Safe Word: An Erotic S/M Novel (27 page)

"Hands over your head," he said, climbing onto a chair
to slip a chain through the hook that was mounted in the
ceiling. He didn't have to tell me to arch my back, to spread
my legs-so that I could balance better, be more open. I knew
all those things, I did them without thinking.

I heard a clock strike somewhere. I think it was three
in the morning. I remember the first blow, my stifled scream
behind the nauseating gag. And then he whipped me until I
fainted.

At least, that's what he told me afterward. He'd used smelling
salts, he said, to bring me around, after he'd unfastened the
hooks of the corset. I couldn't remember much, but I didn't
think that I'd fainted from the pain. It had been the dizzying
effort to understand what was happening to me.

Jonathan and Kate, I thought, rotating their names
around in my mind. My goodness. It would be like having
McCabe and Mrs. Miller. Well, if you could call it having
them. I mean, they'd be the ones doing the having, wouldn't
they? Slaves exchanged between lovers. Always the most valuable. I thought I might swoon again if I thought about it
too hard.

He'd been disconcerted by my fainting. I'd never done
that before, and he wasn't sure what to make of it. And I
couldn't help him, though part of me wanted to. But my vertigo and confusion, and the detachment that they seemed
to produce, were making it hard for me to know what I was
feeling just then.

He rubbed salve gently on my ass, after using a wet towel
to wipe away the little bit of blood he'd drawn. I could see
that the blood had freaked him. Drawing blood was against
the rules of the association, and Jonathan believed in rules.
Especially after his run-in with Mr. Brewer. In any case, if the
terms he'd outlined to me were a little much for my imagination, the blood and fainting were all a little much for the
control freak in him.

He brought me brandy, stroked my face, gave me drags
of his cigarettes. I lay on my stomach, facing the window. The
clouds were clearing, and the sky behind Montmartre was
turning to that inky predawn blue that makes you realize how
soon it will be morning. He took off my shoes and stockings.
He even loosened my collar a notch.

He told me things, stray marginalia from his stories,
odd, confessional fragments of meta-narrative. "I didn't want
to tell you about Kate, you know, until after you'd agreed to
come back to me. I wanted you to come back to me, not to
her and me. And I'm still a little afraid that you'll become
more devoted to her than you are to me."

"I do care about you, you know," he concluded, sadly,
but a little aggressively, a little self-importantly, as well. Yes, I
thought, and as I reviewed all the stories we'd told each other these last days, I'd be able to figure out exactly how much. It
might be a complex pattern, but it was a finite one, a closed
system. I closed my eyes, seeing things I'd seen and things
I'd just heard about-Kate a riot of Renoir flesh in a red armchair, Jonathan kissing Ariel in the pony cart. Everything not
just itself, but a sign of power or passion or need. I'd be a
cipher in this system, a tremulous ground for communication
and fantasy. They'd use whips to write each other love letters
on my skin. And they'd tease and torment each other-by
how he indulged me, or she fine-tuned my discipline.

I felt dizzy again. Alice falling down the rabbit hole,
flying past cupboards and bookshelves, maps and pictures on
her way down to the center of the earth. Free fall through a
closed system. But it wasn't really a closed system, I reminded
myself. Not quite. It had a leak-somebody had sneaked in
uninvited, an outsider had imposed his own point of view.
I found myself concentrating on that rogue viewpoint, that
intruder's eye pressed to the keyhole. When you're losing
your balance you can steady yourself, you know, if you
concentrate your vision on a still point somewhere in the
distance.

Jonathan stroked my head, and put a sheet and a comforter over me. They were light and warm and silky, and didn't
hurt my welts and bruises too much. I thought I'd be able to
sleep.

I remember that the sky was grayish when I drifted off.
And I don't remember him coming to bed. I think he was still
sitting up, smoking and drinking brandy and watching me.

