Carrie's Story Read online

  The other voice was not as clear, but anyway it was hard for me to hear right then, hard for me to perceive anything except my response to the fingers up me. I wanted those fingers to force me to do something—something difficult and painful, something I had never done before but would try so hard to do, if he’d just keep touching me. And then I realized where we were and how close I was to losing it altogether, and all I wanted was not to come, not to lose myself in trembling, dissolving sobs and cries. My belly did start to tremble, which he noticed, and he stroked it a little, mercifully taking his other fingers out of me.

  “She has a great, great deal to learn,” he said softly to Stefan, whom I perceived through my downcast eyes as a blurry set of black snakeskin cowboy boots, “but still, I think she and I understand each other, don’t you?”

  Soon after, they led me to the big pink-and-blue silk tent behind the stage, to prepare for the actual bidding. A big guy in a dumb-looking leather outfit—George, I guessed—silently gagged me, slung me over his knee, and, quite unemotionally, gave me the most total spanking of my life. I was a mess after it, in fact, heaving and sobbing, and needed to be cleaned up and comforted, which he also did, quite competently, stroking my forehead, kissing my cheek. Just as I was beginning to feel all right though—not my ass, but the rest of me—with practically no warning I was dragged out to the stage. Just barely, I remembered the instructions I’d gotten before the spanking, dropping to my knees and kissing the ground in front of the auctioneer. He got the audience’s attention by pretending to be surprised by my Schiaparelli pink ass, and had me display it to them at some length. He asked me if it hurt, and when I said, “Yes, Master,” he pinched it very hard. I couldn’t help the few tears that ran down my cheeks, but I was proud that I didn’t sob or anything, and I was glad that some scattered applause seemed to acknowledge that. Again, I remembered to breathe.

  Mercifully, they started the bidding after that, with the auctioneer holding me tightly by the arm, moving me around a bit when he felt it was going a little slowly, to show off different parts of my body or to elaborate on my few other salable points—the letter from Kate Clarke, my ability to take punishment in French. There were bright lights trained at the stage, so I couldn’t see the bidders. I heard a female voice that I recognized as Kate Clarke’s, but I was sure that she wasn’t seriously bidding, just teasing Jonathan by pretending to be, and perhaps boosting his ego by helping to up my price a little. I was just a little disappointed, I realized, that she wasn’t bidding for real.

  Mostly, though, I think I was pretty numbed by it all—spanking, the exposure, that amazing wrenching feeling when I’d been examined by that last buyer, and the realization that this big-budget Technicolor extravaganza of a scene and ritual would have real consequences. A year of my life was being decided here. All I could do was wait and wonder what in the world I’d gotten myself into. The only specific thing I had to go on was the auctioneer’s final rap of the gavel and cry, “Sold. To Mr. Constant for one year at $92,500.”

  Then they took off the iron cuff and the collar with the number 14 placards, led me into a little tent somewhat back from the stage, and told me to get ready. A young man dressed in black, with a short ponytail and those black cowboy boots, came in a few minutes later, and told me that he was Stefan, Mr. Constant’s secretary. He seemed severe but reasonably cordial.

  “On your knees,” he said. “Now, you’ll learn everything in due course, but a little information before we leave here, just to give you something to go on. Mr. Constant lives some of the time on a Greek island and some of the time in Manhattan. He divides his time between taking care of his money—he’s got a very devoted staff that helps him—and being very very strict with his slaves—that’s you, now, of course, and a boy named Tony. Oh, and there’s also a trainer for you and Tony, mostly for when we’re busy or away.”

  We? I wondered. What else does the devoted staff get to do? This one had a pretty mouth.

  He caught my glance and said “Watch it.” Then he continued, “Mr. Constant is very meticulous, but he’s also very fair; he’s generous, too. He’s rather creative as well, and he likes a bargain, which is why it was fun to buy you. And once in a while he gives a fabulous party. You could have done a lot worse. Still, there will be what I believe they call a learning curve….”

  I nodded. Of course there would be a learning curve.

  Stefan gave me some high black boots to put on and lace up. As I was doing that, he reached into his pocket and handed me an envelope. I opened it and found this note.

