Safe Word: An Erotic S/M Novel (5 page)

"Yeah, sure, try that part," Stefan said in a bored tone.
And it wasn't very difficult to hook the little tabs of cloth in
place, so that the skirt was lifted, front and back, to expose
my ass and cunt.

"Keep it rolled up while you wait for him," Stefan added.
He'd been thanking the dressmaker, tipping her, perhaps.
I heard the door shut behind her, while he turned off some lamps. "You can sit on that bench until fifteen minutes before
he comes for you-I'll let you know when that is."

I thanked him. No need for him to expand on those
instructions. I knew he meant that fifteen minutes before Mr.
Constant was due, I'd move down to the floor, in the center
of the room, to wait for him on my knees. And that there was
no need for me to know what time it was now, or how long it
would be before that happened.

They're not exactly boring, those long stretches spent
waiting for a master. You're hyperconscious of your bodyyou hope it will be pleasing, after all the preparation and
grooming it's had. You breathe with your whole body, which
is so open and displayed and ready. You're a little afraid of the
moment when you'll be judged, examined. You're afraid but
you also can't wait-to be seen, to be touched, to be commanded, forced, used.

I don't know how much time passed while I sat on the
iron bench in the darkening room. There was a clock ticking
on the mantle, but Stefan must have turned it around while
I was asleep, so that I couldn't see the time. I watched stars
appear in the evening sky, and I looked down at my body, and
at my dress. The bustier felt even tighter than when I'd been
standing, and my breasts swelled, plump and white, over the
bra that barely covered the rouged areolas of my nipples. The
odd, synthetic material of the skirt billowed to either side of
my waist, iridescent as insect wings, crinkly as gift wrap, surrounding my pale thighs and dark naked cunt. Even with the
skirt unhooked, so that my cunt and ass would no longer be
visible, so that we could go out-and I knew we'd be going out,
this was a dress for going out-this was a dress for announcing precisely what I was. In some ways it was simply a setting for the collar and cuffs-the way some black velvet evening
gowns are settings for fabulous diamond jewelry. I swallowed,
resolving to wear my restraints proudly. And then I snorted,
wondering where I'd copped that pretentious thought.

I quickly stifled the snort, though, at the sound of
Stefan's footsteps. Down to the floor now-he pointed out
the spot with his toe, training a reading lamp at it, and dimming a few more of the other lamps. And perhaps because
he'd told me I'd wait fifteen minutes, it felt like an eternity
until he led Mr. Constant into the room. I was surprised by
the edginess in the air; it was the first time, all afternoon, that
I'd wondered what Stefan might be feeling about any of this.
I could feel how relieved he was when Mr. Constant commended him on the dress and chuckled appreciatively at
how my ass had been marked. Stand up, turn slowly, Stefan
commanded me. Let down her skirt and get her cloak, Mr.
Constant told him, before leading me quickly and silently
to the elevator and outside the hotel, down a few crowded,
brightly lit downtown streets to a restaurant. Showtime.

I followed the maitre d' across the floor, the big ring in
my collar catching the light of candles on tables, Mr. Constant
walking close behind me like an impresario, my cloak over
his arm. I could hear murmurs. I blushed, but kept my chin
lifted, even higher than the collar forced me to. I could feel
my nipples stiffen, my cunt get wet, my whole body open and
swell under the stares directed at me.

An image floated into my mind. I guess I thought of it
because we were going to Greece the next day, but it was from
an old fantasy, one I'd played over and over again, late in bed at
night, during high school. I was naked, chained from a collar
much like the one I was wearing now, the chain tugging me along behind a chariot. Booty of war, a slave captured at Troy,
following barefoot behind the warrior who'd loaded me on
his ship. He'd also got a wagon full of pottery and weavings,
and some sheep and goats. The little Greek island kings had
squabbled, had even come to blows once, over how to divide
the spoils, especially the pottery. It had been raucous, cruel, violent, petty-like the rest of the war. They'd enjoyed it. And now,
ship safely in harbor, we were marching through the gates of his
city in a victory parade. The crowd lining the road seemed huge
to me-I tried not to look at them, but I could hear, I could feel
them-drunk, laughing, jeering. I thought I could hear them
that night in the restaurant, though it was really just the tinkle
of silver and china and crystal, and perhaps a few polite gasps.

