Safe Word: An Erotic S/M Novel (20 page)

He had a strong arm. And he was also a quick study,
learning to use his wrist to make the crop whistle through the
air. Leaning over a little table in the corner, I tried not to cry
out too loudly. No use frightening his sobbing wife more than
she already was. But on the other hand, I thought, no use letting her think she was in for a walk in the park. And anyway,
I knew that no sound I could make would be as frightening as
the thin, high whistle the riding crop was making. I let myself
whimper, and I was weeping softly by the time he'd finished.
But I think I did okay, because as I turned and dropped to my
knees to thank him, I saw Kate's approving nod.

He waved me away impatiently, though, turning back to
his wife, who was waiting bent over the block in the center of
the room. His broad back obscured most of my view of her,
and all I could tell about what she was feeling was from the cries she made, and the sound of her voice, as she kept count
of the blows.

Her first cry was more one of rage than of pain, astonishment almost, that he would really dare to hurt her. She managed
a gasping, prideful dignity through a few of the next blows, but
the cries and sobs finally broke through. And after he'd finished,
and she'd sobbed out "twelve," Sylvie and Stephanie had a difficult time nudging her into an upright kneeling posture in front
of him, where she could thank him for the beating, and promise
to keep his rules better in the future.

She managed it, though, and then Stephanie snapped a
leash to her collar, and led the couple, Jane crawling on hands
and knees, up the back stairs, where I guessed that a room had
been prepared for them. And I figured that Stephanie would
be staying with them, to fetch and carry, to be an extra mouth
or tongue if needed, and just (just!) to watch, to witness, to
make it impossible for Andrew, and especially for Jane, to
forget that this was not just a fantasy, this was happening in
the real, all-too-physical world.

I didn't know whether or not I should be helping Sylvie tidy
up the room, but Kate nodded to me to stay on my knees.

"You did well, Carrie," she said. And then she turned her
attention to Sylvie, who had put everything away, and had
dropped down to her knees as well, the neatly packed baskets
lined up at her side.

"Come here, darling," she said, and Sylvie crawled over
to the big red plush armchair where she was sitting and kissed
her feet. "Good," Kate said softly. And then, "Present, darling.
I haven't had time to look you over today"

It was a long presentation too, perhaps because Sylvie
had collected quite a few bruises and welts, at the race yesterday and then at the party. I watched her serene face, her
open mouth, as Kate bent over her, prodding her, lightly
and sometimes not so lightly. What had she said earlier? I
love it when they look me over carefully. She did, too, breathing deeply, sometimes gasping rapturously. And then she
kneeled up and Kate smiled at her, kissing her gently on
the mouth. "Very good," she said. "Steve said you took your
whipping well last night, too, and you all did very well this
afternoon."

"You'll serve dinner," she said, "you two and Carrie, at
eight. I think we'll get little Jane to help, too-she'll probably find waiting table every bit as humiliating as anything I'll
have her do while they're here."

She stood up then. Which must have been a signal,
because Sylvie sprang into action. Gently, but quickly and
deftly, she unzipped the silk pants, unbuttoned the blouse,
expertly laying the clothes on the back of a chair so that they
wouldn't wrinkle. It seemed that Kate hardly had to move,
except to stretch, and then to settle back into her chair and
pick up the drink she hadn't finished.

"Come here, Carrie," she said, and I crawled forward. It
was hard to keep my eyes down, I wanted to look at her so
badly. At her breasts, her skin-Renoir skin, I hadn't known it
really existed-at the pink and brown and apricot at her cunt.

And to Sylvie, she said, "Beat her on the breasts."

"Yes, Kate."

I watched Sylvie go to the umbrella stand to get the
proper whip. I knew they'd use the same small whip Annie
used, and I steadied my breathing, propped my hands under my breasts, and arched my back to receive the strokes. "Not
too hard," Kate cautioned Sylvie. "I'll want you to do it again
tomorrow morning while Andrew watches."

And then she sighed contentedly, sipping her drink, her
other hand creeping to her cunt. "And I'll just have to rough
it and do myself while I watch," she smiled, "since the two of
you will be occupied. We really need another mouth around
here, don't we? Amazing how spoiled one gets."

