LUSTY LADY: BDSM in fiction: <i>Carrie's Story</i> excerpt

I'm honored to be part of the blog tour for kinky erotic novel Carrie's Story: An Erotic S/M Novel by Molly Weatherfield, just re-released by Cleis Press.

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 https://www.facebook.com/MollyWeatherfield and on Twitter at @PamRosenthal.

Here's an excerpt:

“I’m sure,” she began, “that it’s not really necessary to point out that ‘reading you your rights’ is just a little joke we have around here, a private name for the lecture I’m about to deliver. Because if you think you have any rights around here, somebody has made a terrible mistake. But you seem to understand what’s going on. So…”

She paused for a moment and then continued. “Now,” she said, “I’ve been calling you by name, because that’s what you’re used to, and it was easiest to process you in that way. But you’re completely entered into our system now, and for most of our personal interactions, you won’t really need a name. ‘Slave’ is quite adequate and a good deal more accurate. This is a warehouse, a processing center, and also a display center. We take care of all you little packages of merchandise that will be auctioned off this Friday. We take excellent care of the flesh—some of you are ridiculously expensive—we package and display you to make sure you are appealing to buyers. But we also have a more subtle responsibility— to the spirit, which demands abuse and contempt.

“For what we understand is that although most of you think of yourselves as slaves, you really have not the faintest notion of the concept. You, for example, have served one man for a year. Oh, I know you’ve participated in little entertainments he arranged, but they’ve been trivial. And you did the pony thing, which is certainly good experience, but limited. Essentially, you had a lover, a boyfriend(she said the word contemptuously), not a master, however he chose to superintend your activities. He organized his life around you every bit as much as he commanded you to organize yours around his. We don’t consider that kind of situation an exercise of your capacity for obedience.

“Now, you’ll only be here five days, but we think you’ll find them instructive. You will find, in any case, that nobody here is particularly interested in you, in your little quirks of personality or individuality. We value you—all of you—as rather unique commodities that will be sold for a lot of money. Our job is to pass you through our very well-designed system. It’s our system that’s your master, and all of us who administer it are your masters and mistresses.

“This means Paul and I, of course, but it also means Karl over there, and all the people on our payroll—cooks, security guards, garbage men, and so forth. You will address us all as Master or Mistress, when you address us at all. We will indicate when you may speak—be careful to understand our wishes. And keep your body as open and displayed as possible. I like the way your arched back offers your breasts to me, but your legs are too close together, your pubis too hidden. That’s better. Now keep your chin up, but lower your eyes. You’re not allowed to look us in the face. If it helps you to discipline your gaze, remember to concentrate on the whip we all carry at our belts. When possible, your hands will be bound, but when they are not, you must remember not to touch yourself. That’s all. We’ll take care of you completely during your brief stay here. You’ll hear the details as you need to hear them. Well, what do you say, slave?”

“Yes, Mistress,” I managed. “Thank you, Mistress.”

She rose. “I’m giving you back to your Master Karl now. He’ll get you to bed. And Paul and I will see you tomorrow for your whipping, your photograph, and your punishment.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” I repeated. Paul prodded my hip with one of his Dr. Martens, and I found myself saying, “Thank you, Master,” in his general direction as well.

Then they left me on my knees there, looking meekly at the floor. I was tired. It had been a long day. I couldn’t quite focus my understanding on everything Margot had said, but I knew that these next days would be different than anything I’d known thus far. I felt lost, really. I was frightened, and, I realized, obscurely thrilled that something really new was beginning to happen. I wanted to lose myself some more, dive into the swirling, vertiginous feeling she had created, but just then I realized that Master Karl was standing over me.

Great. An oafish teenage master. About the least attractive person who’d ever been thrown my way. I mean, I knew that was the point, but I was tired, damn it. I don’t think he knew much English, but I guess he’d mastered what he needed to know.

“Lick my boots,” he managed, and I muttered, “Yes, Master,” and did. I could hear him moaning. He was really getting off on it, and I started to hope that his teenage boyness would get the better of him and he’d come in his pants. Because if he didn’t…

He didn’t. I was going to have to get behind this scene, I knew. He pulled me to my feet by the collar and bent me over the desk. I heard him unzip his fly, and I was afraid this was going to hurt terribly. Relax, I told myself, open up. You can do it…slave. I heard this last in Margot’s voice. Her lecture. I started to play it over in my head. It’s the system, I thought, the system is your master. He jammed his cock into my asshole, and I just kept thinking, the system, the system, the big, beautiful, well-designed system. And as Karl kept pumping away, I kept hearing Margot, and then I kept seeing her mouth, which I was glad I had gotten a look at before she told me I couldn’t look at her face. I was crying really hard, but I kept seeing her, her hips in the leather pants, her hands on the computer keys. She had, I thought, designed this hid- eous, awful, beautiful system. She had created all this pain and humiliation for me.

Karl cried out and collapsed on top of me. I could feel him shrinking within my raw, abused asshole, and I could feel various buttons and buckles of his pseudomilitary uniform biting into my back and legs. I wept and wept, but it was partly with relief that it was over. I’d gotten through it. But no way did I feel anything but outrage at being violated by this dim-witted creep, and no way was I ever going to feel any kind of respect or sexy abasement in front of him. It had been my sexy images of Margot that had gotten me through it. Margot and her system. I guess I’d cheated. Sue me.

Karl pulled me up and then pushed me to my knees. I was glad I didn’t have to look at his face to see the mulish satisfaction I knew I’d find there. He unhooked my hands so that I could put his cock back in and zip up his fly. Then he pulled me to my feet and pushed me in front of him. He opened a door and we walked down a corridor. A few doors down, he put his hand on my shoulder to stop me. Then he went into a little kitchen and came back a minute or so later with a glass of what looked like milk. It was. Warm milk, to help me sleep, I hoped, and I also hoped it was drugged. He pushed me on, through some more corridors, and we finally came to a room, all white, with a white iron bed in it. There was a ring embedded in the wall above the bed with a chain dangling from it. He nodded to the bed, and I lay down on my side. He pulled the chain through the ring in the front of the collar and loosely attached my cuffs to it as well. Then he covered me with a light blanket. I settled into a fairly comfortable position, dimly aware (the milk must have been drugged) that I was falling asleep in the same position that O did, her first night at Roissy, in the Guido Crepax illustration.