Safe Word: An Erotic S/M Novel (11 page)

Abashed, Stephanie got the question right this time, and
Madame graciously assented, pulling off the lace coverlet and
sitting up straight and whippet-like against the pillows.

She added that she would not mind it if Stephanie cried
out, and Stephanie thanked her gratefully as she slid into
place.

Madame became more contemplative then, stroking
Stephanie lovingly for a minute or two, moving her subtly,
spreading her out better, probing her a little, until we all
heard some timid moans.

Life's a banquet, I thought, at least for Madame. Well,
a pretty sumptuous midnight snack, anyway, with me for hors d'oeuvres and Kate the main course. And now she had
this delicious little tarte tatin to finish off with. If she ever
finished.

The first sharp crack of her palm took me by surprise.
She was a hard spanker, the blows making much more noise
than I'd expected. And they continued to rain down, in
intense, concentrated fury, Stephanie crying out but staying
still.

I looked up at Kate, standing at the side of the bed.
She still had the cock on-and I was hard too, if rather less
imposing-looking. "Let's get out of here," I whispered. I supposed that Madame wouldn't have minded it if the two of us
rutted around on the floor while she occupied herself in bed.
But I was getting tired of Madame.

Kate nodded.

"She'll send her back when she's finished with her,"
she said with a shrug, and reached to undo the straps around
her hips.

I put a hand on her wrist.

"Leave it," I said.

She grinned, and we started digging through the pile of
clothes on the floor, sorting out whose suit was whose, pulling on our pants and stuffing our hard-ons into them.

And by the time we were ready to make our disheveled
exit, staggering out of there arm in arm like drunken sailors
smuggling bazookas in our pants, the blows had subsided,
and Stephanie had slid back across the bed, her face now in
Madame's crotch. Madame, not bothering to look at us, made
a happy, absentminded little wave of a jeweled hand in our
general direction, as she began another of her interminably
slow triumphal arcs toward climax.

He didn't ask me whether I'd enjoyed the story this time.

"Turn around," he said. He'd been sitting up against the
headboard and I'd been sitting between his legs, his hands
around my front, his cock growing against my ass. He wanted
me on top of him now, to move me up and down, to make
me come repeatedly, his hands tight around my hips, my
breasts bouncing. He wanted to exhaust me, as Madame had
exhausted him. Done, I thought, curling up beside him, panting and breathing out the occasional soundless shudder when
he stroked my thighs. I felt a little one-upped, realizing how
easy I was-well, especially after a year of not being able to lose
myself in my own enjoyment. But it's also because I'm young,
I thought then, smiling to imagine myself someday becoming much fussier and more demanding-a middle-aged lady
of voluptuous and gourmandizing appetites. It was something
to look forward to. Well, depending on how things worked
out, I thought, suddenly much more interested in the fact that
(speaking of appetites) I was starving again. We'd managed
to simplify life in a charmingly utopian way-reducing it to
food and sleep, sex and storytelling-and now it was time for
food again. The rain had dropped off to a drizzle. So we went
exploring, and found a neighborhood restaurant, where they'd
listed tarte tatin on the blackboard in the window

"Ahhhh," I breathed an hour later, blissfully downing
the last bite of apple and crust and vanilla whipped cream, as
he nodded to the waiter to bring our coffees.

"I'm going to tell my next story right here," I announced.
I wasn't sure why. Probably because I wanted to make him
sprint-or hobble, perhaps-back to the hotel. Well, because I thought I needed some sort of advantage. Because, damn it,
was Kate going to be in all his stories?

But I didn't have time to think that one through right
then. I had a story to tell, after all.

I wish Madame had let them punish Stephanie publicly,
for the entertainment of her guests. So you could have told
me what nasty rituals she, or her trainers, had dreamed up.
Because it's my experience that that's where they really like to
get funky, at those punishment ceremonies. At Mr. Constant's
parties, for example, if the token master had found any lead
demerit markers in your coinbox, you'd have to go line up at
a special punishment station. It was a panel of wall-mounted
dildos. And for every lead token, you'd have to bugger yourself on one of those dildos for fifteen minutes. You'd have
to hold your hands at the back of your neck-part of the
punishment was the awkward, exhausting crouching position you'd have to assume, while you ground your hips like
a demented go-go dancer. And guests could fondle you, or
flog your front, taking turns with the floggers that hung from
hooks at the punishment station. It was worse, I thought, for
the guys-people wouldn't leave their cocks and balls alone.
They looked so "out there," I guess.

