Carrie's Story An Erotic S/M Novel

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  • Edition: Reprint
  • Format: Paperback
  • Copyright: 2/12/2013
  • Publisher: Cleis Press
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Originally published in 1995, Molly Weatherfield's erotic classic has stood the test of time alongside The Story of O and Justine. In this new era of 'BDSM romance' à la 50 Shades of Grey, Carrie's Story remains at the head of the class, literally. Set in both San Francisco and the more chateau-friendly, Napa Valley, Weatherfield's deliciously decadent novel takes readers on a sexually explicit journey into a netherworld of slave auctions, training regimes and human 'ponies' preening for dressage competitions.

Author Biography

Molly Weatherfield is the pen name of Pam Rosenthal, who has also written Safe Word, the sequel to Carrie’s Story. She lives in San Francisco.


Chapter One: Jonathan

     I 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 think—or 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 TimesandSan Francisco Chronicleboth—occasionally stroking my head and feeding me bits of toast with his fingers, that he decided to tell me what he had meant.
     "Did you 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.
     The day was a little foggy, but we were warm from sex and tea, and I was too confused and curious to worry about any chill in the air anyway. Jonathan held my hand tightly and began to explain.
     “You don’t know about the auctions, I guess,” he said, “or how slave ownership really works. But haven’t you wondered, when we’ve gone to dressage shows, what the real relationships are?”
     “Yes, Jonathan,” I said meekly, “I had hoped you’d tell me.”

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