Safe Word: An Erotic S/M Novel (19 page)

"Marco?"

Sylvie explained. "He lives at Kate's. She boards him,
trains him, has him worked and used along with the rest of
us. And sometimes-sometimes quite suddenly-his mistress appears and he's all hers. I was there last week, serving
tea, when she visited-she'd shown up without calling or
anything-and they'd had to find Marco on one of the pony
trails and unharness him, and wash him down quickly. And
then they led him in, looking very pretty I must say, and he
kissed her feet and presented, and she examined him very
carefully-I love it when somebody looks me over that carefully-and then she complimented Kate on how improved he
was. And you could see how happy he was. I mean, it must be
wonderful, that moment, when you haven't even prepared or
anything, and you know that they're pleased with how you're
coming along. It must make the time you're separated.. .1
don't know, romantic."

Stephanie shrugged, obviously less romantic in her
tastes. "Well, anyway, we serve her directly I'd hate it any
other way."

"And when Jonathan comes to visit?" I asked.

"Oh, he gets everything he wants," she laughed, "us, her,
anybody else. And lately, she's been trying out entertainments
for him, things she's working up for important clients. We
all try extra hard, too-even Steve, lately, have you noticed,
Sylvie?-we're all extra sweet to him because Kate's in such a
good mood when he's there.

"But a lot of what we do," she continued, "is help her
with her scenes. I mean, she uses the others when she has to,
like she's using you today, but mostly, the three of us have it
sort of covered."

She added that I'd see what they were talking about soon
enough.

I could feel my nervousness returning.

"So, uh, could you prepare me a little for what I'll have
to do?" I asked.

But they said that they'd been forbidden to.

"And anyhow," Stephanie said, "it's getting late, and we
have to get dressed. The best thing is probably for us to get
dressed ourselves first. And then we'll dress you."

I watched them lace each other into black corsets, roll
high black stockings over their legs, tromp around in sixinch spike-heeled shoes like they were wearing Keds. They
dressed me exactly as they were dressed. And then we all sat
down in front of mirrors, at the window, in the summer sunshine, and made up our faces.

The window looked out back across a smooth, emerald
expanse of lawn, sloping down to the Hudson River. There
was a path along the water's edge, and I watched Steve running powerfully along it, and then uphill, to the house. His
white shorts and T-shirt were sweaty, sticking to the muscles
in his hips and stomach.

"Poor Steve," Sylvie chuckled. "The one awful thing
about this scene that's coming up is that he has to play butler,
which he'd never do at home, and answer the door and serve
drinks. It's a real indignity-he has quite enough work
looking after us and supervising Kate's events. But the real
butler in this place is hopeless. They really cheated Kate on
the quality of the staff."

"Well, it'll be any minute now," Stephanie said, "so he'd
better hurry and get dressed, even if he wants to wait until
the very last instant to get into his uniform."

They told me that we could look out the other windows,
the ones facing the front of the house, so that we could see
the guests arriving.

"Don't worry," Sylvie kissed me lightly on the forehead.
"It's just like playing pretend. You'll see."

And Stephanie stroked my breast as we peered out the
front window "You'll be fine," she whispered. "You just have
to obey"

And there they were, our guests, driving up the semicircular driveway in front of the house. I was fascinated by the
low, beautiful open car, its flawless dark green paint mirroring the house, the lawn, the sky and flower beds in elegant
curved lines that receded to their own little vanishing points,
its spoked wheels reflecting the sunlight in dizzying double
spirals. I don't even know the names of cars like that. "Is it,
uh, a jaguar?" I asked hesitantly, which Sylvie and Stephanie
found hysterically funny-quaint, almost.

Steve looked fantastic in his livery, too, dignified and
utterly at ease. Except for his thick black hair being slightly
damp from the shower, he looked as if he'd been doing nothing all day but, well, whatever it is butlers actually do all day.
He opened the car door now, helping a young woman out,
while the driver got out on his side and then handed him
a small suitcase. They were pretty, these guests, and beautifully dressed. I liked his cream linen suit, her pink and white
candy-striped summer dress, the widebrimmed straw hat she
carried, with its pink grosgrain ribbon around the crown.