But the hosts at other parties had other, equally fiendish, punishment rituals. And since I often got at least one
demerit token in my box, I got to know them all, to be a sort
of connoisseur, you might say.

Parties like that were a big part of my life. Mr. Constant
would give one every six weeks or so, and he'd go to a fewand bring us, of course-during the weeks in between. Parties
like that were one of the things that Annie trained me for.

But first-that first day on the island-she showed me
the lay of the land. After I'd dozed in the straw for a while,
she prodded me awake with her boot, and led me outside.
There was a pony cart waiting for me, with a pile of pony
gear-harness, bridle, whip, and tail-on the seat. Of course I
was familiar with the cart's basic design-shaped more or less
like a plow or a big backward wheelbarrow, but with two big
spoked wheels on the sides. The spokes were a rich, mellow,
brass color, as were the little door handles and tiny lamps at
the front (for night rides, I guessed). Otherwise it was matte
black, the seats inside a rich buttery chestnut leather. It made
the red and black and gold coaches I'd pulled at "Sir Harold's
Custom Ponies" seem as tacky as the name of his establishment. I felt absurdly proud that I'd be pulling something this
sober and elegant.

Annie put the bridle on my head, jerking the bit far back
into my mouth. It was a thick steel bar, and it distended my
mouth and made me gag as she buckled it into place, the
heavy leather straps meeting at the back of my head. She
turned me around and I bent a little so that she could insert
the dildo, with the long horse tail connected to it, into my
asshole. She pulled the straps of the belt that held it in place,
my body welcoming the parallel restraints at my mouth and
ass.

I knew how to be a pony. I was even a little vain about
being a rather good one, but I was afraid that maybe I was
kidding myself, that her standards were so high that she'd be entirely displeased with me. Anyway, I tried really hard
to hold myself in a proud pony stance, while she harnessed
me to the cart, grunting as she pulled the straps snugly into
place. She did it quickly-I remembered how competent her
hands had looked, managing Tony that morning. And when
she finished, she gave my ass a hard slap, which I chose to
interpret as a good sign. And then she came up front, to show
me the whip she'd be using, and she doubled it in her hand
and caressed my breasts and then my face with it. I arched
my back, rubbing up against the worn leather of the whip.
I strained my neck, pushed against the bit a little, so that she
could see that I wanted to use my mouth, I wanted to kiss the
whip, to show her how hard I was going to tryy "Save it, asshole," she chuckled, getting into the cart and cracking the whip,
and signaling with the reins that she wanted me to gallop.

Good. I wanted to go fast, cover ground, see everything.
Blue sky, rocky terrain, fluttering silver leaves of olive trees.
Downhill from us, a big stone amphitheater or athletic field.
I figured I'd see it again, but not today, I guessed, because
we started uphill. The high boots they'd given me fit me well,
and their soles were thick. I was glad, because I needed all
the help I could get. The path wasn't steep, but I knew that
the constant effort of running uphill would catch up with
me eventually. Still, I didn't want to slow down until I absolutely had to. But hey, I realized as I felt the whip catch me on
the ass, she wasn't going to let me slow down anyway. And I
didn't know what would happen when I became so exhausted
that I'd have to.

Well, I wouldn't worry about that just yet. It was warm
and sunny, early afternoon, and a bit of salty sweat was dripping into my eyes, bouncing prisms off the dusty colors in the shining light. Her hands at the end of the reins were quiet,
eloquently articulating their desires through the tugs I felt at
the bit in my mouth. I didn't know if I was crying out against
the bit or if it was silencing me, but it didn't matter, because
you wouldn't be able to hear my cries-not over the noise
of the cart on the road and of my pounding feet. And now
we'd rounded the crest of the hill and there was the sea all
around me. Some parts sparkled, and some looked still and
deep purple, and I could see tiny islands of black rock off the
shore: I half expected that Sirens would be sitting on them.
Annie didn't use the whip a lot, just when I'd break rhythm,
when I'd become dazzled, distracted, by the colors of the sky
and sea. She's onto me, I'd think, pulling my eyes away from
the landscape; she knows what I need.

