Safe Word: An Erotic S/M Novel (22 page)

"Oh, yes," Jonathan said, "this will do very well."

The old man told me I could get dressed then, that we
were finished. He unbelted the tail from me and pulled it out
brusquely. I unlaced the boots and handed them back to him.
Of course there was no question of my taking off the collar
and cuffs. While I was dressing he wrapped the riding crop
carefully in brown paper. And when we were ready to leave,
he gave it to me to carry. I knelt to take it, and to kiss his
gnarled, age-spotted hand.

"And if you ever race her near Paris, Monsieur," he said,
as he escorted us to the door, "please let me know. I'll come
and I'll bet a thousand francs on her." Jonathan laughed and
assured him he would.

The lingerie store was in a much classier part of the
city-in Passy, where the great courtesans in Colette's stories
used to live. Of course there was a dressing room here, quite a
roomy, comfortable one, its chairs upholstered in warm peach
velvet. Otherwise, though, the experience was fairly similar
to the one at the saddle maker's-well, nastier, actually, in
ways.

Not that I didn't love parts of it-like feeling the salesgirl's little hands rolling the fine, black, seamed silk stockings up my legs, and attaching them tightly to the garters hanging down from my waist. And I loved the feel of the corsets
themselves. I imagined them being handsewn in convents,
by wistful novices who'd never get to wear them, but who'd
dream about it sometimes, in shadowy, troubling images, very
late at night. They were so expensive, these productions of silk
and lace and cruel steel ribbing, that Jonathan was getting the
royal treatment from the sales staff. The pretty shopgirl, with a
cute, retro smock over her sweater and short skirt, flirted with
him while she fetched and carried items for me to try on. And
the severe-looking store manager in her credible knockoff of
a couturier suit pointed out the fineness and subtlety of the
stitching. Of course, Jonathan might have gotten that kind of
attention even if he'd been spending less. But I could see from
the glances the women exchanged that they were genuinely
impressed by the money he was laying out.

And I could also see that they were annoyed at me, for
watching them. There wasn't enough time to lace me really
tightly, since we were trying lots of garments. But they did
pull the laces as sharply, as spitefully, as they could, every
chance they got. They'd pretend to explain something to
Jonathan-you see the curved panels here, Monsieur, and the
double seams at the back-but the real point would be my
gasp as the corset's ribs suddenly dug into me. They shoved
me here and there, staring insolently at my collar and cuffs
and at the stripes and bruises on my ass. I knew their contempt was salted with envy, but it was powerful for all that
and I lowered my eyes under its force.

Which didn't stop them. They kept at it until they finally
realized how much Monsieur was enjoying the show they
were putting on for him. It was one of his nastier modes, his sneaky way of politely and innocently inviting other women
to torment me. And by the time they'd figured out what he
was up to, it was time to wrap up the prets a porter and tally
the custom orders, to be sent to him later, in California. They
were a bit stiff and sullen with him then, but he thanked
them politely, with that infuriatingly modest smile of his, for
all their sage counsel and charming assistance.

Oh, and we did another errand in between. One that
was more unambiguous fun-well, for me, anyway. After the
scruffy Bastille neighborhood and before the snooty sixteenth
arondissement, we stopped at the street called Gaite, with its
all-day sex shows, sex toy emporia, and peephole theaters,
to get me some shoes. Nothing made to order here, just your
basic trashy sex shoes, with six-inch spike heels, pointy toes,
and ankle straps that locked with little keys Jonathan put in
his pocket. The skinny, unshaven proprietor, wearing tight
red and black striped pants and a Fabulous Freak Brothers
T-shirt, tutoyered both of us as comrade sexual outlaws,
gesturing expansively with cigarette-stained hands as he
delivered a rambling lecture on the theme liberte, egalite, fra-
ternite. His interpretation would have surprised Robespierre,
I thought, but it would have made total sense to the Marquis
de Sade.

