Carrie's Story: An Erotic S/M Novel

by

Molly Weather field

Thw story about a readerly-ivriterlygirl
id dedicated to nay readerly-ii'riterlygir friends
and, always and already and of eoui'e,
to my husband.

Passion and expression are not really separable. Passion
comes to birth in that powerful impetus of the mind which
also brings language into existence. So soon as passion goes
beyond instinct and becomes truly itself, it tends to selfdescription, either in order to justify or intensify its being, or
else simply in order to keep going.

- DENIS DE RoUGEAT LENT, L 'e izz the We.#terlz World

Preface -
ix

CHAPTER
I: Jonathan -
1

CHAPTER 11:
Krazy Kat -
39

CHAPTER
III: Professionalism -
74

CHAPTER
IV: Dibbles and Bits -
93

CHAPTER
V: Entr'acte -
134

CHAPTER
VI: Long Corridors -
140

CHAPTER
VII: What Happens Next? -
190

I WROTE THIS S/M ODYSSEY OF A VERY YOUNG,
very intellectual girl in the early 1990s, but its roots go back
about a dozen years earlier, when a friend had asked me if I
was going to a Take Back the Night March. Those of us who
date back to the feminism of the late 1970s will remember those
women's marches through urban red-light districts to demonstrate against pornography. Something about these marches
disturbed me, but until that moment I hadn't known why.

"No," I told my friend. No, I wouldn't march.

"Why?" she asked.

I stammered a few unimpeachable sentiments about
the First Amendment, but I knew I wasn't being completely
honest.

"It's because of who I was when I was younger," I finally
said. "In my teens and early twenties. I read a lot of S/M porn
back then before feminism."

Lots of Sade anyway. Sto y cif O-innumerable times -as
well as the inferior imitations it had inspired. I hadn't been
hurt by these books. I'd read them bravely and honestly, helplessly and joyfully, deep into the night. Blissfully enthralled
by narrative, my younger self hadn't bothered to sort out sex
from intellect, power from creativity. I hadn't thought about
it for years, but I knew I couldn't participate in a movement
that wanted to "protect" other women from the confusing
pleasures I'd experienced.

The more I thought about this conversation, the more I
wanted to reach back to the young person I'd been. I wanted
to reconnect with her fledgling sexuality, and to find out how
she'd come to be so smart (especially since I knew that she'd
considered herself exceedingly stupid). Over the years I'd
learned something about politics and literary theory, but my
younger, porn-reading self had understood stories and their
seductive power directly.

Of course, reconnecting with the erotics of reading and
writing wasn't something I undertook alone. No member of
the boomer generation ever does anything alone. I had only
to look around me: what came to be called the Sex Wars
were raging within the women's movement throughout the
1980s. Feminists debated pornography and censorship. More
importantly, we thought long and hard about the relationship
of sexual expression to action, nature to culture. I read and
listened, learning invaluable lessons from the boldest (and
sometimes most beleaguered) fighters for "pro-sex feminism,"
notably Susie Bright, Gayle Rubin, and Amber Hollibaugh.

I learned even more from the feminist pornography
that was suddenly, deliciously available. This new stuff tried
to democratize the old conventions of bondage and domination and absolutely refused to be complicit with anybody's
victimization. Of course, with the important exception of Anne
Rice, feminist pornography was largely created by lesbian,
gay, and bisexual authors, written with all the brad of a movement
creating its public voice. I'm a straight married lady, but I
nonetheless treasured the first Samois collection, and I devoured
the work of Pat Califia, Carol Queen, and John Preston.

In some ways, it was like revisiting the heavy hetero
French porn I'd read so many years ago. But in other ways, this late twentieth-century porn bore the indelible marks of
its own era. Confident, optimistic, flush with the wisdom of
consciousness-raising and a new grassroots "sexpertise," this
porn believed in consensual relationships, fulfillment, and
happy endings.

As I gratefully do as well. Except that on another, private
channel, I kept hearing the older stories. "Chateau porn," my
husband called it. Well, that was part of it; I've always been
a sucker for the moment when the heavy double doors shut
behind you and there you are, bound and gagged and alone
with your terror and desire.

I wanted more attention paid to the very strangeness of
that moment: the deadpan humor implicit in all the chatty,
philosophical storytelling that flows out of a gagged and bound
O or Justine. Perhaps I'd simply read too many French writers: God help me, I wanted a little more theory. How did mind
and body conspire to produce these stories anyway? Perhaps
I'd find out only by telling one myself.

I'm grateful to Richard Kasak, who thought that people
would want to read such a thing, for the original Masquerade
edition. Many thanks to Felice Newman for making this
Cleis edition possible. And my deepest thanks go to Darlene
Pagano, for convincing me-at a time when I needed a lot
of convincing -that people might still want to read Carrie:,
Story.

Molly Weatherfield

San Francisco

May 2002

had been Jonathan's slave for about a year when he told
. -me he wanted to sell me at an auction. I wasn't in any condition to respond when he told me this -I was very carefully
licking his balls, concentrating on doing it the way he liked,
wondering when it would be time to snake my tongue into
his asshole, waiting for the little tug on the chain clipped to
my nipples, which would be the signal. I got it right, I thinkor at least close enough. His cock got very big, and he rammed
it deep into my throat, coming hugely, while he continued to tug
on the chain. I swallowed hard, letting myself sigh and shudder. He held my head down tightly with one of his hands,
only very slowly releasing it, allowing me to relax between his
thighs.

It was only later, after I had brought in some tea and buttered toast and knelt silently at his feet while he read through
the book review sections -New York Tizne,i and San Frarzct';co
Chronicle both-occasionally stroking my head and feeding
me bits of toast with his fingers, that he decided to tell me
what he had meant.

"Didyou hear me before, Carrie?" he asked.

"Yes, Jonathan," I said, following the rules we maintained. I always had to address him by name, and deferentially.
I also had to look him straight in the eye, which I was doing
as well. "But I didn't understand what you meant," I added.

"Well, get dressed," he said. "We'll go for a walk, and I'll
tell you."

"Yes, Jonathan," I said. He removed the nipple clips and
attached a leather leash to the collar around my neck. The
leash dangled down between my breasts, and he pulled it up
between my legs, looping it around my waist and knotting it
in the back. He often said that he wished he could take me
on a leash whenever we went out, but he couldn't without
causing a stir. So this would have to do. The leather felt tight
between the lips of my cunt. I put on a pair of jeans, a big
turtleneck sweater, and some high-heeled boots. You couldn't
see the leash or collar, of course, but I was very conscious of
them, as I always was. Jonathan had gotten dressed while I
was getting the tea, but I helped him put on his boots and got
his leather jacket from the closet.

We looked, I guess, like any yuppie couple out walking
on Filbert Street on a Sunday afternoon. No, to tell you the
truth, we're better-looking. Or at least Jonathan is. He has
warm olive skin, a lively, quirky, intelligent face, and very
bright brown eyes. He's tallish, with elegant shoulders and
a tapering waist. I'm not as special-looking, though I think
I'm okay, and I do think we look nice together. His gray hair
and brown eyes look great against my brown hair and gray
eyes, and we have almost matching very short haircuts. As for
the rest of me-a little taller than average, small bones, slender hips. Pale skin and a wide mouth. Stormy gray shadows
around my eyes, even when I've gotten lots of sleep.