Chill, people, I thought. If I can deal with it, so can you.
But it's probably easier for me. Because I have to concentrate
on walking in these shoes, and breathing in this dress, while
you can hang out at your tables feeling... well, what are you
feeling? Shamed curiosity, self-shielding contempt, outraged
desire? Or envy, which is what Mr. Constant is really hoping
for. He wants you to desire me, and to envy him terribly.
And I know this because it's what I want too.

It couldn't have taken more than two minutes for the
maitre d' to guide us across the restaurant. But it felt like an
hour, with that Technicolor epic running in my head. And its
coda, when everything caught up with me.

As we entered the private dining room at the back of the
restaurant, Mr. Constant whispered, "Bravo." I smiled. It was
the first thing he'd said to me.

A waiter held a chair for me. I lifted the stiff, oddly smooth,
and crinkly skirt when I sat down-it wasn't exactly something you'd sit on. The seat cushion tickled my bare ass. My cunt
was moist; I was going to leave a sticky little wet spot on the
dusty-rose velvet. I sat as straight as I could while the waiter
fussed with the flowers and glassware.

"And pull her dress down," Mr. Constant added, "so that
I can see her breasts."

The waiter's hands were deft, circumspect. He used a finger to lift each of my breasts out of the bra cup that held it,
and to fold the stiff cloth below it. My breasts rose under Mr.
Constant's gaze, their painted nipples standing at obedient
attention. I kept my eyes down while the waiter answered all
of Mr. Constant's questions about the menu, and disappeared
silently.

Mr. Constant and I looked at each other across the table.
That is, I looked at the flowers, the silverware, his hands,
everywhere but his face. And I felt him looking at me all
over, sternly, while I struggled to manage my body, my eyes. I
realized that he was speaking to me.

"...Much better," he seemed to be saying. "I'm glad you
take instruction so well. You'll have to learn a great deal of
patience and control. But you seem to be making a good
start.

"You can look at me tonight," he continued. "I know
you've been waiting for me to tell you a little about what you
can expect. And you can ask me some questions."

I raised my eyes, slowly, past his wide chest and shoulders,
the aggressive set of his short neck. He had salt-and-pepper
hair, in a brush cut. Large, blunt, decided features, ruddy
skin, large pores. And the glinting gray glasses. I was glad
to be able to look at his face, but I was disappointed by how
little it revealed, with the glasses hiding his eyes.

"You like being publicly displayed, don't you?" he asked.
"You like it much more than you thought you would."

"Yes, Mr. Constant."

He nodded. "I thought you'd respond that way," he said,
"but it was just a guess. It's a relief to know that my buyer's
instincts were correct. Because I intend to show you, on the
dressage circuit."

I'd seen dressage shows, of course. You'd taken me to
some, Jonathan, to show me how much I had to learn about
submissiveness. I thought of the participants, offering their
open, vulnerable bodies to an enthusiastic crowd, to judges
who would decide which of them had presented the most
appealing and comprehensive tableau of availability and obedience. I knew how much control it took, and I didn't think
anybody in their right mind would enter me in a difficult
competitive event like that.

"I employ an excellent trainer," Mr. Constant was saying.
"You'll receive a lot of instruction. Of course, it will take a lot
of work, but I think you'll try hard for me. I think you'll want
to present your body in all the difficult, painful modes we'll
teach you."

I found that I didn't quite have the breath to give sound
to my assent, but I mouthed the words, whispering that yes,
Mr. Constant, I would try very, very hard.

"But ultimately," he said, "I see you as a racing pony.
I find pony races very entertaining. Have you ever seen
one?"

"Uh, no, Mr. Constant."

"We'll take you to one, so you can see. They're loud, fast,
a little dangerous. And people bet large amounts of money"

"But Mr. Constant," I said, "I've only had a week of
beginning pony training, and I've never raced or competed
at all...."

"Yes," he nodded, his glasses opaque in the candlelight,
,,the odds will be stupendous."

I thought of protesting, but of course I couldn't do that.
I giggled instead, nervously.