And they were young. Maybe three years or four older
than I was, but babies. I looked at Stephanie, peering through
her window pane, her moistened lips parted with anticipa tion and amusement. She smiled at me, gesturing with her
long lashes at the couple who were now walking up the wide
steps to the front door. "I was never that young," she whispered, and I nodded. I didn't know how old she was, but she
seemed ageless, a beautiful toy created eons ago to entertain
an emperor.

We could hear Kate greeting them now, her throaty voice
tinged with amusement. "Mr. Putnam, it's very nice to see you
again. How are you today?"

Embarrassed murmur. Perhaps he was asking her to call
him by his first name.

"Andrew, then, yes. And this is the young lady who
needs some help with her manners, I take it?"

Another embarrassed murmur, still from the young man.
And then a tiny, terrified voice, but clear and piping, "Thank
you for taking the time with me, Ms. Clarke."

Answered sternly by Kate, "Well, we'll just have to see
now, won't we?"

Sylvie whispered, "They're terribly rich, those two.
I read about them going to openings, things like that. And
their wedding, fantastic, her wedding gown: the beading took
weeks. I think this is her birthday present to him. But maybe
not. Maybe his to her."

"What's happening now?" I asked. I'd heard them all go
into a parlor, and the door shutting behind them.

"Oh, not much yet," Stephanie said. "Steve is serving
drinks to Kate and the young gentleman, while the young
lady is taking off her clothes and learning how to kneel at
attention in the center of the room. Kate'll call us in a minute.
Do you have everything, Sylvie?"

Sylvie nodded. Then they both turned to me, looking
me over carefully. "You need fresh lipstick, Carrie," Stephanie
said. "Quick, Sylvie'll put it on you."

Sylvie had just finished with me when we heard the
sound of a little silver bell, and immediately we got up and
floated down the stairs on our spike heels, silently and rapidly, in single file. Sylvie and Stephanie were carrying baskets
of complicated clothing and hardware, but I didn't know any
of the routines, so I was embarrassingly empty-handed.

In the parlor, the sunlight was diffused through heavy
cotton lace curtains.

The young gentleman was sitting in an armchair, holding a drink in his hand and looking even younger than I'd
expected, now that I could see him face to face. There were
a few copper freckles across a short, sunburned nose, and,
though he had a beautiful, expensive haircut, you expected
to see cowlicks. He was big-you could see powerful thighs
under the cream linen slacks. And he was pale and thrilled,
staring at his wife, who stood in front of Kate, blushing,
trembling, a few silent tears sliding down her flushed cheeks.
She was dressed only in her ivory stockings, flat shoes, and a
narrow garter belt that seemed to be nothing but little pink
satin roses. She was all the colors of a rose, in fact-one of
those little ivory ones you can buy inexpensively on the
street, their petals edged in pink. The wispy tendrils of hair in
front and behind her small ears were almost tow-colored, the
hair above her cunt more like honey.

While Kate, curled up on an ottoman upholstered in
Turkish kilim fabric, looked like a gorgeous moth, in a filmy
pale green silk shirt and loose black slacks. Her sandals lay on
the floor next to the ottoman. She was barefoot, her finger and toenails a dark mauve color. She rested her chin in one
of her hands thoughtfully, while the other one cruelly probed
the young lady's cunt.

"You've never restrained or disciplined her?" she was
asking the young gentleman. "Not even used her silk scarves
to tie her to the bedpost?"

He shook his head.

"Good," she said. "She's like a pampered baby. It will be a
great pleasure to teach her obedience." And then, moving her
hand between trembling thighs, she probed in the direction
of the young lady's asshole. I heard a little intake of breath.
"Don't hide from me, you little bitch," Kate said evenly "I'll
turn you inside out if I want to."

"But first," she said, turning back to the young gentleman, "let's get her properly outfitted." She nodded to Sylvie
and Stephanie, who stepped forward with their baskets of
shoes, clothing, and assorted hardware.

"And Carrie," she continued, smiling at him, "will amuse
you while you watch."