'didn't see him when I woke up late the next morning either.
.There were croissants and pain au chocolat and coffee in a
thermos pot for me, and I was almost indecently hungry. My
muscles were stiff, and my ass hurt, but really, it was nothing
I wasn't used to. And as for last night's sadness and confusion-well, it's funny, isn't it, how you can fall asleep entirely
confused and wake up clear-eyed and confident about what
comes next. I got out of bed, stretching my body in the daylight that was streaming through the big windows. It was
almost noon-a beautiful, unseasonably warm, gloriously
sunny day. I did some yoga and lots more stretches, and took
a shower. And then I ate the food and drank the coffee, made
up my face, and got down on my knees in the pool of bright
sunlight in the middle of the floor to wait for him.

He looked surprised to find me that way when he came in,
carrying a few packages. He looked pleased, delighted really.

"Well," he said, as I bent to kiss his shoes. And when I
knelt back up, he stroked my head. Then he reached behind
my neck to tighten the collar.

"Well," he said again, "let's go for a walk, shall we? We
can have lunch, too."

He handed me the packages. "Put these on."

I was surprised by the pretty, high-necked white dress,
though less so by the elegant, mid-calf high-heeled laceup
boots. "It's such a summery day," he said, halfway apologetically.

"I'll bet there's forsythia blossoming in the Bois de
Boulogne," he added. "Perhaps even jonquils."

It's not as nice a park, actually, as Golden Gate Park in
San Francisco, but it's sort of the same idea. And people dress
a whole lot better there. I was glad he'd bought me the dress.
And the boots, too-they were lovely and much easier to
walk in than the shoes I'd had on the night before. Still, the
heels were quite high, so I had to walk carefully. I was very
conscious of my sore ass and stiff muscles, about keeping my
back very straight despite all that, and my eyes lowered, as
well.

Just like that boy over there, I thought suddenly. Odd to
see somebody else who'd so evidently been whipped recently,
as I had. A lady in a pale pink suit and hat was sitting on a
bench, while he stood beside her, his eyes lowered. He was
slender, very blond, very delicious-looking in a vanilla-colored
shirt and white slacks, boat shoes, and no socks.

Two other ladies came by then, one a bit older than the
other. The older one spoke to the lady in pink, and smiled
at the boy, and then all three women laughed. And the boy
knelt, for just a moment, to kiss the older woman's hand,
much as I'd knelt for the old saddle maker.

I blinked. Was I imagining it, or were there other masters and slaves strolling among the forsythia that the false
spring had forced into bloom? I couldn't tell for sure, but
there seemed to be odd energy freighting the scene. I looked
around. Yes, definitely. I mean, it was clearly a public thoroughfare, with all sorts of people on it, but there was also
a pattern subtly woven through the random population, if
you had eyes to see. Not everybody was participating in it,
but for people who knew the code, it was a kind of parade, a
ritual of display. My eyes were lowered, so I could feel, more
than see, the appraising glances directed at me. I could feel
eyes tracing the outlines of my nipples, marking the shape of
my ass and my black-stockinged thighs under the thin white
linen dress. And noting approvingly, from the care and slight
stiffness with which I was walking, that I'd received a good
whipping the night before. Of course they couldn't see my
collar-the high neck of the dress hid it. But they didn't need
to. Well, anybody who'd need to see it wouldn't have understood any of the gazes and postures, calculating frowns, and
complacent smiles that were being exchanged on those sunny
paths that day.

Jonathan took my hand. Once again, I could tell he was
pleased that I was performing so well. Strange-my whole
year with Mr. Constant, I'd felt as clumsy and eager as I had
the first day. But today I could tell that I really wasn't a beginner anymore. I knew that I could hold my own at Kate's.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

"Yes, Jonathan."

He led me along the path to the edge of the park, to a tea
room, set in a garden surrounded by a high, ornate fence of
old, and slightly rusted, iron.