I loved the nutty speed-freaky theorizing. Although
when the peroration got to identity politics, both Jonathan
and I almost lost it-him in fidgets, and me in suppressed
giggles, watching him contain himself. He hates situations
like this, I thought, times when the lower orders-artisans,
salespeople, receptionists-forget that they're only bit players in his movie. He needs them to fuss over him, he floats
through life on their ministrations (in an earlier century, he probably would have called them "tradespeople"). And he
thinks they should keep to their places; he almost shudders
when they intrude their own agendas. Fancy bastard. In an
earlier century, I grinned to myself, tradespeople might have
sent him rolling off to the guillotine. But, I chided myself, I
probably wasn't allowed to have thoughts like this any more.

And, in all fairness, the speech had thrown us off schedule. Jonathan had also wanted to buy me a dress to wear that
evening. But Freaky Francois had taken up so much time
that when we'd finished at the corsetiere, it was too late to
do anything but head back to our hotel. I had a dress in my
backpack that would have to do, though just a dark red
pullover sweater that came down to the middle of my thighs,
but it was cashmere, with a big cowl neck. I had rolled it up
carefully, so that it wouldn't wrinkle, and I spread it out now,
on a chair next to the large three-part mirror in our hotel
room.

Of course, I would have preferred wearing something
Jonathan had chosen for me. But it didn't really matter. The
essentials were in place. I'd been outfitted. Fitted out. Pressed
into service. Rigged and appointed for use.

I gazed at my reflection, the new collar and cuffs, the
black corset buckled tightly around my waist. Fetishism, I
thought-fetishism is commodities talking dirty. Inanimate
objects calling the shots, brute matter laying down the law.
Jonathan had been right the night before. I'd looked silly
without restraints-sloppy, dreamy, forgetful. I needed to be
put in my place. To be called to account by leather pressing
against my throat and steel nipping at my waist. To be thrown
off my natural, accustomed balance by spike heels that tilted
my pelvis way back and flaunted my ass. I couldn't speak without permission, but the fetishes were loud and insistent-a chorus, a carapace, of ritual and regulation. Of rank
and authority, hierarchy and order, my mute bruised body a
perpetual novice in orders.

"Fix your makeup," Jonathan had said a few minutes
earlier, when I'd lifted my head from his cock. He'd reached
into his pocket and handed me a new lipstick, in a dark plum
color, almost black. It would need to be precisely applied.
Going outside the lipline would make me look clownish.

"It's time to go to dinner," he called now, as I carefully
blotted my lips. (He'd taken my watch from me that morning when I'd reached to put it on.) He was still lying on the
bed, in bluish early evening shadow We hadn't turned on any
lights except the bright one I was using for my makeup. I could
see his legs, reflected in the mirror, his long, narrow feet. My
makeup looked okay, I thought.

"Put on your dress and let me look at you," he added.
I pulled it down over my head, smoothed the skirt around
my hips, and moved the cowl neck downward, slightly, in
front, so that-if you wanted to-you could see an inch or
so of leather at my throat. I turned toward him, eyes lowered
and dark mouth slightly open.

And he didn't give me permission to raise my eyes until
dinner. To his silky gray shirtfront, bisected by a paler gray
tie. And his shoulders, his dark jacket, silhouetted against a
planter filled with gaudy parrot tulips. And his eyes flickering
like candlelight. He leaned forward on his elbows, and smiled
lazily.

"It's been a nice day, hasn't it?" he asked. I agreed that it
had, Jonathan.

"And all in all, you've been very well behaved," he continued. I thanked him, but I wasn't sure I liked that all in all.

"Of course," his tone sharpened, "you had rather too
good a time at the shop on Gaite. I'll have to punish you for
that." I thanked him again, for catching that.

"But even if you hadn't betrayed that little slice of attitude, I'd be planning to beat you tonight, you know, just to
try out the new whip." His smile became savage.

"Tell me, Carrie, do you prefer being whipped as a
punishment or to give your master pleasure?"

Actually, I'd given some thought to that conundrum.
I mean, I never exactly prefer being whipped-but, well ...I
took a breath, choosing my words carefully.

