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

that I could feel up my cunt, that seemed so
invasive, in its tiny way, and that was making me moan -was
I moaning? I guessed so. But he wouldn't let me throw him
off, I knew, and realized that truly, I didn't want him ever
to stop. All I could do was rock my pelvis back and forth,
meeting his tongue, chasing it, and then retreating, pretending to hide from it, and finally just surrendering to it, moaning
and then yelling until everything exploded and first I was fall ing from a very great height and then I was a puddle on the
rug, the winter afternoon light slanting in on me through the
leaded windows.

    He sat next to me for I don't know how long, tracing the
intricate stitchery of the corset with his finger. Then, finally,
he got back up on the couch and said, "Kneel up straight."
Now, I thought, wincing, I'll find out what I didn't do -what
it was he had really wanted. I looked up at him, lounging
with his arms spread against the top of the couch and his
legs crossed. And I wondered what I should be doing right
now. Should I be thanking him, worshiping him in some way
I should know but didn't? Should I be doing anything at all
except feeling splendidly drained and exhausted? He didn't
look angry or even stern, though he did look thoughtful.
    "Well," he said, looking at me carefully.
    I didn't know what to say, just stared at him through a
kind of haze, as he reached down and tightened the buckles
on my collar. "Well, okay," he said, smiling. "I like the way
you look right now. You look surprised and grateful, and
frightened and confused, too. Perfect.
    "That," he continued, "was as nice as beating you or
coming in your ass. Different, of course, but lovely all the same.
I've wanted to do it for a while, you know, but it wouldn't have
worked out. But I can tell you that I haven't enjoyed holding
back on it all these months."
    I had only a faint understanding of what he was getting
at. Actually, at that moment, it took just about everything
I had to keep myself upright and scraped off the floor. He
wasn't going to punish me, I was dimly realizing. That was
good, anyway. He was telling me something that he thought
was important, and I knew I had to listen, though all I wanted to do at that moment was live happily ever after in the way
my body was feeling. And to sleep, upstairs in his bed with
the window open and a breeze drifting in...

    "Listen to me," he said, raising my chin and slapping my
cheek lightly.
    "Yes, Jonathan," I murmured. "I'm sorry, Jonathan."
    "That's better," he said. "God," he continued, "I love to
see you following the rules when you really don't want to.
Well, but that's why we have rules, isn't it?"
    I murmured my assent, according to the rules. Right, the
goddamn rules, and I could feel the world he'd built around
us taking shape again, disrupting my idyll. This catechism
was going to take some time, I was beginning to realize, and
I was also beginning to realize that I wasn't going to enjoy it
very much.
    "And you've learned a lot, haven't you?" He was deep
into pedantic mode now. "I mean, you're still far from perfect, but you'll continue to improve. You've learned to be
open and available and attentive to me. You've learned to
accept punishment from me. Well, punishment isn't so difficult, I guess, compared to gratuitous whimsical pain-pain
that I've created simply because I feel like it. If I want to see
marks on your thighs, I put them there, right? If I want to
see you in tears, I make that happen. And now you're learning that if I want to make you entirely delighted, I can do
that, too."
    I had, believe it or not, forgotten that that's supposed to
be the point of a sexual relationship-usually, that is. Which
was more or less what he was saying, now. "The night you
met me, at that stupid party, you imagined my taking you
home and makingyou feel this way, didn'tyou?"

    "Yes, Jonathan, I did," I admitted softly. This was about
as humiliating as