The room had high ceilings, gilded moldings, friezes of
nymphs and cherubs. I sat very straight at our table, like a
child being taken for a special birthday lunch, and ate the
fancy little sandwiches, cucumber and smoked salmon and
rabbit terrine. We drank champagne and Earl Grey tea, and
Jonathan had ordered poires belle Helene for dessert.

A man in a green sport jacket came over to our table. He
had a dark, weaselly face.

"Is it the American pony?" he asked Jonathan, stroking
my head. "The one who surprised us all at the Hudson River
Rainbow Races?"

I could see that Jonathan was startled to realize that I
had a public, in a manner of speaking. And that he wasn't
sure how he felt about that. Still, he smiled and nodded.

The man grimaced. "I lost seventy-five thousand francs
on that race." He fondled my ear. "And I could not attend
the party afterwards, unfortunately...." He paused, looking
expectant and a little pushy.

"Uh, well, would you care to try her now?" Jonathan said.
And at the murmur of thanks, he said, "Go with the gentleman, Carrie." Across the floor of the tea room, I could see our
waiter turn on his heel, taking our dessert back to the kitchen.

Weasel-face led me to a door at the back of the room. The
waiter standing by it nodded, and we entered what looked
like one of those male smoking clubs you see in movies-big
leather armchairs studded with brass tacks, oriental rugs.
But it was co-ed. I mean, the people in the armchairs, getting
serviced in one way or another, were both men and women.
And there was a punishment corner as well, flanked with
umbrella stands full of whips and canes. A waiter was caning
a red-haired girl who was weeping behind her tight gag. I wondered if her master or mistress had specified that they
use a cane, rather than a whip or a strap or a flogger. Perhaps
all the available implements were listed on a special punishment menu they would bring to your table. Or perhaps the
cane was the specialty of the day.

Meanwhile, my guy led me to a chair and ottoman in a
dim corner. I knelt to undo his pants, and then he lifted the
skirt of my pretty white dress and slapped my ass sharply.
I turned and bent over the ottoman, my face against the
leather, my skirt spread over me like an umbrella blown open
in a storm. He took his time then, surveying the stripes and
bruises that Jonathan had put on me. "Mortel, " he murmured,
before he plunged in. It was the only thing he said the whole
time, dismissing me with a nod afterward when I knelt at his
feet to thank him.

The red-haired girl, I noticed, was kneeling at a little
makeup table now, bathing her swollen eyes and carefully
lining up the paints and brushes she'd need for repairing
her face. She did a good job, too, looking quite lovely when
her waiter led her back to her table a few minutes after I'd
returned to Jonathan. She and her master weren't sitting too
far from us-close enough that I could see that the chair the
waiter pulled out for her had no seat. There was just an empty
circle where the seat would be, like a heavily padded toilet
seat. I wished I had one like it.

Weasel-face came back to our table later, to thank
Jonathan, and to commend him on what a killer disciplinarian he was. I kept my eyes down, nibbling at my dessert,
the pears and ice cream, chocolate sauce and creme Chantilly
that the waiter had promptly brought when I'd returned.
They'd probably had to remake it, I thought, toss out the one that had been on its way when Weasel-face had asked
for me. The creme had probably gotten all runny while he'd
been buggering me. Probably that was why the prices on the
menu were so astronomical-to underwrite the expense of
all those double desserts and other little adjustments it must
take to keep a place like this running smoothly. And the clientele probably preferred it that way, too-the high prices
would keep the place from being listed in Frommer's or the
Rough Guide.

"Yes," Jonathan said, later in the cab, "that's how it will be."
He sounded dreamy and bemused, his eyes on some building and his fingers fiddling with the prickly little hairs on my
cunt.

"It's an interesting feeling," he added, turning to me now.
He moved a finger inside me, pulling me closer to him. "I'm
not used to having to offer you when politeness demands it."
He kissed my eyelids, my cheeks, he probed my mouth with
his tongue, while his finger continued to tease my clit and his
other hand traced the welts he'd put on me.