Safe Word: An Erotic S/M Novel (4 page)

It was dark outside now. I didn't want to get out of bed, but
finally I had to untangle myself from her to pee. Use the bidet
too. Nice. Always a surprise how nice, how sensible.

"We never did have that picnic," she called from the
bedroom. "I'm starving. Where's that food you bought?"
I heard paper rustling.

When I came back in, I found her cross-legged on the
bed, munching a piece of bread.

"Crumbs in bed," I said. Surprising myself by how compulsive I sounded-like a bad parody of myself in a more
commanding persona. Still, there was a perfectly good table
in the corner of the room, with two perfectly good chairs
standing beside it-was it really so impossibly middle-aged
to want to use it? I opened a bag of food, began setting it
out. She shrugged, giggled, watching me search my pockets
for my Swiss Army knife. I cut pieces of cheese, spread
pate on bread, opened the bottle of wine. I set everything out on paper, found the napkins and plastic wine glasses I'd
remembered to get.

"In return," I said, "you're responsible for entertainment.
I want a story from your year." Surprising myself again, this
time by my eagerness to hear, to know, everything. Insults,
punishments, humiliations: all the ways she'd been used,
forced, bound, whipped, punished-how, and (trickier business) by whom. So that I could lay claim, begin to possess
the experiences she'd had this past year. Droit du seigneur. My
right to demand that she spin the straw of experience into the
gold of narrative, for my entertainment. For the edification
and delectation of the gentleman in the audience.

She looked thoughtful for a moment. "Well, okay," she
said slowly, "if you want to. But when we're done eating. And
back in bed."

Fair enough. We were both so ravenous that the food disappeared pretty quickly, and the night air was chilly enough
to drive us under the covers.

"Okay then..." she began, snuggling against me. "Well, I
think I'd better begin at the beginning...."

So there I was, less than an hour after being auctioned off,
kneeling on the floor of a limousine in front of my new master.
I could feel the car's suspension under my knees-we were
driving over cobblestones. We picked up speed on the paved
streets; perhaps the driver had turned onto one of those small
highways they sometimes build around the perimeters of ancient cities. I was naked, under a rough black cloak, except
for tightly laced high boots. I'd been taught some new rules
during my stay in the warehouse: I had to keep my eyes lowered, instead of maintaining eye contact, as you'd insisted. It
was difficult for me-fixing my gaze on his very neat suede
shoes, the thickly carpeted floor, while his hands methodically probed, opened, examined me. I wanted to know what
he looked like. All I'd ever really seen of him were gray-tinted
glasses.

He took his hands away now, reaching for a small package
next to him on the seat. I could hear the faint clink of metal.
Buckles, I thought. He tore open the wrapping paper and I
could smell the leather-I think he was rubbing it between his
fingers, to check its thickness. I relaxed my shoulder blades,
lengthened my neck for him. The collar was tall and stiffI would have to get used to holding my head very high. And
in front, dangling down over the gap between the bones of
my clavicle, I felt a heavy iron ring. Was it three inches in
diameter? Four? Big enough for him to grasp in his hand.

Yes. He used it to pull me down to his crotch, quickly
unbuttoning his fly with his other hand, filling my mouth
with a swollen cock that reached insistently for my throat.
It took some effort to move my head back and forth over him,
with my neck so cruelly bound. I think he sensed that, and
I think he enjoyed it, too, pulling me closer with the ring,
and holding me down firmly while I swallowed.

And then-well, that's easy. Put him gently, humbly,
back in his pants. Straighten out his clothes, with light, deft
hands. And then lean back on my knees-back straight,
head high, eyes down, tits out, waiting at attention in case
he wanted me again. He reached over me to a magazine rack, and selected a newspaper, opening a Wall Street journal and
relaxing behind it, and I realized that he hadn't said a word
to me since... well, he'd never said anything to me at all.
I wondered if he ever would.

It was becoming difficult to stay still. Not just the aches
at my knees or having to keep my balance as the car sped
up and slowed down, but the silence, the poverty of images.
I scanned my memory for stray glances I'd caught of him.
I didn't think he was tall. His hands were large-I had the
impression that he was squarely built, broad for his height.
In good shape for his age-late forties, maybe? I'd heard his
voice, at the auction, when he'd come over to where I'd been
displayed on my little carpeted pedestal. He'd parted my
ass with blunt, dry fingers, and commented to an assistant
about my "pure passion for obedience." His English was precise, accentless; I suspected it wasn't his first language. He'd
laughed a little, when he'd seen how jolted-how summoned
to attention-I'd been by his fingers in me. He was right;
I did want to obey him. Although maybe he'd meant that
I want to obey everybody.