  Dear Carrie,

  You will continue brave and beautiful, I know. In a year, you’ll be much more so than you are now. I sold you at this auction because I wanted to see if I—and you—could pull it off. But I also did it because if I hadn’t done it, I would have wanted to call the whole game off and see if we could become friends. Or lovers. Or something. Go to the movies together and see if we liked the same ones. I still want to and this is both surprising and disturbing. I’ll be at the Place d’Horloge in Avignon next March 15. That’s two weeks after your term of service ends. Come if you want to. I’ll know you by the glasses and the clunky shoes. You can pay for your own dinner. Hell, Constant will invest your money so well that you can pay for mine, too. Salut, J.

  P.S. I read Mirrorshades after you were gone. It’s an interesting book, isn’t it, and I thought you’d probably want to finish it, so I sent it along. You’ll get it when you get where you’re going. They let you have books, you know, for periodic R&R.

  I wanted to stamp my foot, in its stiff new boot, with rage. Selfish, spoiled, uncool, I thought. Unfair. Romantic, amateurish, I rather surprised myself by thinking, as well. Shit, I thought, I’ve just gone through all this and this is the moment he picks for his big, coy, rueful, reluctant male confession. He’d promised to give me a narrative in which to enact my fantasies—who would have thought that it would turn out to be a goddamn Harlequin Romance.

  And then the humor of the situation sank in. Oh, Jonathan, I thought, I’ve heard about this male fear of commitment, but you certainly went to some ridiculous lengths, just to avoid asking me to a movie. Not to speak of taking me out to dinner—I giggled a little when I realized how deftly Margot had managed that one, under the least promising of circumstances. I crumbled the letter to throw it away, but then changed my mind. Very slowly, I smoothed it out. They’d given me a metal strongbox for papers that I wouldn’t be needing for the year. My birth certificate, driver’s license, checkbook, diploma. That silly little contract Jonathan had insisted on, ensuring that I couldn’t get at my $654 until my term of service was up. Pictures of Stuart and me, taken in one of those booths at Woolworth’s, grinning and mugging in four frames. Stuart would want to see the letter, I thought as I laid it on top of the pile and closed the box. Anyway, I would be glad to get the chance to finish Mirrorshades. And I couldn’t help wondering which of the stories he’d liked best, damn him.

  Stefan put the box in his briefcase. I could see my file in there too. Then he wrapped me in a rough black cloak and led me out of the Garden, down another corridor, and out of the building. There was a limo parked at the door, and Mr. Constant was sitting inside. I climbed in next to him and waited to be told how to greet him.

  About the Author

  No one was more surprised than MOLLY WEATHERFIELD when she realized she just might have written an erotic classic. But in retrospect, she gives the credit—or blame—to the rich sex-positive feminist and progressive culture of San Francisco’s Mission District during the 1980s and 90s, when she had the great good fortune to be a member of the Modern Times Bookstore Collective while paying the bills as a computer programmer downtown.

  As Pam Rosenthal (her real name), she’s also published several award-winning historical romance novels, including The Edge of Impropriety, which won Romance Writers of America’s RITA award in 2009. Her book reviews and articles have appeared in Salon.com, The San Francisco Chronicle, S
ocialist Review, and The Journal of Popular Romance Studies, and she teaches occasional workshops on erotic writing for romance authors. She lives in San Francisco with her husband, longtime independent bookseller Michael Rosenthal, and can be found online at mollyweatherfield.com and pamrosenthal.com.

  TRISTAN TAORMINO (puckerup.com) is an award-winning writer, sex educator, speaker, filmmaker, and radio host. She is the editor of twenty-five anthologies and author of seven books, including The Ultimate Guide to Kink and The Secrets of Great G-Spot Orgasms and Female Ejaculation. As the head of Smart Ass Productions, she has directed and produced twenty-five adult films. She teaches sex and relationship workshops around the world. She is the producer and host of Sex Out Loud, a weekly radio show on the VoiceAmerica Network.

  Copyright ©1995, 2002, 2012 by Molly Weatherfield.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, or television reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  eISBN : 978-1-573-44923-6

  eISBN : 978-1-573-44923-6