Excerpt of Carrie's Story by Molly Weatherfield

At intermission, he pulled me to my feet while most people were still applauding. I hoped that this meant we could go—maybe he wanted to play some more in the limo—but really I knew better. He led me to a central area where people were buying drinks and sitting down with them at tables. It was already crowded, with people dressed every possible way, and buzzing with all kinds of chatter, but he found us a table. He leaned across it and said very softly, "I'm glad you gave me cause to beat you earlier. I like knowing how bruised you are under that pretty dress. Makes you seem more naked. It's difficult, isn't it, being so near to naked in the middle of this scene."

"Yes, Jonathan, it is difficult," I replied. Bastard.

"Good," he answered, almost gloating, but maintaining his stuffy schoolmaster voice. "Now, I want to see you on your hands and knees, here, in this room. Do the best you can. I'll be over there by the wall."

"Yes, Jonathan," I breathed. Oh yes, Jonathan, swell.

The best I could think of was to drop an earring and get down to retrieve it. Pretty tame, but given the shortness of my dress, pretty difficult too. Looking at nothing at all, pretending a kind of idle calm, I fiddled with the post of my left earring, slowly wiggling it off, being careful to keep it folded in my hand. I kept my head very still and the earring stayed in place. Then I moved my head slowly to look at Jonathan, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, watching me intently. Well, I thought, if he knows about my bruises, I know about that hard–on that's starting up over there, as I glanced at the area of his loose Italian suit that wasn't hanging exactly as Giorgio had intended. Then I raised my eyes to his, to catch his wry little look of "touché," and my earring fell to the floor at my feet.

What would I have done, I wondered, if it had rolled all the way across the floor? But it hadn't, so I slowly got down, keeping my eyes locked to his. I'm just retrieving an earring, I kept repeating to myself, trying my damnedest not to feel too obvious and humiliated in the middle of this shrine to cultural excess and obsession. At the same time, I kept hearing his tone of command and my own tone of obedience, his "I want" and my "yes, Jonathan," the duet playing on some internal radio that seemed always to be turned on whenever we were together.

Down on the floor, I simply posed for an instant, all meekness and compliance, eyes on his, mouth slightly open. Okay? I wondered, and then, suddenly and joltingly, found myself staring at him as though I had never seen him before. Nothing like being in a crowd of strangers to hype up the familiar a little. I guessed that was what he was enjoying as well. It made me a little dizzy for a moment, and then, mercifully, my head cleared. Ready or not, I'd been down on the floor quite long enough, I thought, and grabbed the earring.

I got up slowly, being careful not to let the dress ride up too high. I felt like a diver surfacing. All of a sudden, I was aware of all the chatter around me again. And, miserably, uncomfortably, I was also aware of several pairs of eyes on me. Just how conspicuous had I been, I wondered? There was no way I could know. I tried to screen the stares out of my consciousness, to disconnect from the lines of force that the gazes described. I knew that if I looked I'd see the kinds of questions that I had seen before in people's eyes, on the rare occasions when Jonathan and I had been together out in the "real," nonpornotopia world. I mean, we were hardly blatant or anything, but face it, we'd always get some attention. At first, naively, I'd thought that was because he always saw to it that we wore such great clothes. But it wasn't, of course. It was that, for those with eyes to see, there was always something extra, some buzz between us, some way that he'd hold my arm just a little too tightly. Somebody would always notice, some eyebrow would always be raised. The clash of our private virtual reality and the real world was deeply disturbing to me, and he was a genius at exploiting my discomfort.

So as I got back into my seat at the table, I wasn't entirely surprised to see a very queer looking man, dressed all in black with steel–rimmed glasses, raising his champagne glass to me. I got flustered and turned my head away, and my eyes met those of a little girl, maybe eleven years old, her pale face surrounded by unruly curls, in tacky dark green velvet with a white lace collar. Her gaze was calm and steady. I didn't think that she understood. But I knew that she knew. Oh, what the hell, I thought, and returned her gaze. Don't be scared, it's just what it is, I tried to communicate to her. Life is really surprising. She seemed to absorb that, not really to understand it, but in the way of wise children, to file it away for when she'd be ready for it. She's smart, I thought, a whole lot smarter than I am—and I put on the earring, jamming the post tightly.

Jonathan strolled over, finally. Cheerfully, he kissed the top of my head. "Not bad," he said. "You were a little rude for a moment back there, but you already know that. We'll deal with it later, of course. Anyhow, not bad, not bad at all." He lifted me by the elbow and led me back to our orchestra seats. I could feel a run snaking down my stocking. He'll like that, I thought. I hardly heard the rest of the opera.

Afterward, he punished and then fucked me in the limo, parked at the top of Twin Peaks, while the driver watched silently through his mirror. And when he'd driven us back to the house, Jonathan asked if he'd like to have me suck him off, as a tip, he said. Of course it really wasn't a tip—Jonathan just wanted to see what it felt like to watch through the mirror—but I don't suppose the driver cared about making such a fine distinction. Anyhow, they traded places, and they both got what they wanted, and then Jonathan also gave him some money as well as the leftover champagne, before we walked back into the house.