Safe Word: An Erotic S/M Novel (17 page)

And the race itself? Absurdly brief, after all the elaborate preparation. But it was as long as I could stand. And,
well-I won, that's all. I mean, sometimes life is like that, you know: no complications, no reversals. Later for the intricacies of dodging and weaving, cutting off the other ponies and
being cut off by them. All that would happen in other races,
closer races, races I'd win by a nose or a neck or a hair, or not
at all. But not today. Today I was too fast for anybody to cut
in front of, and I won, as I'd always known I would. I broke
through the tape at the end of the course, and I fell, gasping, to my knees, and I felt hands all over me, roughly taking
off my harness, pulling me upright. I felt a mouth on me-I
looked down at a sweet curly head at my cunt, that was all I
could see, I don't even know if it was a boy or a girl-and 1
came enormously, sighing and howling behind my bit, almost
oblivious to the mocking laughter from the stands. I guess it's
a cute moment, the final cruelty of the cruel event, watching the pony get her little yummy at the end. And then they
led me to Mr. Constant, waiting with Stefan in the winners'
circle.

He was delighted, of course, and the photographers were
eager for shots of him with me kneeling at his feet, the blue
ribbon pinned to my collar. It was good that I still had the
bridle on, because I wanted to grin triumphantly at the cameras, instead of keeping my eyes down and my face impassive.
I was feeling so cocky, you know just controlling my gaze
took quite a lot of discipline.

But of course you're never quite disciplined enough for
what you'll encounter. A sudden, challenging demand from
your master. Or the surprising swoops of your own desire.

Or, something much simpler, that day in New York.
A foot, shod in white leather that was softer than my skin,
prodding my legs further apart, silently and imperiously demanding that I show more of my naked-and suddenly
very moist-cunt.

And a voice-well, first that husky, melodious laugh.
"You're doing a good job with her, babe. Too good-I lost a
pile of money on this race. But we'll beat you next time."

Kate. And those were Annie's black jeans, weren't they,
and her scuffed Doc Martens, so close to Kate's crisp white
slacks and soft, backless shoes? And Annie's voice, surprisingly subdued-shy-sounding, even.

"You were right. She's fun to drive."

"And to discipline, I should imagine."

They moved a little closer together, the black jeans
pressing up against the white slacks. How far could I raise my
eyelids without breaking form? I moved my gaze up Kate's
legs, slowly, to the bottom of her white blazer. A little higher,
now: Her arm was around Annie's waist. Or maybe her hand
was in the back pocket of Annie's jeans-Annie would like
that. Could I peek any higher? A little-up to her jacket
button, to the pink faille waistcoat the color of the inside of
a seashell.... And I knew that that was all I'd be allowed, that
I'd never know what sort of hat she was wearing (funny how
curious I was about that). And I'd simply have to imagine her
cool, pale, limpid, dispassionate green eyes. I was surprised
by how precisely I remembered her eyes-I mean, I'd only
been in her presence maybe twice before. Briefly, and then
only to be prodded a little, to have my form corrected and my
progress assessed. Which was probably as much as I could
ever expect from her.

She moved her hand over my bridle, tugging here and
there to test the tension of the straps, laughing softly as she
watched me drop my eyes and concentrate on my breath.

"And you've taught her some manners, I see."

I stared as hard as I could at her white shoes and the
dusty ground, fighting the angry, frustrated tears welling up
behind my eyelids. I hated Annie right then, with Kate's hand
curved around her ass. I hated everybody in the small crowd
of people milling around, congratulating Mr. Constant.
I hated Stefan, but then, I always did. And I especially hated
the photographers, who could look at Kate all they wanted,
and who were madly snapping pictures of her. She was talking
to Mr. Constant now, congratulating him and also detailing
the wonderful job Annie'd done on me. She was charming,
and very knowledgeable about the race, almost as though
she'd been a driver-or a pony-once herself.

"We got some marvelous footage of her crossing the
finish line," she said. "So far in the lead that all you can see is
Sylvie's knee and the toe of her boot. We're thinking about an
online film clip-maybe a quick cut to her coming at the end.
For the racing page."

Logical, I thought. My straining, fetishized body, digitized now, coming soon-and coming ecstatically-to a few
thousand very select computer screens worldwide. I couldn't
hear Mr. Constant's reply, but I could feel his exhibitionist
delight, his hand tightening at my shoulder. Of course I'd
been overhearing all the fascinated chatter, at parties and
exhibitions, about the new private online system the association was building. Well, but who wasn't fascinated by
online porn?

