Safe Word: An Erotic S/M Novel (21 page)

And after Sylvie had punished my breasts again the
next morning, for Andrew's instruction and entertainment, I
thought of those dreams again. And of the end of Through
the Looking Glass, when Alice wonders who had dreamed all
these adventures, she or the White King.

Well, Andrew'd paid for the scene after all, so I guessed
that made him our young white king. The scene had been
his dream, the rest of us symbolic actors within it. Only I
wasn't so sure. I glanced at him in his armchair, Jane kneeling between his legs, her naked back against his groin. He
leaned forward, forearms on his knees, eagerly drinking in
Kate's hints and instructions, his big hands on Jane's bare breasts. Kate had positioned her that way, so that she could
also watch me being beaten. And also, I suspected, so that
Andrew wouldn't notice the slight disappointment that had
started up in her eyes when breakfast had been served by the
house's real butler, Steve being conspicuously absent.

The visit wound down quickly. There was a light buffet
lunch with champagne and a birthday cake for Jane, decorated with lilies of the valley and candied violets. Jane looked
chic and grown-up now, in a short black cotton knit dress,
bare legs and sandals, and she chattered to Kate, in a brittle
and determined voice, about the last Gaultier show, while
Andrew watched her proudly and possessively. And then the
butler-the real one, again-carried their bag out to their
beautiful car and they got in and drove away. And soon after
that, Kate and Steve brought me back to Mr. Constant, and
they all watched Tony and Randy win the boys' pairs race.

"And she never made love to you?"Jonathan asked slowly.

"No," she answered, "and that made me very sad, you
know, because I did want her very badly. And maybe I was kidding myself, but I thought she wanted me too. But I guess I was
wrong.... Because, you know, I've thought about this over and
over, and I'm sure of it... the whole time I was there, in that house,
she never once touched me."

He made a small noise that she couldn't decipher.
Amusement, amazement, and something else, she wasn't sure
what. Happiness, she surprised herself by thinking. Yes. She'd
never seen him so happy.

"Oh, she wanted you, all right," he said. "You weren't kidding yourself there. She wanted you so much that she lost control of her scene a little at the end. No wonder Steve got ticked off at
her."

She shrugged in bewilderment.

"Oh, come on," he said. "I mean, you told me the story
yourself. The story she wanted you to tell me. Well, she wouldn't
have expected you to observe Jane and Andrew, not to mention
Steve, in such detail, but... "

"But?"

... but she wanted you to tell me that she practically
staged that whole scene around you... and she didn't touch you.
Because she didn't think she had a right to."

"But Mr. Constant wouldn't have cared.... "

He shook his head.

Okay, I guess I did understand. Typical, Carrie, I thought;
you knock yourself out trying to understand what was really
going on. Was it Andrew's story? Jane's? Maybe you even
thought it was yours. And the answer's been there the whole
time. Annie told you that morning in the stable. It's all about
him Jonathan. Or it finally became so, when you obligingly
delivered Kate's message for her.

He sat down on the side of the bed and stroked my
shoulders. "You're chilly," he said. "Come on under the covers,
I'll warm you up."

I hadn't noticed how cold I felt. He lay on top of me,
kissing me slowly, holding my hands.

"I can understand why you found it so confusing at her
place-all the overlapping scenarios everybody's playing. It
used to drive me bats. But she keeps it remarkably coherent-I mean, this was an unusual situation, her lusting after
you and not letting herself have you-mostly she runs quite a
tight ship. Anyway, one gets used to it. You'll see.

"Look," he said then, "I know we're not done with our
storytelling. But can we take a break for a while?"

"Okay," I said sadly, "I guess."

"Things will get clearer, I promise. There's more story to
go. Indulge me." He smiled as he said it-probably, I thought,
a lot like how he would smile at Marilyn the receptionist.

He picked up the phone, to make dinner reservations. It
would be the first time we'd be eating anywhere you'd need a
reservation. Pretentious, snobby, I thought, absurdly.

