Carrie's Story: An Erotic S/M Novel by Molly Weatherfield

belles wore them, I thought. And he was right,
they were Emily's contemporaries. But I knew he wouldn't
be interested in plantation ladies in big hoop skirts saying,
"Fiddle-de-dee, Rhett." His thing would be to wonder about
a spooky woman who could write a line like "I like a look of
agony/because I know it's true." Still, were the corsets also
worn up north in abolitionist Amherst, Mass.? I had to insist
on my ignorance, about both Emily and Susan, the randy
sister-in-law, while Jonathan maneuvered us toward the
couch. "And I thought you were so well educated," he said.
"Good thing I'm educating you now."
    He sat down on the couch, forcing me to my knees in
front of him, and kissed me, holding my breasts in his hands.
He often did this, playing with my nipples, making them as
hard as cherry stones. It was usually a prelude to his putting clips on them, but even though I knew this, my nipples would
always stiffen obediently, humiliatingly to his touch. I might
have my streaks of waywardness; they never seemed to. This
time, though, he didn't stop. He kept kissing me, probing my
mouth with his tongue while he rolled my nipples between his
fingers. I gave up trying to figure out what he wanted; as far
as I could see, he wanted to be doing this. I should have been
alarmed-what was I missing? what was he going to punish
me for? -but I felt too wonderful, too warm and loose, and a
beating seemed like a small price to pay.

    He loosened my collar. It was still plenty tight, but his
moving the buckles one hole over (or so it felt), allowed me
just a little more movement, a little more ability to throw my
head back, to gasp, shudder, and moan.
    He moved his mouth to one of my breasts, and one of
his hands to my cunt. His tongue and fingers were insistent,
probing, and patient. He had great hands. Once in a while
he'd make one of those impossibly delicate model buildings
that architects, amazingly, still make in this electronically
mediated day and age. I mean, I never saw him at work, but
it would be there in the study, glue and X-acto knife on the
shelf, growing in size and complexity for a week or so, and
I'd go weak with lust, imagining his long fingers cutting and
pasting the tiny strips of balsa wood and foam core.
    Right now one - no, two - of those fingers were slowly
moving up my asshole, while one from the other hand continued to make tiny circles on my clit. It felt like he'd go on
forever, or as long as it would take me to feel as absolutely
spectacular as I could possibly feel. I felt like a puppet, as
though there were strings attached to my breast and cunt,
and they were being tugged, ever so lightly, insistently, making me swoop and dance. I gave in, finally, howling
and even laughing a little, hoarsely, deep in my throat, and
collapsed against him, trying to catch my breath but dimly
aware of the volcanic sensations that were still there inside
me.

    "Lie down on the floor," he whispered into my neck,
and began to push me down by the shoulders. I followed
the pressure of his hands and found myself on my back.
He knelt beside me, pushed my knees up, so that my legs
were bent, parted them, and started nibbling slowly at the
insides of my thighs, right above the black stockings. I
could feel him licking, chewing a little, kissing-lips, teeth,
and tongue all somehow getting into the act as though my
flesh were some kind of complex salad that he was savoring
thoughtfully.
    I felt my belly quivering under the tightly laced corset.
And yes, his mouth was moving upward, slowly, almost
absentmindedly, but definitely toward my cunt, parting it with
his tongue, while his hands on my hipbones held me still. I
wanted to move more, to buck. The quiver in my belly spread
and rippled, centrifugally. Part of me wanted to try to throw
him off-I was almost afraid of the sensations, the intensity
of not just his tongue, but his breath as well. It was his warm,
even breathing