And then-was I hearing correctly?

"Lend her to me, Edouard. For the next two days. I have
a scene scheduled and I need an extra girl."

Annie snorted. "And so you want my winning pony.
Unbelievable, Kate." Well, I must have heard correctlyeither that or I was dreaming.

Kate laughed again. "Look," she persisted, addressing herself to Mr. Constant, "we can do a trade. Take Randy.
Annie can drive him and Tony in the boys' pairs race. It's the
day after tomorrow, you've still got time to sign them up and
she's got all day tomorrow to drill them. They'll be ravishing.
Come on."

He stroked my head thoughtfully.

"Boys' pairs," he mused. "That's a nice race. And Stefan
and I'll be in Manhattan all day tomorrow anyway." I felt
Stefan's hand stroke me too. Surprisingly gently, for him.

Annie whistled through her teeth. "Unbelievable," she
repeated, as a guy in khaki pants came over to us.

"Kate," he said, "sorry to bother you, but it's Sylvie. I
think she'll cry herself sick."

She moved toward him. "Well, Edouard?" she said to
Mr. Constant.

"Why not?" Mr. Constant laughed, and Kate stood on
tiptoe to kiss his cheek. She turned to go with the guy in the
khakis, first murmuring to Annie, "See you tonight, babe."
And I kept my eyes down while the photographers snapped
a few more pictures of me and Mr. Constant, this time with
a less angry than usual Stefan and a blissful, giddy Anniewho, I noticed later, after they'd hung up the framed pictures
on the wall of the trophy room back on the island, looked
about sixteen years old at that moment-in her tough green
jockey jacket with a happy lizard winking at the camera.

Jonathan grinned.

"I do remember her introducing me to Annie once-she's got
a girl in every port, doesn't she? But you didn't actually spend
two days with Kate, in New York?"

"Well, a day and a half. We came back in time for her to
watch Tony and Randy win boys' pairs."

He grimaced impatiently.

"You didn't know?" she asked.

"She never told me. But then, I guess I made a point of not
asking. "

He looked down at the floor. "I should have known," he
said.

She was silent and he concentrated on remaining calm.

"Well," he finally said, "what are you waiting for? Tell me
about it."

Funny, she thought, that Kate hadn't told him. She paused a
long moment before she continued.

"She's crazy," Annie said to Mr. Constant, as they promenaded
around the lush, leafy estate grounds later that afternoon,
leading me by the reins. People would come by to congratulate
him on my winning the race. They'd compliment Annie on her
driving too, and they'd stroke me, roughly or appreciatively.

"She's such a fucking workaholic," she complained.
"I mean, how often do I get to see her, you know?"

He made some distant, sympathetic noises.

"And it's not like she needs the money," she ranted.
"She rents this gorgeous house-the back lawn goes straight
down to the river-but she can't just party, hang out. Oh, hell no. She's got to schedule scenes, develop accounts three
thousand miles away from where she lives...."

She rattled on, blissfully unaware that she was boring
him out of his mind. But he was charitable. He loved to
win-to win anything at all, really-and an upset, a long
shot like my victory, was just about his favorite thing in the
world. So he maintained a comfortable silence, enjoying the
victory promenade, and tolerating, or perhaps tuning out,
her harangue.

While I, on the other hand, was straining to hear what
she said. I could see how much she was enjoying it; she'd
probably continue for hours if he'd let her. She was affecting
this exasperation because she would have been embarrassed
to admit how thrilled and delighted she was by that little "see
you tonight" and what it promised. Her plaints about Kate's
supposed craziness, obsessiveness, were really hymns, hosannas, hallelujahs. Bitching and moaning were ways she could
keep talking, savoring her excitement.

And I understood so well, you see, because I was equally
excited. Lend her to me, Edouard. I had no idea what it promised, but I kept repeating it to myself, hearing it in her voice.
She'd said something similar, you know, long ago in San
Francisco, when you first showed me to her, Jonathan. She
suggested that you send me to her in Napa, if you were too
bored or lazy to train me properly. And she laughed to see
how excited I got, and how angry you became. You told me
later to forget about it, that you'd never send me to her-but
I didn't forget. I pranced behind Annie and Mr. Constant in a
kind of dream haze, my tail, with its green ribbons, floating
in the breeze. And I hardly noticed the hands that stroked and slapped me-everybody, superstitiously, wanting a piece
of the winner.

