Safe Word: An Erotic S/M Novel (7 page)

He sputtered a bit in amazement.

"You heard me," she said.

"But you're the storyteller," he protested, weakly.

"And just where," she demanded, "is that written?"

He sighed. A story? My god, what was she going to ask for
next? Still, he couldn't very well wimp out on it. And after all,
there was a lot he needed to tell her. But making a story out of
it-deciding what counted as beginning, middle, and end. The
exposure-one thing to lay your body on the line, but to lay out
your sentences, your sensibility, to scrutiny like that-well, he'd
do it, but just this once.

"Okay," he laughed. `Just give me a minute."

There were parties to go to, the nights before the auction.
During the days, I wandered around the city-it had a few good
buildings to look at. Kate had accompanied me on a few of
these walks, when she'd had time for me-when she didn't
have meetings to attend, appointments to keep. She wasn't
going to have any time for me today, though; the governing
board of the auction association would be voting on the coming
year's budget. I was envious of how seriously she took it all.

I shivered as she pulled away from me, chilly air rushing
in to replace the warm, rosy flesh that had engulfed my body.
I sighed, looking out the window at the lead-colored sky. A
freezing rain was beginning to fall.

"There's nothing I want to see at the cinematheque
today," I said. "And the museums are closed. Good thing I've
still got a few crappy novels to plow through."

"You'll get cranky, reading in here all day" She sat back
on her haunches as my cock dropped out of her. Her knees
were still tight around my thighs. "I'll send somebody over to
keep you occupied this afternoon."

"Thanks," I said, holding onto her ass, trying to keep
her in bed, "but I'm already cranky. Do you have to go?"

I could see the little vertical line peeking out below the
red-gold bangs falling down her forehead. She gets that line
there when I act spoiled, babyish. I sighed again, letting just a
little too much time go by before I said anything.

"I'm sorry," I said then, reaching up to trace that line
with my finger, and then tracing her profile, her pure jawline,
the silky curtain of bobbed hair bending against the back of
my hand. "Of course you have to go," I said.

She swung a leg over me and sat on the side of the bed,
elbows on her knees, letting herself hang for a moment, her
flesh taking on bluish tones, the cynical sag of a Degas whore
squatting over a washbasin. My chest tightened-she doesn't
usually let me see her that way; I'd be insanely jealous if I
thought she allowed anybody else that intimacy. And then
she stood up quickly, belly concave, everything suddenly
tight and pumped and in place. She was pretty pissed at me.

She seemed to have cheered up, though, after her shower.
She kept the bathroom door open, letting in fragrant steamy
air, and chattered about the silly characters she'd have to
argue down at the meeting. She wouldn't tell me what they'd
be arguing about, though.

"I mean, it is a `secret society,' after all," she said, her
eyes glittering green in the mirror as she carefully outlined
them. I was drinking coffee and eating toast in bed.

"Want a slice?" I asked. "You'll need energy, to fight the
good fight for all us parasites who'll be staying in bed today"

"They serve bacon and eggs," she said, "and strong tea in
glasses. Very good schnapps, too. Anyway, I argue better when
I'm hungry. I'll eat after I win." I watched her pull on some
intricate new underwear, pour herself into one of her little
power suits, zip up formidable high boots. A reverse striptease: She began to look tall-amazing that she can pull off
that illusion-and I felt myself getting hard again. She glanced
at me and smiled.

"I'll send somebody for early afternoon," she murmured,
tossing a fur-lined raincoat over her shoulders and shutting
the door behind her.

I didn't ask whom she'd send over. She was traveling
with an entourage-her three personal slaves and a trainer
to attend to them, for those times when she was attending
meetings, or coping with me. Fine with me, whichever one
she chose. Surprise me, I thought. They were all pretty spectacular.

It was the boy, Randy. Good choice, I thought, as dusk
gathered, late that day. He'd been very accommodating, all in
all, though there had been a point, midafternoon, where he'd
needed a spanking with my slipper. Right now he was kneeling at my feet, energetically polishing my shoes, his bare
hands buffed shiny black as he rubbed the cakey polish into
the leather. He used his tongue from time to time, too, neatly,
like a cat. He was very decorative, curved over my feet like
that. And it was a lot better shine than I would have gotten in
the hotel lobby.

I was sitting in the armchair, across from the full-length
mirror, so that I could also see his butt. Nice. But he was
finishing up now, I realized, because he was getting a little
hypnotized by his reflection in the toes of my shoes.

