“I
want you to see how your photographs turned out,” she said, and
handed me two prints. Then she sat behind me on the couch, her legs
straddling me, her hands on my breasts, her
breasts touching my shoulders. “Do you like them?” she asked
close to my ear. “Tell the truth, slave.”
I
figured I’d better. “No, Mistress,” I said.
She
squeezed my breasts painfully, “And why not?”
The
pictures were very careful, very documentary jobs. She had been right
the other day; Paul did good work. The light was harsh; the general
effect was of truth-telling. Something about the marks on my ass, the
shadows under my eyes, the pallor of my skin. Nobody was being
flattered, the pictures said, but this was itself a form of flattery.
And if the viewers were not being flattered, they were certainly
being asked to participate, if only imaginatively.
“Here,”
the pictures seemed to say, “this is for you, if you want it. She
will receive whatever you care to give: caresses, thrusts of your
hand or cock, blows. It’s up to you. Interested?”
I
was scared to see how I had posed for the pictures. In the front
view, I thrust my pelvis out a little, as though I were offering
guests something to eat. I looked shocked and a little outraged, but
I held the pose anyway. Even in the back view, smarting and still
sobbing from a beating, I held myself up. I was surprised at how
firmly my feet were planted on the floor. I had remembered dangling
from my suspended wrists, but in fact the pose was much more
provocative. I couldn’t deny it; without even realizing it, I had
complied with Paul and Margot. I was showing off the bruises. I was
displaying myself for buyers. I looked proud to be able to receive
pain. I was showing myself to whomever and whatever, to strangers,
who could do anything they wanted to me; I was offering myself to the
highest bidder.
“Why
not, slave?” she asked again, this time twisting my nipples and
making me gasp.
“They
frighten me, Mistress,” I temporized. I knew she’d insist on
hearing me more. “I…I look willing to be hurt,” I mumbled.
“And?”
she insisted.
“I
look available to everybody,” I said sadly. “And proud of it.”
“These
are wonderful pictures,” she said, moving one of her hands in slow
circles down to my belly. “Right now, in various expensive hotels
and pieds-Ã -terre in
this city, there are dozens of people looking at these pictures. They
are considering whether they would like to fuck you, whether they
would like to hurt you, whether you could be led and trained and
forced to become what they want. You look like…new red wine.
Beaujolais Nouveau. The depth is still developing, but the sweetness
caresses the tongue and touches the heart. Not everyone wants it, but
it is a unique pleasure.”
Her
hand had reached the opening of my vagina. Her fingers were slowly
searching their way around. I wanted to drop the pictures, but I was
afraid to. I just kept staring at myself and feeling her. She’d
reached my clitoris. She was in no hurry. I heard myself moaning. I
dropped the pictures and leaned into her leather-clad thighs, her
bare breasts, her hair, her mouth on my neck.
And
then she stopped.
Lithely,
she swung a leg over me and stood up. She turned to face me.
“I
would whip you right now if I could,” she said. “I’d love to
see you trembling and weeping under me. But I can’t. We’ll
manage, though.”
She
went to a drawer and pulled out some black leather, and something
else. A harness for me? No, a harness for her, I realized hazily, as
I watched her fit the big dildo into place. It was a heavy clear
plastic—virtual phallus, I couldn’t help thinking. She pulled
some zippers on her leather pants, and they fell away from her lean
belly, though they stayed around her legs like a second skin. And
then she quickly strapped on the harness while I looked at her in
awe. Bright skin against black leather, shiny transparent up-curving
member, insolent smile, clouded, intense eyes.
I
was still kneeling in front of the couch. She nudged the dildo into
my mouth, deep, deep, deep, and then she pulled out and pulled me to
my feet. She lay down on the couch and pulled me into a straddle on
top of her, the dildo deep in my cunt, making me groan as I raised
and lowered myself on her. Her fingernails played with my nipples.
She moved her hips subtly, suavely. Her hands were on my ass now,
squeezing my flesh and moving me with her. And I followed her
blindly, seeing her face through a haze of pleasure, the hard dildo
probing deep inside me, my groans louder and louder, cresting to a
howling orgasm.
She
didn’t let me recover very long. Quickly, she pushed me off her and
forced me down to my hands and knees. She took off the harness and
pulled my mouth down on her. I licked, I sucked, I nibbled. I wanted
to do everything she might possibly want. I wanted to hear her cry
out. I succeeded. She took her hands off my head and stroked my back,
my ass. I lay with my head in her lap.
I
heard a low laugh. She raised my head and kissed me a long time on
the lips. I held her tightly.
“Do
you think,” I murmured, “that I’ll ever see you again, after
tomorrow?”
She
nibbled at my neck a little more before she answered.
“Well,”
she said, “I do have some influence. I don’t use it much, but I
suppose that makes it more valuable. So if what I think is going to
happen happens…well, yes, maybe you will see me again. But only
after you’ve been worked so rigorously that you will have almost
forgotten me.” I looked at her imploringly.
“No,”
she said, “I’m not telling you a word more.”
I
sighed, though of course I wasn’t surprised.
“But
I won’t forget you,” I said, kissing her hand.
“You
won’t forget me, what?” she asked sternly.
“I
won’t forget you, Mistress,” I said meekly, dropping my eyes. End
of idyll.
I
didn’t want to move, but she got up and started searching around
for her shirt. When she’d gotten it sloppily buttoned up, she
walked to her desk and found my bracelet. I was still on my knees in
front of the couch, my head resting on my arms, but I turned and
straightened into a position of attention, raising my arm passively
to let her buckle on the bracelet.
“Get
up,” she said, and when I did she led me to the door.
“If
you’ve forgotten how to get back to your room,” she said, “the
Argus will help you, of course.”
Of
course. And just then, as she opened the door, the bracelet prickled.
“You’re
going to be very tired tomorrow morning,” she said, pushing me
gently into the hall. “All the other slaves have had their regular
tofu dinners and special baths and massages. Except, of course, for
that crazy boy with the ponytail, who’s probably still down in the
kitchen, servicing every woman who works there.” She chuckled and
kissed me on the forehead. I was too tired and satiated to be
anything but amused as well.
“Sleep
well, Carrie,” she said, and closed her door. As I waved my
bracelet over the Argus, trying my groggy, confused best to make
sense of the diagram that appeared on the screen, I heard the keys at
her keyboard clicking fiercely away.
* * *
Carrie's
Story is regarded as one of the finest erotic novels ever
written—smart, devastatingly sexy, and, at times, shocking. In this
new era of "BDSM romance," Ã la Fifty Shades of
Grey, the whips and cuffs are out of the closet and "château
porn" has given way to mommy porn. Carrie's
Story remains at the head of the class. Imagine The
Story of O starring a Berkeley Ph.D. in comparative
literature who moonlights as a bike messenger, has a penchant for
irony, and loves self-analysis as much as anal pleasures. Set in both
San Francisco and the more château-friendly Napa Valley,
Weatherfield's deliciously decadent novel takes you on a
sexually-explicit journey into a netherworld of slave auctions,
training regimes, and enticing "ponies" (people) preening
for dressage competitions. Desire runs rampant in this story of
uncompromising mastery and irrevocable submission.
Molly
Weatherfield, the pen name of Pam Rosenthal, is also the
author of Safe Word, the sequel to Carrie's
Story. A prolific romance and erotica writer, she has penned
many sexy, literate, historical novels. She lives in San Francisco.
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