But there was still that night's party to get through. I tried to
gather my resources, to be alert to people's signals, as I wandered around my assigned territory, the blue ribbon pinned
next to my coinbox. I'd try to focus on the nods and snaps
of the finger, the slaps and kicks. But I was slow, dreamy,
exhausted from the race and still thinking about Kate. From
time to time, I'd hear the dull clanking sound of a lead token
in the box at my throat, and my stomach would clench. But
really, there wasn't much I could do about it. I would have
collected some lead tokens no matter how I'd acted, since
some people had lost big money on my race and wanted to
take it out on me. And on Sylvie.

I'd never seen Sylvie before that afternoon-she'd been
the indigo pony, I realized now. It wasn't hard to pick her
out in the party crowd-the red ribbon on her collar was a
clue, but mostly it was her beautiful gestures and manners.
She bent and opened with the same kind of grace that you'd
described Stephanie having. It was a special kind of polish,
quite beyond anything I could have done even on a good
night. And she was lovely, too, though perhaps less so than
Stephanie. Well, not as lush-she looked like a racer, after
all, which has its own kind of stripped-down aesthetic. She
was slimmer than Stephanie, a tawny, tousled blond, with
large gray-blue eyes, and freckles sprinkled over her wide
cheekbones and high, very round, little breasts. And she had
a subtle, sexy, French overbite. Perhaps it had been that overbite that had made Kate want to put a bit in her mouth in the
first place.

I gazed at her curiously, at times when the party guests'
demands and desires threw us into proximity. There was
a slight blue cast under her eyes, from crying so hard that
afternoon, I imagined. But she was quite recovered now, and
certainly didn't deserve the harsh treatment she was gettingthe commands spat at her, the bruises left on her skin.

She probably wasn't used to treatment like that. Nor
to receiving demerit tokens-the hollow lead sounds at her
throat must have been hard to bear, not to speak of the token
master's affectation of surprise when he held up the lead
disks later that evening, for the crowd to see. Or the audience's coarse, drunken, dull-witted shouts of delight. They'd
already done a similar number on me, but not so elaborately.
It's the elegant, polished slaves like Sylvie or Stephanie that
the crowd goes wild about, when they get a chance to see
them punished.

There were lots of other slaves up there on the dais that
night, and quite a few had gotten demerit tokens. So there
were lots of other little dramas to endure as the master went
through the line, checking out the contents of everybody's
coinbox. They make you wait up there if they've found lead
in your coinbox. You kneel up with your hands at the back of
your neck, your legs open wide, chest and belly and genitals
as completely displayed as possible-the pose that Stephanie
had struck in Madame Roget's bedroom. You wait for them to
finish the stupid ceremony, the contest. And then they march
you off to your punishment.

Except they didn't march me or Sylvie off. We remained
kneeling on the dais as everybody else was led to the gauntlet
they'd be running. And much of the audience had stayed in
their places too.

The token master cleared his throat. What would the
gentlemen and ladies say, he asked, to a rematch between
these two troublesome ponies? A midnight race? Of course,
he added, when the laughs and cheers and applause had subsided, we probably wouldn't be covering much ground this
time.

Oh, yes, they loved that. And they all knew what he
meant too, chuckling appreciatively as we were attached to
whipping frames-two sets of posts set side by side in the
ground, each set with a plank between them. We each stood
behind a plank, spreading out our arms to be attached by
our cuffs. The planks were high off the ground. When they
moved my chin into the little valley sanded into the center
of the plank-to keep my head still-I had to stand on my
toes. I guess we both did, side by side as though we were at
the starting line of a race. They strapped bridles to our heads,
handing the reins to the punishment masters who'd be whipping us on. And I couldn't see Sylvie, but I knew that she'd be
responding exactly as I was doing-as any real racing pony
would have done. You feel the whip at your back and the pull
at the soft inside of your mouth and you run-you raise your
knees in elegant pony gait, and you run as fast as you possibly can. Even on bare feet when you're trussed up too high
to land squarely. Even if you're running in place and there's
no finish line to head for. You run until the crowd is satisfied and the whipping stops. And then you weep while they
jostle to get close up, to poke and slap you, and to comment
appreciatively on how nicely you've been marked.