"Hey," I said, smacking him lightly on the shoulder,
"kneel up, Narcissus. You're done."

I wouldn't discipline him for it. He'd put in a good
afternoon, amusing me and keeping boredom at bay, and if
he liked to look at himself once in a while-well, he really
was awfully pretty. He raised his head, big amber eyes veiled
under long black lashes, shy smile on his face.

"Let me see your hands," I said. Mmmm, a few little
blisters on the fleshy part of the palm, under the black shoe
polish.

"How will you clean them?" I asked.

"Steve's got some kind of solvent, Jonathan," he said.
Steve was Kate's lead trainer. "It works very well, but it kind
of hurts the blisters."

I bent and kissed him. "Yeah, but you need clean hands,
after all."

"Oh, yes, Jonathan," he agreed.

Narcissus. Kate's boy slaves always looked a little like
I had, in my late teens. I wondered if Randy knew that.
Probably not-probably he wouldn't be able to discern a trace
of resemblance between his perfect little self and a guy in his
late thirties. Which gave it a touch of elegant melancholy, for
me. It's a long rainy afternoon play with your pretty former
self, sweetheart. Your unconscious former self. Although of
course I'd never been anywhere near as unconscious as he
seemed to be. And certainly not as eager to please.

I looked down at him, kneeling easily at attention.
Polishing my shoes had aroused him-his cock was stiffening under my gaze. I lifted it with my foot, rubbing my instep
against the bottom side, nudging the base of his balls with
a shiny polished toe. His face remained impassive, but his
breathing became just a little ragged.

I stroked his cheekbone, and then the graceful sweep of
his eyelid-lightly, with one of my fingers-while I continued to probe him, below, with the toe of my shoe.

"You've been a good boy today," I said softly, "even with
your one little lapse. But now it looks like you're in some danger of blowing the whole thing, doesn't it? I mean, it would be
pretty disgraceful if you came all over my shoes, wouldn't it?"

He was struggling to breathe evenly.

"Wouldn't it?" I repeated sternly, jerking his chin up.

"Yes, Jonathan," he whispered, "it would be disgraceful."
I could feel his balls tightening, his hips contracting.

"I could let you fuck me," I said thoughtfully, jerking his
head up a little further. "Hey, look at me, kid, we've got some
serious problem-solving to do here." His eyes flew open, the
pupils big and black, distended with fear and desire.

"See, here's the problem," I said. His cock was swollen,
like a mushroom after a summer rainstorm. "If you fuck me,
you'll get shoe polish on my nice white cotton T-shirt, or on
those bedsheets, hey, even on the headboard of the bed or
something. I mean, you'd leave nasty little black fingerprints
somewhere, wouldn't you? Wouldn't you, kid?"

"Oh, no, Jonathan," he gasped, "I'd keep my hands
behind my neck ...uh, no, clasped at the small of my back,
I think, and I'd keep my balance."

I glanced down at the neat muscles in his belly. "Yes, I
suppose you could do that. But how do you intend to grease
my asshole? Not with those fingers."

"With my tongue, Jonathan," he whispered urgently.
"It's, uh, unusually long."

"Really." I had to laugh, pressing my fingers into the corners of his mouth to open it up. "Show me."

And it was, too. Long, pink, strong, a semicircle of even
white teeth beneath it. Kate must have opened up his mouth
like this, I thought, when she'd examined him, in some auction hall somewhere.

I dropped my foot, let his chin go, stood up, and stepped
over him to get a small jar of grease from the top of the dresser.
I opened it, put it down on the floor in front of him.

We were still in front of the mirror, facing sideways
now. I took off my shorts, keeping my eyes on him as he
bent gracefully from the waist, dipping his tongue into the
jar. His back straightened-a flower unfolding-as he carried his little wad of grease up to my ass.

Ah. He pushed it in, patiently, insistently. Not too deeply
at first. I could feel his nose, between the cheeks of my ass,
his chin below. He dipped down again. And yeah, his hands
were folded at the small of his back, like a skater. He held
his body elegantly. And his mouth and chin were shiny with
grease and saliva. I liked the contrast.