We hit some more level ground now, a road through an
olive grove. The light and shade dappled the rocky path in
front of me. She slowed me to a canter, and then a trot as we
came into full sunlight. She began to be more critical of my
form. "Shoulders back, knees higher, tits up and out," she
cried out, using the whip for emphasis. I concentrated on my
center, knowing that my arms and legs and shoulders would
become more graceful as well. Just a little extra energy to the
legs, to lift the knees.

We circled a meadow, and I got my first view of the
house. And I was so curious that I forgot all my good resolutions about focusing my entire attention on my form. I was
disappointed at first. It seemed surprisingly small, gray stone
and whitewashed stucco. And then we wheeled around to
the right, and I could see that it was immense-built down
into the cliff, stairs and terraces leading out from many bright
expanses of windows, artfully weathered wooden doors. It must storm here sometimes, I thought-I imagined being
naked, chained, fucked, beaten, out on one of those terraces
in a storm.

A sharp tug to the left on the reins, the sensation at my
mouth spreading down my body, answered by the inevitable
sting of the whip on my back. She didn't have to yell anything
to me. The whip seemed to speak in her voice. "Enough sightseeing, asshole," it seemed to say, "get those knees up. Now!"

And I did. I stopped seeing anything that I didn't have
to see just a bit of path, a slice of sky, a flare of sun refracting through the sweat dripping into my eyes. Just enough to
know what came next and how not to lose my footing. I performed for her, following her hands at the reins, at the whip. I
tossed my head, wanting to show her how good I was at this.
I lost myself in the thunder of the wheels and my feet and
heart, and the occasional lightning crack of the whip.

But now I was beginning to get tired; I was sure Annie
could tell, too. I could feel my muscles start to tremble but
she wouldn't let up. She was using the whip more sparingly,
but only because I wasn't giving her reason to use it more.
I was aware of every muscle-or perhaps just the ones I
needed, the belly muscles to hold me up straight, and the
ones in my legs, my ass, to keep my knees rising as elegantly
as I could and my feet falling as squarely. No more showing
off and head tossing. Just-silently-doing it. No matter how
I looked. I knew I was drooling all over the bit-I had to in
order to open my mouth widely, to keep breathing deeply and
evenly enough.

My god, would she ever stop? I experimented with a
slightly slower trot and she flicked me lightly against the ass. I sped back up immediately. Okay, sorry, I'm convinced.
Yes, totally.

Don't waste energy hoping to stop. Simpler merely to
resign myself to it-we'll do this for the rest of our lives,
I thought. It's not interesting and it's not worrisome. It's just
what I have to do. Flawlessly. Elegantly. And there was nothing now but the pull of her reins at my mouth and the rhythm
of my trot and a dreamlike haze of sun and exhaustion.

So I hadn't even noticed that we'd circled back to the
corral. I was shocked to hear her "whoa" and to feel her reining me in. I tried to stop smartly, next to the fence, but it
came out a bit ragged, and I realized that I was trembling all
over with exhaustion and dripping with sweat. She took off
the harness and bridle, but left on the tail. And she rubbed
me down hard with a towel-I was afraid I'd get chills, but
I was starting to feel better. I closed my eyes for a moment. It
would feel good just to lie down in the sun and sleep....

The hard slap against my flank brought me back to consciousness-I opened my eyes. She had her belt unbuckled
and her fly unzipped. Uh-oh. How long had I been dozing on
my feet? I got down on my knees as she rolled her jeans down
over sharp little hipbones, a small cunt covered with silky
black hair. An eager, swollen clit, right up front. I focused
on her salty excited smell. I'm in for it, I thought. I'm going
to be punished terribly for not realizing that she would want
to be eaten. She was dripping onto my chin, as I carefully
licked her out. I wondered if she was thinking about the ride
or anticipating the punishment to come. My mouth, my jaws,
were trembling, it felt as if all my muscles were going to give
in to massive exhaustion, and when she came jabbing her pelvis forward in several sharp thrusts-I finally let myself
collapse at her feet.