Wednesday, April 3, 2013

'Carrie's Story' by Molly Weatherfield: Excerpt and Blog Tour Schedule

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-à-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," à 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.

You can find Molly on Facebook at and on Twitter at @PamRosenthal (

Blog Tour Schedule
March 24 - Shanna Germain 
March 25 - Lelaine
March 26 - Alison Tyler
March 27 - Romance After Dark
March 28 - Romance Junkies and Amos Lassen
March 29 - Sinclair Sexsmith
April 2 - Kissin Blue Karen
April 3 - Dana Wright
April 4 - Erin O'Riodan
April 5 - Lindsay Avalon
April 6 - Laura Antoniou
April 7 - DL King

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