Only now, maddeningly, I didn't. I felt fidgety. I needed
to hear his voice. I could happily obey him, if he'd tell me
to do something, but I was having a difficult time doing the
most important thing of all-which was waiting. I realized
(tacky, obvious, but there it was) that I'd expected him to give
me a little discourse on himself-how tough he'd be-Sir
Stephen informing 0 of his fondness for habits and rituals.
He wouldn't have had to say a lot; just something to give it,
you know, a story line.

Yeah, I told myself, as the limo's wheels rolled over smooth
road and sunlight flickered through the tinted windows, that's you all over, Carrie-life's only real when you've made it into
a story. But the more I scolded myself, the more I found that
I wanted to lift my eyes and peek at him. One peek, I told
myself. Just to see what kind of a mouth he had.

Wide. Determined. The cheeks lined, the jaw squarish.
That was all I allowed myself, through my eyelashes. A little
something to go on, to settle me down for the rest of the ride.
To allow me to imagine what sort of person might have those
hands, that taste and smell. He was very rich, the assistant
had told me. And he liked a bargain.

The car finally stopped in front of a hotel, and he stepped
out and turned, to allow someone to drape a topcoat around
his shoulders. I caught a glimpse of black cowboy bootsStefan, the assistant from the auction, respectfully murmuring
assent to Mr. Constant's instructions: Get her ready, after she's
fed and bathed and rested. "I'll be back for her at eight," Mr.
Constant concluded, in his mild, accentless voice. "Oh, and
give her two strokes, won't you, to remind her to keep her
eyes where they belong."

The strokes had been swift and furious, the first making me
gasp, the second wrenching tears and a few gurgled sobs from
me. And neatly placed, I thought now, examining myself in
the mirror while I waited for the large bathtub to fill.

It was taking a while, even with water pouring full
force out of the taps into the square tub, its deep bottom
sunk below the bathroom floor. Black marble. Ugly, expensive. Black tiles on the walls with a sort of water lily design
etched into them to echo the metallic faux-Monet wallpaper
on the ceiling and upper part of the walls. And too much
light. Too many mirrors, also, in front of me and behind me: I stared curiously at the infinite parade of pale naked girls in
cruel black collars, angry red stripes neatly X'ed across their
infinite parade of asses. It was like seeing the year I'd signed
on for, spread out before me.

I looked tired, my eyes much more deeply shadowed
than usual. I'd been woken up early that morning, to get me
ready for the auction. And I'd stood for I don't know how long,
chained to my pedestal while the buyers had examined me. I
was glad I'd get some time to rest. I just hoped, as I stepped
carefully into the tub, that I wouldn't fall asleep in there.

The hot water felt great, the tingly buttermilk bath
salts soothing my ass. But-no need to worry about falling
asleep-the collar felt even tighter that it had on dry land.
I couldn't dangle my head back as I wanted. And the leather
would stiffen, too, as it dried. Get used to it, I told myself, as
I experimented with how to dunk my head under the water
to rinse my hair. Get used to it; you'll be wearing it all year.

And when the makeup lady woke me later that afternoon, I
wondered if I had fallen asleep in the bathtub after all. But noI remembered then, through an enormous yawn, that after I'd
finished my bath I'd been fed small cubes of cheese, fruit, and
raw vegetables on a heavy white china plate on the floor near
the bed. And given water too, in a big bright yellow plastic dog's
bowl-I remembered feeling grateful that it was the big kind
of bowl, for German shepherds or Akitas, because I'd been so
thirsty. And glad that the pallet, which Stefan had prodded me
down to for my nap, was soft, covered with a sheepskin, and
placed near the floor vent, in the warm air currents.

I was lying on my side, my hands behind my back. Stefan
had buckled a pair of leather cuffs around my wrists, and attached my hands behind my back-I'd had to dip from the
waist to get to the food and water-and he'd also tethered me
in place at the end of a long chain leash. But I must have slept
well, I thought, because I felt a lot better, and amused to hear
the makeup lady-a small, cheerful woman with bronzey dyed
flyaway hair and rouged pink cheeks-imperiously telling me
in French that I must wake up and sit au dell, at the vanity
table across the room, my leash dangling between my legs.