There was no mistaking what that meant. I knelt in front
of him, unbuttoning his pants, taking his engorged cock
gently in my mouth. Although he sighed contentedly, I could
tell that most of his attention was focused on his wife, being
stripped and then dressed in the clothes from Sylvie and
Stephanie's baskets-dressed and collared and cuffed.

I wished I could watch, but they were standing behind my
back. I could hear little squeals every so often from the young
lady, and I supposed they were lacing her into the tight black
corset I'd seen in the basket-the same sort we were wearing.

"Little steps, little steps, that's it, sweetheart," Stephanie
cooed softly to her, doubtless walking her around the room
for the first time in her six-inch spikes.

And then, just before the young man grabbed my head
and started breathing hard and probing for the back of my
throat, I heard a little click, the unmistakable click of a spring
lock in a collar. "Got it," Sylvie murmured, just as a small
river of hot cum spurted into my mouth. He did have timing,
our young gentleman.

He pushed me aside, sending me crashing onto the floor,
and when I picked myself back up onto my knees I saw him
sprawled in the armchair, a little smile on his face as he contemplated the tableau arranged in front of him: Sylvie and
Stephanie with his terrified tow-headed wife between them,
all of them arrayed identically in their black corsets, stockings, spike-heeled shoes, collars, and cuffs. Downcast eyes,
gently heaving bare breasts. Three slaves, meekly awaiting his
pleasure.

"Look at me, Jane," he said, and she slowly raised her
eyes to him. A few tears slipped down her cheeks.

"But you're very rude," he continued. "You must always
acknowledge me when I speak to you. Didn't I tell you that
in the car?"

I wasn't surprised at how much of a struggle it was for
her to get the words out. She had to try several times, until
she was able to shape the words, and even then it came out as
almost a whisper, "Yes, my lord."

His face shone with awe at hearing the words he'd only
dreamed about coming out of her mouth. He wasn't sure
of where to go next with it, though, and I saw him sneak a glance at Kate, for reassurance, and register her almost
invisible stage prompt.

"I like to see you dressed like that," he continued. "In the
future, at home, there will be one particular servant charged
with dressing you as a slave when I wish it. But I'm afraid that
she won't be as gentle with you as these young ladies have
been."

And when she didn't answer he spoke more sharply. "No
answer for your lord, Jane? Well, her other job will be to whip
you, whenever you need it, like right now"

"Get down on your knees, you disobedient little slut,"
Kate said lazily, and Sylvie and Stephanie helped her down, as
she wept out her apologies, promising always to remember to
address him in the future when he spoke.

"I think, Andrew, that we should begin by introducing
her to the riding crop," Kate continued, walking across the
room to an umbrella stand and picking one out.

"What do you think of this one?" she asked him, but
he smiled and shrugged his shoulders, shaking his head. His
wife, he said, was a horsewoman and would know a good
riding crop, though. Of course, he supposed that feeling it laid on her flesh would be quite a different thing from
using one.

I could see her look of outrage as Kate passed it over her
breasts, tapping them lightly. "Likes horses, does she?" she
asked. "Perhaps later you'd like to try her in a bit and bridle,
then. But not right now. Right now, I think we'll just bend her
over a block and teach her how to count the blows when we
hurt her, hmmm?"

He smiled again and nodded, and, at Kate's command,
Sylvie and Stephanie pushed a large block of hardwood into the center of the room. It was about three feet on each
slightly rounded edge, and it looked as though it had been
worn smooth by having generations of penitents kneel over
it. Maybe it had, for all I knew. The young lady knelt over
it, Stephanie gently prodding her into place, until she was
nicely, if precariously, balanced over it, Sylvie and Stephanie
each holding one of her arms.

"Twelve," Kate announced, as though any fool could see
that twelve strokes of the riding crop was exactly what was
needed in this situation. And, tapping the young lady's thigh
lightly with the crop, she told her that she should call out
each blow by number, being sure to thank her master as well.
"Yes, Ms. Clarke," the young lady replied, and Kate handed
the riding crop to the young man.

"Try it on your own hand first," she said, "and then on
Carrie."