"Well, we didn't have any lunch," he said briskly, as
though I'd asked him for an explanation. And then, continu ing to smile, "Why don't you wear your little black skirt, okay?
and you've got a little short black T-shirt, right? ...so there'll
be this half-inch of skin above the top of the skirt...."

And, not too surprisingly, the food was great-incredible
really, famous, he said-and dinner was fun. He'd been reading this article in a French architecture journal. Well, trying
to read it-he needed help with some of the vocabulary. Not
the technical terms, of course. He explained some of them to
me, as they came up, and I remembered that he was a terrific
explainer-he liked talking about buildings, and about what
he actually did when he was running a CAD program, the
ways it was better than the old ways of doing things, and the
ways it wasn't. But the author of the article had used another
kind of technical vocabulary as well, borrowed from literary
criticism, which was what he needed help with. He nodded
appreciatively as I ran through the basics.

"Well, there's something to that, I guess," he said. "Maybe
I'll give it another shot."

And then we were both silent, sipping our coffee, looking at each other.

We were still silent when we got back to the hotel room. We
were nervous, fumbling with buttons and zippers.

"Hold it," he said, going to the bed and sitting down on
it. "Come over here, in front of me." He peeled off the little
black T-shirt, pulled the skirt off over my head. He finished
unbuttoning his shirt and opened his pants, pulling off the
belt, taking off his shoes. He'd already helped me with my
cowboy boots, thank goodness, and I knew he didn't want me
to take off the black stockings and garter belt. I knelt in front
of him, kissing his belly, the muscles, the fine black hair. His cock was stiffening between my breasts, and I'd begun nibbling slowly downward, when he stopped me, lifting my chin
with the knuckle of a bent index finger.

"It's time," he said softly, "for you to come back to me,
don't you think?"

Had he planned it to happen this way? I didn't think so.
I knew he had more to tell me. And I had another story for
him too. I stared dazedly at him, my chin still resting on his
finger. He stroked my jaw with his thumb. He was still smiling, but there was something darker in his eyes, and at the
corners of his mouth.

"That's right," he said, "take a little time to get used to it.
There's plenty of time."

But what about the rules, the arrangements? I need to
know more, I thought, I need to come to terms. But I didn't
know how to ask. The lines of force between us had shifted,
the iron filings lined up around the poles of the magnet.
I leaned forward-I didn't know what was holding me up, the
energy field or his finger under my chin. And I decided that
I knew everything that I needed to know. He could tell me
whatever he chose. Moment by moment. Or not at all.

I lowered my eyes, relaxed my jaw. I felt my back
straighten, my body rearrange itself under his gaze. He traced
my eyelids with his fingertips.

"Good, good," he said, in a soothing tone. "Oh, yes,
that's my good girl. Now tell me what you are."

And I wasn't surprised by how matter-of-fact my voice
sounded.

"I'm your slave, Jonathan," I said.

Bingo. Just like that. The jolt to the solar plexus. I wanted to
come right then, between her tits. No. Not now.

"My belt's on the floor," I said, "next to your right knee.
Get it for me."

She bent gracefully, picked it up with her mouth, and
dropped it into my outstretched hand. It was a shame I didn't
have anything better, I thought, but this would have to do
for now. I stuffed one of my handkerchiefs into her mouth
and tied it in place with another. A nice, gentlemanly, oldfashioned habit, using big cotton handkerchiefs. I'd learned
it-and a lot of other stuff that has come in handy over the
years-from my Uncle Harry.

"On the bed," I said, "hands and knees. You won't need
to count the strokes. I'll beat you until you can't hold position
any more."

I knew that she wouldn't cheat. And when she did finally
collapse on the bed, sobbing behind the handkerchief gag, I
could see that she was ashamed that she hadn't lasted it out
any longer.

I took off the gag, and then I sat down in the armchair to
wait while she cried a little more. But she was already scrambling to her knees on the floor at the side of the bed. She
was sobbing silently, her breasts heaving, huge tears coursing
down her face.

