slightly, and she put her hands on his body and pressed close. She raised her hands and put them on his face, kissing him while he ran his hands on her sides. For some reason she flinched, then relaxed, as he slid his hand on her left side. Weird; what was that all about? He remembered the scars, but again, decided not to ask how she got them. They kept making out, casually, then more intensely, until she spun away and walked around the room, presenting one leg in front of the other, mildly strutting in her heels. The effect sucked his available oxygen out of the room.

He thought about sitting down, then decided not to. He reached for his glass and sipped at the remainder of his own scotch, watching Wholesome, Holiday Carrie catwalk around his apartment, inspecting his shit and turning to him from time to time to shoot him loaded looks. Under other circumstances he would have considered someone like her a vicious tease, but she really wasn't; she just seemed to have physical and sexual boundaries of some cultural or religious kind; and he'd live with that.

Oh, he'd live with it.

She slipped off her shoes, bent over and picked them up by the backs, and carried them in one hand to set them next to the entry door. She sipped her scotch and turned, then took her free hand and unbuttoned the top button of her blouse. She took a few steps towards him and stopped. He took the cue and met her halfway, reaching out a hand to unbutton her shirt while sipping the dregs of his scotch She stood stock still, looking in his eyes, while he did it. When her shirt was all the way unbuttoned and yanked out of the skirt waistband, she swept it to the sides, displaying, what else, a sensible white bra.

He ignored the absurd conservatism of her underclothes and gently pawed her breasts, touching and cupping, taking time to rub carefully on the skin around her breasts, enjoying her warm, smooth body. He took extra time to caress the area of scarring on her side. She flinched again, then breathed deeply and relaxed, smiling at him. She shrugged off the shirt and caught it with her elbows, swapping the glass from hand to hand to remove her top. He didn't help, just watched, until she was just in her bra. She turned around and walked backwards to him. He took the cue and unhooked her bra. She shook it off, put it with the shirt, and turned to face him, topless and shining.

Wholesome, Holiday Carrie set her now-empty glass down, then took his from his hand and placed them together. Without any warning she hooked her hands in his cheap drawstring pants and pulled down slightly, almost exposing him. She said, clearly, "Take your shirt off," and slipped a hand inside his cheap pants. She took his hard cock in one hand, wrapped her other hand around his waist, and gently kissed his lips. He took off his shirt.

She worked on him for a while, touching his balls and slipping her hand along his cock, stopping to lick her fingers now and then, but mostly caressing him until he was just about crazy. He had to look down and watch her move, and when she arched around and swiveled, he could see the charming little bow sticking out from the waistband of her sexy, little, black, borrowed, indecent skirt. She wriggled charmingly; he almost came and made a warning noise; honestly, he didn't want to come this fast, it was too good. She removed her hand and sauntered away, walking slowly, topless.

He followed after her, catching up and putting an arm around her waist, holding her tight against him for a long minute, not kissing or touching her at all, just looking at her face, studying her eyes, feeling her breath.

He leaned in and kissed her.

For whatever reason it was like flipping a switch in Carrie. He felt her start shaking and breathing irregularly, pressing against him and kissing harshly, grabbing his chest and the hair on the back of his head. She did that for a minute or so, then suddenly pushed against his chest and stepped back, flushed and breathing hard, looking squarely at his face. He watched her lovely breasts heave on her chest while her jaw worked around and she clenched her fingers. The she made some kind of decision.

"Come here." Wholesome, Holiday Carrie snarled it out in an unexpectedly deep, growling voice; it reminded him of movies where people get cartoonishly demon possessed. It was shocking and sexual. She grabbed his wrist roughly and dragged him down the short hall to his bedroom.

In the bedroom he sat down, waiting while she slithered her tights down and off; he got a glimpse of black underwear of a sensible cut. When those were off and thrown on the floor she touched his legs, indicating, until he was lying on his back, cock hard and sticking up; Carrie straddled him, taking his cock in her hand again, stroking him and looking into his face. Her own face was flushed and her eyes were shining with a weird glistening effect. He touched her back as well as he could, feeling her shoulders and face, caressing her hair.

She dawdled and fondled, kissed his mouth, and felt with her fingers, touching his belly and tracing little designs on his stomach. He had to finally make another warning noise and she stopped. Carrie got on her knees and straddled his belly, high up, and lifted her skirt. When it was up and wrapped around her waist she slipped a hand into her panties.

He watched her touch herself.

She kept her eyes closed while she did it, and after a bit she started moving her head around, tipping her chin down and arching her back. He felt her reach behind her and take his cock in her hand, stroking him while getting herself off. He knew she'd never had actual intercourse; he had to wonder what was going on in her head. He saw her tremble a little, a precursor to something more, and then she removed her hand from herself.

Carrie brought her hand up to his face and extended a finger to him; it was shining and slick. She opened her eyes just enough to show the pupils and bit her lip. When her finger was close to his mouth he did what she wanted and put his mouth around it and sucked her wetness off. She kept her eyes locked on his; when he sucked on her finger he saw her shudder and arch her back. She ripped her finger out and stuffed her hand back down her panties.

Biting her lip and shaking, she stroked herself, and he reached up and cupped her breasts, flicking the nipples gently, taking breaks to stroke and feel her legs and thighs, not touching her hands but gently feeling her skin. He took a slight risk and grasped her ankles, moving her slightly, and she didn't object, but he stopped anyway, taking time to very gently palm her legs and sides. She started shaking and rocking back and forth.

Wholesome, Holiday Carrie came, hard. Really hard. She noiselessly shook all over, fell forward against his chest, and had a violent spasm that jerked her head around and made her legs thrash.

She let go of his cock and jammed her other hand against herself, moving roughly through the fabric of the panties, finally making a single, very loud shout: "AH!"

She sucked in a huge breath and then was done. He could feel her body trembling. Wholesome, Holiday Carrie murmured quietly, through gritted teeth, "Oh, man." She writhed against him. "I wasn't ready for that."

He waited, then got his hands back on her for real, and he was pretty dedicated to getting himself off as well; fair was fair. Carrie shook her head, making her hair swish around and over her face.

She murmured, "I have to be careful with this skirt. It's not mine."

She reached behind her and got ahold of him, pulling, stroking, and wrapping her fist around his throbbing cock. He touched her breasts and body, kissed her once, deeply, and came in her hand. Carrie laughed quietly as he did it.

When he was completely done she wiped her hand on his belly, then, incredibly, licked most of his come off her own hand. He watched while she did it: it was wildly freaky. He couldn't believe this lady. Absolutely couldn't believe her. Carrie finished off, picked up her black tights, stood up, and walked out of the room. After a minute he followed after her.

When he walked into the living room she was already dressed, shirt and shoes on, hair up and everything. She shrugged her coat on; he moved forward to help, trying to be a gentleman, but she actually backed away from him, looking nervous. He got concerned.

He asked, "Are you okay? You're all right?"

Wholesome, Holiday Carrie didn't answer, she just finished getting dressed, not looking at him. She looked out the window at the snow falling. She took a huge breath and patted her hair.

She said, very quietly, "I have to go, I have another performance in an hour." She moved to the entry and put her hand on the knob. She smiled, then turned to look at him as she opened the door and stepped out. Her eyes were dancing.

Just before the door closed behind her, she said, "I told you this skirt was indecent."