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didn't
sound like an attractive way to go about it. So in an odd way I
was beginning to think the deal we'd made had a kind of logic
and integrity. His getting what he wanted was his right and
my obligation was to hit it exactly.
    Meanwhile, since most of the time I wasn't even near perfect, he treated me like a new puppy that was constantly making
messes. Only he was a whole lot less affectionate than you'd
be toward a puppy. Still, if I had to come up with a metaphor
for that awkward early period, it would probably be dog obe dience school. Not that this would be such an original insight
on my part-he set the mood by hanging a humiliating little
oval brass tag with the name CARRIE"" etched on it from the
new, stiff, brown leather collar Mrs. Branden buckled around
my neck those late autumn afternoons.

    It was hard, it was humiliating, and worst of all, he
hadn't even kept one of his promises -remember that impressive little speech about my being aching, exhausted, and fucked
out? A big shocker was that he rarely fucked me, preferring,
nine times out of ten, to use my mouth-my mouth and particularly my throat.
    And that was embarrassing, because I wasn't even that
good at it. I gagged the first few times, defending myself
against that moment when he most wanted me defenseless,
that moment when not only would my mouth be entirely
molded to him and my nose entirely full of his smell, but
when my throat would open, when I'd abjure any choice
about what went deep, deep down into me.
    He was icily patient-"Pay attention," he'd insist-and
he beat me a lot, as well. He was abstract, precise, and he
scared me; I wondered if it would go on like this forever.
I felt I had little choice but to keep trying, and, yeah, I
did get better at it, feeling little proofs of my own power
in the shuddering strength of his orgasms. Of course he
wanted me that way, I realized one late afternoon, looking up at him through a haze of pain and tears. My mouth,
that motormouth, the orifice that had the most to do with
consciousness, intelligence-he wanted me to use it, consciously and intelligently, to learn, adore, accept, and
caress his every fold, contour, and smell. And when he was
ready to come he wanted to overpower it all, transforming active intelligence into pure receptacle. It was a hell of an
exchange, involving a whole lot more than bodily fluids.
I became oddly proud to do it.

    And then, of course, there was lots of crawling around,
ass high, lots of being cuffed, smacked, and thwacked-puppylike-for clumsiness or messes I'd made (and might have to
lick up), lots of strokes of the cane for talking out of turn or
disrespectfully. More subtly, maybe, there were the beatings
for what, that first time, he'd called "lapses in form or sensibility."
This could mean anything at all, I learned, but in practice it
usually came down to having gotten too turned on and carried
away and not noticing fast enough what he wanted next. Or
being overwhelmed by some rare instance of tenderness, like
after I fetched him something with my mouth, and he'd taken
it and stroked my cheek. And I'd hoped that his hand might
come close to my mouth, so I could kiss it, maybe even lick it
or suck his finger. And I did, a little, and it was worth it, even
though he cuffed me for being sloppy and silly.
    Not to worry, though-there really wasn't much tenderness. Just mostly lust. Overriding the awkwardness,
incoherence, embarrassment, and confusion there was wallto-wall, overwhelming, dizzying lust. And even though I'd go
home those evenings sore, humiliated, miserable, and vowing
never to return, I always did return. Promptly.
    And then he switched gears on me. This happened-no kidding-on a dark and stormy night. And ifyou think I'm trying
to make it sound all gothic and sucker you with the pathetic
fallacy, well, maybe I am. I mean, it u'a,; dark and stormy; it
was November, after all. And while I don't believe that