"Stand up," I said, "and go to the mirror. Let's see how
I've marked you."

I had done quite a job-the flesh marbled under the
darkening welts. We'd sit in a restaurant the next evening,
I thought, and I'd explain what I'd planned for us, what she could expect. I'd let her look at me, so that I could look into
her eyes. And as we spoke, I'd enjoy knowing how much it
hurt her to sit down. But meanwhile, I liked watching her
inspect the damage. I even liked her momentary little look
of pride that she'd taken as much as she had. I knew I should
discipline her for it, but what the hell. Look, I knew by now
that I was too lazy and self-indulgent to be doing this job
alone. I was glad I'd have help this time around.

"Thank you, Jonathan," she said, turning around to face
me.

"Yes," I said, "you look very nice that way"

She dropped to her knees, crawled back to me, and
looked shyly at the belt, which was still in my hand. I let her
kiss it and then to bend from the waist and kiss my feet. I
leaned over and raised her chin in my hand again.

"Or rather," I continued, "you would look very nice,
with a collar and cuffs. You look a little silly without them,
don't you think? Well, tomorrow we'll go to Paris to start
outfitting you. I'm very happy to have you back, you know.
Now bring me my cigarettes and an ashtray"

nd so, the next afternoon, I found myself in front of a
.three-part mirror, modeling collars and cuffs, leashes
and bridles and harnesses. We'd taken the train to Paris that
morning and headed directly to the shop. It was small. You
got to it through the cobbled courtyard of a shabby building
near the Place de la Bastille. Of course there was no dressing
room, and anybody could have walked in on us while I tried
on the fetishes, sturdy leather and cold metal buckled tight
against my naked skin. The proprietor (Jonathan had told me
he was a saddle maker-with sidelines) was old, small and
wizened, courtly and loquacious with Jonathan, and terse and
direct with me, communicating in short commands-kneel,
turn, bend, open.

They were fitting me with full pony equipment-harness, boots, and bridle. And tails, of course-several different ones, actually, more than I'd really need as a pony. Jonathan
hastened to repeat that, after all, I'd won the big pony race in
New York, and that he'd certainly be racing and showing me
some more. Which surprised me, because he'd never shown
any interest in that sort of thing before. Still, he was buying all
this custom-made gear. The saddle maker said that it would
take a week or so to finish it and pack it up to send back to
California. Jonathan nodded thoughtfully. "But," he said, "I
must have a whip today"

"Bien sur Monsieur," the saddle maker agreed, heading
toward his stockroom. He came back into the fitting room
with several of them, and together he and Jonathan agreed
on the most evil and beautiful riding crop I'd ever seen. The
piece of cane, encased in buttery russet leather, was so supple
that you could touch its ends together, make a circle of it.
There were thin gold bands on the handle.

"She is made for a whip like this, Monsieur," the old man
said, tracing the furrow of my ass with it. He'd removed my
harness and bridle, but I was still wearing a collar and cuffs,
high boots and tail. I stood sideways in front of the mirror, my
back deeply arched, my ass sticking way out, my head very
high. It was a classic dressage posture, and I'd won a contest
with it once. I could see that the saddle maker understood
the pose, the slope of my neck, the tense line of my belly. My
muscles strained to hold position, and I could feel my cunt
becoming visibly wet and shiny along its slit in front. Well,
that's why they'd shaved me, after all, so that you could see. I
felt the old man's critical eyes on me.

"She is very nicely trained," he complimented Jonathan,
who smiled proudly, "and very sensitive." He flicked the whip
at me-underhand, lightly hitting the underside of my breasts and just skimming my nipples. The air whistled, and I winced
at the sting. And then-quickly, while I was still steadying
myself-he rotated his wrist sharply, and swung squarely at
my ass, across the welts Jonathan had raised the night before.
He did it so casually that you couldn't see how much force he
was putting behind the blow, and I really had to work to keep
my balance when it hit me. I shuddered, shook the tears from
my eyes, and murmured my thanks as formally as I could. Je
vous remercie, maitre."