Andrew asked about the marks on my breasts later that evening, at dinner, as he helped himself to potatoes from the
platter 1 held at his elbow. "May I touch her?" he asked, as he
laid the silver serving utensils back on the platter. Kate nodded,
and he traced the painful red lines with a thick index finger.
I kept still, breathing softly. "But they'll fade by tomorrow,"
Kate said. "So after breakfast, we'll give her some new ones."

"It's very provocative," he said.

"And I imagine it would hurt her quite a bit," he added,
"if I slapped her, where she's marked, and uh, clamped, you
know." He touched one of the little silver bells Steve had
clipped to my nipples, making it ring softly and melodiously.

Kate laughed. "I imagine it would. She's not mine, you
know, but she's had some good training... well, since the last
time I saw her, anyway. So I don't think she'd cry out. And she
certainly wouldn't spill those potatoes."

He moved his chair back, to get a better swing. And no,
I didn't spill the potatoes. I held them carefully, even remembering to hold them away from me so that I wouldn't get any
tears on the platter.

"Ah yes," Kate said, "training is everything. And those
bells have a pretty sound, don't you think?

"But," turning to Andrew again, "it will be a good lesson
for you-watching her being whipped tomorrow. It'll teach
you a little precision." And then, throwing a stern look at
Jane, who was holding a bowl of creamed peas and onions in
trembling hands, "And if you drop those peas, Jane, we'll slap
your breasts until you scream."

We four-Sylvie and Stephanie and Jane and I-had
been fed earlier, from a communal trough of raw vegetables
and whole grains, on the kitchen floor. Jane had knelt hesitantly when she saw the other three of us silently getting to
our knees under Steve's stern look. Well, she'd seen more than
the expression on his face-she'd also seen his hand moving
to the little rubber truncheon that hung from his belt.

And after we'd eaten, and bathed, and made ourselves
up again (Jane timidly copying the rest of us), he inspected
each of us, straightening collars, moving stray tendrils of
Stephanie's hair into place. We were barefoot, and completely naked, except for narrow wreaths of flowers around
our heads, the leather restraints at our wrists and throats, and
the bells that he'd produced at the last minute. The bells did
have a lovely sound-so soft and subtle that they seemed to
mingle with the flowers' perfume, wafting around the room
on the warm breezes that floated in off the river, as the evening slowly darkened in the candlelit dining room.

As I crossed to the sideboard to put down my serving
bowl and drop to my knees until I'd be needed again, I saw
Andrew's eyes move from my breasts to Jane's. They were
pretty, just a bit heavy for her slender frame, and I could see
that he wanted them criss-crossed with painful red lines too.
And I knew that she could see it, as well. Her face flushed
and at first her eyes looked frightened, and then I could see a new knowledge gathering within them. I watched her back
straighten, her breasts lift under his fascinated gaze. Happy
birthday, Jane, I thought, and I wished suddenly that I were
back on the island, Mr. Constant's eyes on me as I preened
for Annie in the corral. I was envious, I realized. Of Jane, but
really, of course, of Stephanie and Sylvie.

Especially Sylvie. Because Kate, you see, had not just
"done herself," as she'd said she would that afternoon. I
mean, she started that way, caressing herself while Sylvie
skillfully laid those even marks on my breasts. But she was
also watching carefully, too carefully to abandon herself to
pleasure. She called out sharply when I'd had enough, and
then, her voice clotted with desire, she called Sylvie to her,
and pulled her head, by its honey-blond hair, down to her
cunt. And only then did she let go, moaning delightedly
under Sylvie's mouth while I watched helplessly, invisibly,
still presenting for the beating that was over and done with.
I remembered what Stephanie'd said up there in the nursery.
She'd been right: You needed a master or mistress all your
own. It was awful, being-what was that phrase Kate had
used?-an extra girl.

So I was glad to concentrate on clearing away plates and dishes,
and to help serve dessert and coffee. And anyway, things had
begun to get a bit strained at the table, the conversation becoming rather halting as Andrew grew content simply to look at
Jane, and to drift off into reveries. I thought Kate would just
send them to bed-it appeared to me that the scene had been a
big success-but she seemed surprisingly edgy.

