Last year, Cleis Press asked if I wanted to write a blurb for the re-release of the S/M novel, Carrie’s Story. I don’t usually say yes to blurbs because, unfortunately, I just don’t have the time. But Carrie’s Story was one of the first S/M novels that I ever read — and perhaps only the second erotic novel that I ever read (after Anne Rice’s Beauty series), so I said yes right away. I’m proud to say that my words grace the back cover of this novel, because I think it’s a beautiful, important and smart work that is both current and classic.
Of course, you don’t have to take my word for it. Here’s the publisher’s official book blurb:
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.
And a short and sexy little excerpt for those interested in the smart, submissive sensibility of the book:
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 Times and San Francisco Chronicle both—
“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.”
* * *
Molly Weatherfield, the pen name of Pam Rosenthal, is also the author of Safe Word, the sequel to Carrie’s Story. A prolific romance and erotica writer, she has penned many sexy, literate, historical novels. She lives in San Francisco.
The Blog Tour Schedule
March 24 – Shanna Germain
March 25 – Lelaine
March 26 – Alison Tyler
March 27 – Romance After Dark
March 29 – Sinclair Sexsmith
April 1 – Rachel Kramer Bussel
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