"Well, Jonathan, being punished is more, uh, necessary.
I mean, it's sort of like keeping accounts straight. But being
whipped purely for a master's pleasure, well, it's more profound. And a whole lot more difficult to bear." I heard my
voice tremble at the end-I was remembering the saddle
maker touching the ends of the new whip together. I arched
my back, feeling the sting at my nipples. Jonathan watched,
nodding appreciatively.

"Good," he said, "that's clearly put. Well, the first five I'll
give you will be for Gaite. And then the rest-I don't know
how many it'll be-will be for my own pleasure. It'll be nice
knowing that you understand."

He took my hand and kissed it.

"It's nice, isn't it," he continued, "being out in the world
like this, I mean. We'll take more trips like this. There are
other interesting venues for this sort of thing. Some of the
Eastern European cities, I'm told. Tokyo. Hong Kong, too."

"Yes, Jonathan," I said, "it's very nice. And will you be
entering me in many pony races?"

He looked down at his plate for a moment. "Well, sort of,"
he said, looking unsure of how to continue. And then he took
a deep breath. "Look," he said, "You want to know the terms
of our arrangement. And you're right, you've been very patient
and good, but you've got every right to know But I need to tell
you one more story, before you'll really understand...."

I would have thought that being censured by the association
and disciplined by Brewer would have wiped out the stain of
my little transgression. But it wasn't that easy. Because Kate
was still furious at me. I called her-dozens of times-but
she wouldn't answer or return my phone calls. They even
turned me away at the gate when I drove up to her place in
Napa. Finally, desperate, I hit on a plan.

I phoned again, but not her personal number. This time,
I phoned her appointment secretary. I'd never actually used
the number, though I'd given it out once or twice. It had
gotten lost from my Rolodex, and I'd had to call Uncle Harry
to get it. I explained what I wanted to do-I wasn't surprised
that he already knew why she wasn't talking to me.

"You can use me as a reference," he assured me.

"Thanks," I said, "I intend to." I'd lined up a pretty highpowered list of references already. The phone calls hadn't
been pleasant, but everybody had finally been willing to help
me. And vastly amused, it seemed, that I'd gotten myself into
this mess.

The appointment secretary was new, and hadn't heard
of me. I was lucky there, since the old secretary might well
have hung up on me. But all this new young woman seemed
to know was that I wasn't in the computer system. Well, I'd
never been a client, after all.

"But I am a longtime membership of the association,"
I said. I could hear her computer keys clicking as she pulled
up that database. "And I've got some good references."
Which was what she really cared about. Mr. Brewer, Madame
Roget...her polite, businesslike voice notched up a bit on the
receptivity scale.

"I'm faxing you an application right now, Mr. Keller," she
said. "And if you're accepted, Ms. Clarke will want to schedule an introductory interview"

The fax was coming through my machine as we spoke.
Kate's obsessive about keeping her technology up-to-date.
I scanned the pages quickly Good-they'd included a nicely
done-up brochure, listing all the services she provided.
The application form had lots of questions (long answer,
short answer, multiple choice), and a blank page for a personal essay. The overachiever in me found it very reassuring.
Getting into Kate's, I promised myself, wouldn't be all that
different from getting into Yale. There was no return address
on the application, just the fax number.

"Thanks," I said warmly, smiling as I said it and hoping
she could hear me smile through the phone lines. "Yeah, I
think I've got everything. Thanks for all your help, Ms. Green.
You'll be hearing from me very soon."

Kate charged by the hour, by the afternoon, by the day, the
evening, and the weekend. She didn't preside at every encoun ter-but the brochure I pored over made it clear that she had
to know you pretty well before she'd leave you alone with
Sylvie, Stephanie, or Randy, or any of the others. Well, she'd
probably know you by the time she'd read your application. It
was logically constructed, and the instructions were clear and
to the point. I was impressed, and then surprised that I was
impressed. What did I think she did all day, anyway, when
she wasn't with me? Of course, the unpleasant truth is that
I'd never thought about it one way or another-she'd always
treated me like a pasha when I'd visited, and that had been
good enough for me.

I breezed through the short-answer questions. But
here were some paragraph-long items that would take some
thought. I sharpened a pencil. I needed to work these out on
scratch paper first.