"You would like to see her bridled, wouldn't you?" she
asked sharply, and when he nodded absentmindedly, she called Steve over and whispered something to him, causing
a hint of a scowl to appear at the corner of his well-behaved
mouth, below the squared-off edge of his mustache. He disappeared, and soon after, Kate told the four of us to go out
the back door to the garden shed, and let the regular house
servants finish clearing away.

"We're just camping out here, after all," she smiled at
Andrew "There isn't a regular stable, but we've set up a kind
of makeshift tackroom and there's a nice two-seater pony cart.
I thought Sylvie and Carrie could take us for a little night ride
while Jane learns a few of the basics."

He agreed politely, and the four of us filed out, Sylvie and
Stephanie exchanging little shrugs as soon as they were outside Kate's purview. Sylvie raised her eyebrows and nodded
in my direction, and Stephanie scowled back at her-Steve's
scowl in graceful miniature. I followed Jane, surprised at how
confident and serene her step had become, as we walked
barefoot across the soft grass of the back lawn, to the gardening shed, which was down near the river, and where Steve
was waiting to harness and bridle us.

He hadn't had time to take off his dark blue butler trousers, but he'd put on a fresh pale-yellow oxford cloth shirt.
I thought of an actor in a repertory company, who has to
double up on roles, making bits and pieces of costume do
double duty during quick scene changes. The trousers were
disconcertingly stodgy and butler-like, even with the leather
suspenders dangling down his hips. But the shirt, the cuffs
folded one impeccable turn up over his powerful forearms,
was every bit as much a costume. I mean, he was clearly playing the role of Steve now, whose job it was to get us harnessed
and bridled in no time flat.

I watched Jane, wondering how she'd respond to being
harnessed up her first time. And she surprised me, bending
and opening so eagerly and obediently that you couldn't miss
how much she was enjoying Steve's hands on her. Oh dear, I
thought, I don't think this was supposed to happen.

Steve led an eager Jane and a slightly grim Stephanie
to a pole, attaching their collars to the long thin chains that
hung from the top, in a kind of maypole arrangement. They'd
circle the pole, Jane copying Stephanie, as Steve put them
through all the elementary pony gaits-walk, trot, canter.
It's how you begin pony training, you know, and it's not as
easy as it looks. But it all seemed blurred, somehow, by the
confusion in the air-confusion that I felt inexplicably guilty
about, as though there were a way that I, and only I, could
set things to rights.

Although what, realistically, could I possibly do, standing there in my boots and bridle and tail? Well, if you could
use the word realistic to describe the scene at all. Maybe, I
thought, I'd better just chill out and enjoy the ride.

It's not my problem, I thought, as Steve harnessed us to
a two-seater pony cart on the path by the river. Hey, I told
myself, as he pulled straps and buckles tight against me, I'm
only a pony, and I'm not responsible for whatever strange
emotional muddle these people have got themselves into.
The tight harness held me upright when I almost blacked
out for a few moments after the clips came off my nipples.
And then I just enjoyed the breeze, and the moonlight on
the river, and the feel of Sylvie-her warmth, her breath, her
smell-strapped and harnessed next to me. Kate stepped
into the cart, with Andrew after her, and snapped the whip
over us; we trotted obediently, sharing our understanding of the reins' tugs at our mouths, the whip's sting at our asses.
After you've raced, you know, a gentle night trot can seem
like the height of polite civility. Although toward the end I
began to wish that we could go faster, so that I could show off
more. But maybe, I thought then, she didn't want us-meto get too tired. Because maybe, later tonight, when she was
finally finished with Jane and Andrew, maybe, I thought, Kate
would. . .well, I was afraid even to think about it.

But she didn't. She kept Stephanie with her that night, and
Steve put Sylvie and me to bed in the nursery, chaining us so
that we couldn't touch ourselves or each other, and warning us
not even to think of whispering. Silly of me to have imagined
anything else, I thought, willing myself to sleep, to forget the
day's confusions and frustrations. And when I did sleep, my
dreams were crowded with sitcom and fairy-tale characters in
lascivious positions, eagerly sucking and eating each other,
within overlapping dream narratives that gobbled each other
like snakes swallowing each other's tails.