She worked cheerfully and carefully, humming to herself, chattering about what a sweet little boy I looked like
in my haircut, entirely unperturbed, it seemed, by my chain
and nakedness. Was this something she saw every day in this
hotel? I wondered. Or did Mr. Constant's money override
people's usual expectations? I gazed at myself in the mirror.
I looked better after my nap-my eyes huge and startled
above pale pink and ivory cheeks, mouth carefully painted
the color of a purplish bruise-while she rubbed a little more
of the purplish lip gloss on my nipples.

Stand up, she told me. Turn around slowly, while she
considered what else to do with me. She brushed and trimmed
my pubic hair a bit, used a little more of the lip gloss at my
cunt, but that was about all she could come up with, since
I'd been manicured and depilated within an inch of my life
that morning, for the auction. She stroked my ass pensively,
and then she quickly packed up her makeup kit, tossing away
used Q-tips and cotton balls, gently prodding me back down
to the bench, this time facing away from the mirror. "Be good,
petite," she called to me, clattering out of the room on high,
slightly broken-down, platform shoes, the room suddenly
becoming very quiet, the wrought iron vanity table bench
cold and hard under me.

Next act, I thought, hearing a sound at the door a few
minutes later. Opening acts for my own performance in this
commedia, all the characters sketched in broad strokes. The
dressmaker was thin, with features as sharp as the pins and
needles stuck into the front of her dress, her eyes glittering
gray behind spectacles. Her assistant, a bored, chunky teenager
with lots of black eyeliner and a nose ring, grimaced under the
burden of the big garment bag and various other packages, and
chewed bubble gum to the rhythm of the Discman plugged
into her ears. I could hear the tinny ghost of a back beat when
she bent to smooth long black stockings up my legs.

No garter belt-the stockings went high up my thighs
and seemed to cling there. The shoes had very high, straight
heels, straps at the ankle, and an inch of platform sole. The
back beat from the Discman changed slightly as I stood upa new cut, reggae-inspired, perhaps-and I swayed a bit to its
distracting rhythm, my hands still bound behind me.

They let me sway until I got my balance, freeing my
hands then, and unhooking the chain from my collar, to put
the dress on me. It was really two pieces. The top was dull,
matte black, a boned corset with cups for my breasts-a bustier, but with laces in the back so that you could tighten it. And
the bottom was a skirt made of many layers of white tulle or
organdy, one of those tired, old-fashioned-looking sheer fabrics that prom dresses-the good kind, that you get in thrift
stores-are made of. The hemline was uneven, sometimes
above my knees, sometimes below it. And above the organdy
was a layer of what felt like thin, transparent vinyl-well,
more like cellophane really-stiff, iridescent, unnatural.

I heard the skirt's odd rustle as the assistant slipped it over
my head. The dressmaker tugged it here and there, turning it a bit, putting in a few clever stitches near the hem to make it less
even, more raffish. The bustier, now-the assistant hooked it
up the front, pulling at the laces behind me, and then indicating, with a nod and a little shove, that I should walk around
the room, so that her boss could see the effect.

"The darts aren't right." Stefan must have come in
from the adjoining room. The dressmaker murmured what
sounded like grudging agreement, and the assistant rolled
her eyes in exasperation as she struggled to undo the hooks
and hand the corset to her boss for alteration.

Oh, yes, much better, they all agreed, after the adjustments had been made and the garment was hooked up again
and relaced. Even Ms. Discman's eyes widened and her
mouth slowed as she watched my second circuit around the
room. I was still a little tentative; I'd mastered the shoes but
I was dizzy from how tightly I'd been laced-the dressmaker
had pulled them a full inch tighter than before. And when I
passed the mirror, I saw that her alterations had transformed
the dress entirely. Or had I just been too stupid to notice, my
first time around? The tight lacing, the billowing skirt, the
bare, vulnerable expanse of chest below the cruel collar. This
was the Roissy dress, updated as expensive trash, a nouveaupunk pastiche. Involuntarily, I felt around the skirt, front and
back, for the strings, the hooks, that I knew had to be there.