He didn't seem to mind. His body spread out a little in
his chair, his neck relaxed a bit. "I'm rather an arriviste," he
confided. "I wasn't born so wealthy-I've just perfected a
few tricks that seem to work very well in the current financial environment. We work from my place in Greece, mostly,
except when I have to go to New York from time to time.
But the way we approach the market-it takes very good satellite technology and lots of time and concentration. So my
only amusements, really, on the island, are the occasional
party and checking in on your training-yours and Tony's.
And then attending the races and competitions where you're
shown.

"I suppose," he said slowly, "that outside of my
work-outside of the risks and quick decisions and highstakes-
what I most enjoy is a disciplined body, painfully bound and
displayed for my entertainment, either at a public competition, or at night, in my room."

"Will it be very painful, Mr. Constant?" I felt my voice
wobble.

"Painful enough to entertain me," he said somberly. "You
can buy slaves, you know, whose specialty is pain. But I know
you're not one of those. And neither is Tony. I prefer material
like you, it turns out-fast, eager learners who can be taught
to bear what they have to, but who never quite get used to it."

He seemed to have scoped it out pretty well.

And then he added, laughing a little, "Oh, and don't
waste your time wondering whether I'm really one of those
tycoons whose dearest wish is to be tied down and beaten.
I've met a few of those gentlemen, but we don't seem to have
much in common."

"Well, uh, it all seems very, uh, simple, Mr. Constant." It
scared me a little. I didn't know if I'd be good at simple.

"You'd like a bit more mystery," he nodded. "Hidden
motivations, complex revelations. Ah, yes, like your Jonathan."

How did he know this about me? I didn't know how
much information the auction people collect, in the folder
that's available to interested buyers. But I guessed there would
be some pretty elaborate psychological profiles in there. And,
oh shit, of course-he'd read your note, Jonathan. Well, after
all, I thought, Stefan wouldn't have given it to me without
routing it by his boss first. He'd read it and he seemed to
find it amusing. Or perhaps not so amusing. A hint of rancor
crept into his voice.

"Oh, yes," he said, "I've met him...he puts in an occasional appearance at a party or exhibition. I think Ms. Kate
Clarke must have introduced him to me a year or two ago."

He grimaced slightly.

"Quite the master," he said, "for a girl who's read so
many books. Fancy bastard. Handsome, too. And he seems to
have had all the time in the world to amuse himself by playing at being in love with you. Kept you guessing, I expect.
Was he really in control of things?, you wondered-or was
he secretly pining, no, what's the word? oh, languishing, yes,
that's it, was he languishing for your little soul?

"He wants you to guess about it all this year," he added,
"on my time. Well, you have my permission. As long as your
body is obedient. I'm less concerned about your soul, I guess,
than he supposes he is.

"He spoiled you terribly," he concluded, "but he didn't
ruin your good instincts. I think a little simplicity, as you put
it, will improve you tremendously."

"Avignon," he chuckled, as the waiter came back into
the room with the first course, "Avignon, March 15 next
year-well, the Place d'Horloge is a nice venue for a reunion.
And we'll keep you too busy to fret much about it in the
meantime. But," he trained his glasses at me, "it's rather an
old story, don't you think, Carrie?"

"Yes," I said softly. "Yes, thank you, Mr. Constant."

And then we both turned our attention to the food that
the polite waiter was setting out. Oysters. Very cold, with a
peppery sauce. Lots of them, too, piles of them. I'd never had
oysters where you didn't have to count how many you could
have. The waiter opened a bottle of wine. He didn't make a big
deal of staring at my breasts, but he didn't look away either.
I dipped an oyster into the sauce and swallowed it slowly.

"It's very good, Mr. Constant," I said.

"Yes," he answered placidly, the rancor drained from his
voice, "and it's nice to watch you, Carrie."

"Thank you, Mr. Constant," I breathed, trembling.

"What else did you talk about?" Jonathan asked sourly. Well, it's
no fun being dissected so neatly by someone you have absolutely
no memory of meeting. Still, he enjoyed thinking of her, eating oysters in her pretentious collar, bare, painted breasts above the
punk Roissy dress.