March 26, 2013

Carrie, Back in the Day....

My history with Carrie's Story goes way back. I remember hearing Pam read from the sequel, Safe Word, as part of a Tristan Taormino event in San Francisco circa 1996. If memory serves, Thomas Roche also read—from Death Rock, maybe. I must have read, too. But I can't recall from what. I do know I was wearing a black-and-white checked dress. Like one a 50s waitress would have on. 

I actually recall part of the text that Pam spoke, and I was able to find the words on Google: He took a little metal whisk out of the bag. Like something you'd use to make an omelet. Did we have a hotplate in the room? I wondered dimwittedly. Were there eggs, milk?

An image that lingers for 17 years. That's the sign of a true wordsmith. What does he do with the whisk? You can see for yourself

 But I'm not supposed to be pitching Safe Word right now. This tour is dedicated to the first book: Carrie's Story. And here's an excerpt:

“You can use your hands to part your ass some more,” he said.

I grabbed the cheeks of my ass and felt a rush of coldness as he pushed some cream all the way up. “Open,” he repeated very softly and began, slowly, slowly, to push in a big rubber dildo, the size, I guessed, of his erect cock. He pushed so slowly and so relentlessly and seemed to be tracing such a tortuous, meandering path, that even though I wanted to resist, I couldn’t quite find the moment, or the muscular center, for actually doing so. Instead, some part of me was discovering, as he kept breathing the word, that there was a way to be utterly, terrifyingly “open.”

He got it all the way in. Perhaps I’d screamed; I was moaning and trembling terribly. I felt coldness again against my ass. There were three little chains attached to the base of the dildo. One went up the crack of my ass toward the base of my spine, while the other two went between my legs, outlining my cunt. All three hung from a little black leather belt that he buckled in back. I recognized the technology—courtesy of Pauline Réage—but the emotions I was feeling were brand-new. It was as though I needed his hands, his voice, his desire. As though, open as I was, I had lost a kind of authority, both against the world and my own gleeful, brute body. I felt as though I would fall into a frightening, devilish space beyond ego and consciousness if I couldn’t please and obey him exactly.

He unhooked me and helped me to stand up. And kissed me in a questioning sort of way. Oddly, I found myself kissing him back in a questioning sort of way, too. This was confusing to both of us. His question, I think now, was “What do you feel?” and mine was “What do you want?” but in a deeper way than I’d ever asked before. It was, perhaps, more like “Oh, please, what do you want? I’ll die if I can’t do what you want.” He stepped back and took a moment to consider.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“No, Jonathan, it doesn’t hurt exactly,” I said, searching for words, “but it’s different from any feeling I’ve ever had.”

“Well,” he said, “let’s see what it’s all about.” He sat down and proceeded to command me to do this and that, all the puppy tricks—walk, stand, sit, squat, beg, crawl, play with myself, fetch things with my mouth. Everything I did seemed oddly amplified. He made me take off all his clothes, and then—the dildo didn’t interfere at all—he fucked me for a long, long time on the rug. Afterward, he told me to stand up. He lay under a plaid blanket, up on his elbows, facing me. “Tell me about having this dildo stuffed way up your ass,” he said.

I looked down at him. I felt weak, and my pelvis felt bruised and wobbly. I was cold, too, my thighs shivery and slick with sweat and come. I found words, although I was blushing and trembling, and could only speak very slowly. “It makes me feel like a very bad girl, Jonathan,” I said hesitantly and very softly.

He spoke very softly too. “But you’ve been a very good girl tonight, you know. Isn’t it odd? Well, don’t wear yourself out trying to figure it out.” Then he stood up, found his pants on the chair where I’d put them, and pulled off the belt. “Kneel on the armchair and I’ll beat you,” he said gently, “and then you can turn around and I’ll beat you a little on the tits, just until they get pink. Then I’ll unplug you and you can sleep here tonight. There’s a little bedroom for you upstairs, down the hall from mine. It’s too dangerous for you to drive back across the bridge in this storm.”

* * *

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 StoryA prolific romance and erotica writer, she has penned many sexy, literate, historical novels. She lives in San Francisco.

Blog Tour Schedule
March 27 - Romance After Dark
March 28 - Romance Junkies and Amos Lassen
March 29 - Sinclair Sexsmith
April 2 - Kissin Blue Karen
April 3 - Dana Wright
April 4 - Erin O'Riodan
April 5 - Lindsay Avalon
April 6 - Laura Antoniou
April 7 - DL King

Please stop back for more reviews of Sudden Sex, plus information regarding The Smut Marathon—the sequel.


P.S. Not only do I want this necklace. I want it for all of my friends.

1 comment:

Thomas Roche said...

If that was the reading I remember, and Felice Picano was there, then I think I read an excerpt from Up for a Nickel, from Noirotica. But I could be wrong. Was this at Modern Times? A reading of Masquerade authors? I did so many bookstore readings in those days...!