A bigger cargo of grease this time. Perhaps I'd opened up
more, while I'd been watching him. Oh, yes, he really could
use that tongue. He pushed it upward, wiggling it a little, too.
Breathing hard, straining the muscles at its root-muscles I
hadn't really given much thought to until this moment, the
more fool me. I felt my belly clutch a little, tremble, as he made
another trip downward. I didn't want him to finish this part.

No, scratch that. I got a glimpse of his cock, springing
out from him, dark and shiny, but with a kind of downiness,
too, and a drop of precum at its tip. I knelt on the bed, spreading my legs. Sighing, opening.... "Oh, and kid...I want you
to make this last a while."

A deep intake of breath, and a clenched-sounding "Yes,
Jonathan."

And he did make it last, opening me, filling me-filleting
me-enthusiastically, but respectfully, too, drilling into me
like a docile little machine, never forgetting who was boss. I came all over those sheets that I'd been so solicitous to protect
from his fingerprints. And then he finally let go-screaming,
almost, with relief. I could feel his hard belly muscles relax
as he allowed himself to drop lightly on top of me. But his
hands were still behind him.

He kissed the back of my neck, softly, and then he rolled
off and slid off the bed, to his knees. Waiting for me to pay
him a little attention. I took my time.

And then-first things first. Nope, no smudges, no fingerprints. Not on the sheets, the pillows, not anywhere on
the bed. And not on my T-shirt either. I turned slowly in front
of the mirror, to get a full view of it. Of course, it was pretty
sweaty-I needed a shower. I pulled off the shirt, tossed it in
his direction. "Good job, kid." He smiled-quickly-swiveling his head to catch the shirt in his teeth. Great reflexes. He
dropped it gently on the floor, in front of him, and bent down
to kiss it.

I sat down on the bed and had him remove my shoes
and socks-with that talented mouth, of course-and then I
kissed him. A long one, holding his curly head in my hands.

"Well," I murmured, nuzzling him, breathing in his
smell-and my own, "you didn't blow it after all. So when
you go downstairs to Steve, you can tell him I said you were a
very, very good boy today."

He thanked me, a goofy, angelic look in his eyes.

I sat back up, folding my arms. "Do you think he'll have
any kind of reward for you?" I asked.

He smiled. "Oh, yes, Jonathan," he said, eagerly. "He
promised that if I was a good boy, I could give Sylvie and
Stephanie their punishments. If they need them."

"Well, you'd just better hope they need them, hadn't
you?" I laughed. "What would you use?"

"Oh, well, I know Steffie needs it, Jonathan." He had to
work to keep from grinning too widely. "And I'm not sure
what I'll use. A buggy whip, I think. Yeah, I think."

I stroked his hair. I hadn't known he was capable of that
hungry grin. "Did anybody ever tell you you look a hell of a
lot like me?" I asked.

But, "Uh, no, Jonathan," his bewilderment was quite
sincere. "Uh, thank you, Jonathan."

I stood up and stretched. I needed that shower. "You can
go now, kid," I said.

"Did you like the story?" he asked anxiously.

"Of course," I said. "You know I did." Well, the Randy
part, anyway I decided not to think too hard about the Kate
part. Or the fact that he'd had so much to occupy him, so
soon after I'd been gone. Dumb, I chided myself. I mean,
what did you think he'd be doing? Ridiculously, I'd imagined
him bleak, unshaven, alone. Languishing for me, I guessed.
Yes, languishing was the word I wanted.

He looked a little shell-shocked now, though, amazed
by how much he'd enjoyed telling me everything. He'd really
thought that all those times he'd had me tell him stories, I'd
been doing it purely for his entertainment. Damn, I thought,
another bottom's secret blown.

But he still needed to be reassured that I'd enjoyed
hearing it.

"No, really" I laughed, summoning up images of blackened, blistered palms and pristine white T-shirts. I took his
hand and dragged it over my breasts, my painfully hard and
swollen nipples. He moved his palm back upward, slowly,
over my throat, to my face. I kissed his fingers, sucked them.
He moved his hands down over me, cupping one of them
under my ass in the protected curve where it met the top of
my thighs, stroking me there, while his other hand probed
my asshole. He kissed me, using his teeth. I came-not
tumultuously but I let myself, I had to-it was still thrilling
to come whenever I felt like it. And when I calmed down,
I became aware of one of his fingers up inside my ass, the rest
of his hand still curved around it. He moved me toward him,
as he might have drawn me to him on a leash, and settled
back, sighing contentedly, a sovereign exacting tribute.