Safe Word: An Erotic S/M Novel (23 page)

You know, Kate. You and your family had gotten home
from South America two days before. We'd hardly spoken to
each other at the welcome-home party-we'd been too busy
assessing all the ways each other's adolescent bodies had
changed during the year you'd been away. I skipped school
the next day, to meet you in the garden shed. I don't think we
planned it. I just knew you'd be there.

But was that the first, really? How about all the years of
peeking and grabbing before that? Places we'd begun to put
our fingers and our tongues. I don't remember a first first.
Not really. Do you?

The first time we slept together, all night long. I'd bribed
your brother not to rat on me-not to tell anybody that I
wasn't in his room, in the top bunk. I got all tangled up in
your long, fine, straight hair-I woke up with it around my
neck and in my mouth. We'd had to squeeze together in your
bed (it was still a little girl's bed, shaped like a sleigh), but
we liked that. We couldn't understand why grown-up couples, who were allowed to sleep together, would want those
enormous beds they always seemed to have. Wasn't the idea
to be touching each other every place you possibly could be
touching, tangled in each other's hair, mingling your breath?
Flowing into all the nooks and crannies of each other's bodies,
intertwined?

Summer. That summer we'd ridden our bikes down a different road, and had peeked through the fence at Sir Harold's
Custom Ponies. We'd stood there staring for hours, fascinated. And had been caught, with our hands in each other's
jeans. Well, maybe we'd wanted to get caught.

When you told me that you didn't want to be with meexclusively with me, I mean-forever.

Well, that was some of the first draft, anyway. I'd have to tone
it down and polish it up before I sent it in. Moving right along
to the SERVICES DESIRED section....

I put a big check mark in the box next to WEEKEND SCENE.
For thirty thousand dollars, you can be Kate's slave for an entire weekend. Funny, isn't it, Carrie, that you got almost
that much for free?

And then, in small block letters, almost as evenly spaced
as the print, I added (WITH VARIATIONS; SEE ESSAY).

Because I wanted a weekend, all right, but not the one she
was offering. I didn't doubt that it was a hell of a packagecustom designed, with costumes and staging and equipment
and the three little cherubs in attendance. Paced slowly, like a
nineteenth century novel just the thing for somebody kicking back after a week of hostile takeovers or big movie deals.
Maybe later, when I'd earned it. But right now....-

I turned to the essay question, where I explained that I
wanted to design a weekend scene where I'd be the master, and
Ms. Clarke the slave. Of course I knew that she wasn't in that
kind of business. And I would have bet that, over the years,
she'd gotten so good at what she did do that she could hardly
remember the last time somebody had forced her to her knees.

He frowned slightly, in response to Carrie's almost imperceptible
change of expression.

"Well, we're both awfully busy with our lives," he said, as
though she'd asked for a faller accounting. "I mean, we fuck a lot
whenever we see each other, but playing like that... well, especially with her doing it big-time, for a living... well, she, I......

She dropped her eyes slightly. You don't have to explain
it to me, Jonathan. You don't have to explain anything to me,
remember?

The application would get her attention, anyway. It was an
audacious shot, but I'd told the truth about us, in a lot of ways, and I wasn't sorry. And as for how she'd respond-well,
I'd just have to wait and see.

She let me sweat it out for two weeks. Finally, I got a call
from a slightly addled-sounding Ms. Green, telling me that
Ms. Clarke agreed to the weekend. For forty K.

"You got it," I said jubilantly. As though I could actually
afford it. As though I could have afforded the thirty, for God's
sake. But I'd worry about all that later. Right at that moment
I didn't care about anything, the expense, the planning. I was
going to get to see Kate, that was the important thing. I hadn't
realized just how much I'd depended on seeing her when 1
wanted, even if sometimes (well, when you were with me),
I'd let months go by between visits.

Ms. Green set up a planning session with Steve, he'd
drive down to my house to discuss the arrangements. Kate
wouldn't know the nature of the scenario ahead of time, so
he'd be in charge of all the details and the staging. And the
menu-Saturday night dinner, for me and a guest.

He was polite, took copious notes, and made it abundantly clear that if it were up to him I'd never darken their
doorstep again. He drank a lot of my liquor, too, though
he didn't show any effects. I felt uncomfortable-Bertie
Wooster to his Jeeves-flaky, irresponsible, Kate's regrettable weakness. And then I got pissed. All those veiled scowls,
and the little grimaces under his mustache. Oh, fuck you, I
thought. I knew he was imagining whaling hell out of me
with that little rubber plug of his. It made me want to flirt
with him, to camp it up a little, just to annoy him back.

Is he jealous? I wondered. But I knew he wasn't, not
really. He was devoted to Kate, but he had his own life, his
own haunts and habits. No, what he was really trying to do was protect her. Not physically-he just didn't trust me not
to take emotional advantage of her. Which wasn't flattering
for me to contemplate, but I could see why he might put that
kind of construction on things.

I took a deep breath. We needed to shift gears, if we were
going to make this thing work.

"Uh, Steve," I said hesitantly. "Look. I'd, uh, like it if
Kate really enjoyed this weekend. So, I mean, could you help
me? Please?"

And he did, too. I owe him.

Well, I thought contentedly, relaxing in the Jacuzzi on a
sunny Saturday morning three weeks later, they do take good
care of you here, at her place. Not that I was surprised, but it
was fun to see it as a client, rather than whatever I'd been all
those years. I'd begun with breakfast out here on the deck a
couple of hours earlier-hot rolls wrapped in a linen napkin,
silver coffee pot, a bunch of violets in a bright little china
pitcher. And my four slaves-Sylvie, Stephanie, Randy, and
Kate-kneeling at attention, their heads bowed. Nice. Randy
poured me juice and coffee, and brought me the papers and
a dog whip. And after I finished eating, while I was drinking
my second cup of coffee and he was lighting my cigarette, I'd
had the three women stand up and show themselves to me.

Sort of the standard presentation, of course-more or less
like the one she staged for Andrew. Only this time it wasn't
a frightened client standing between Sylvie and Stephanie,
but Kate herself. In cuffs and collar, corset, heels, stockings.
Lowered eyes and darkly painted slightly open mouth. And
her breasts evenly rising and falling below my gaze. I was very moved, but I forced myself to stick to the script Steve
and I had outlined.

"Damn it, she's too small, this one," I murmured, lightly
flicking a bit of cigarette ash over her breast. "She's pretty
enough, but she's really too little." She is a good four inches
shorter than Sylvie and Stephanie, she's always wished she
were taller. "Too small to be a good slave," I repeated, but
then, brightening up, always the good sport, "but, hey, I bet
she'd make a cute puppy"

She played her part meticulously, remaining passive and
docile while a frightened Sylvie undressed her. I smacked
her belly lightly with the whip. "Ass," I said, and she turned,
bending and opening so that I could insert a dildo and belt
it into place. The tail attached to it was short, grotesque, a
stubby little thing with wiry hair on it, like a terrier's.

"Sit," I said sternly.

And then, "Wag your tail, Kate." She became silly,
adoring, obsequious, licking my fingers clumsily and eagerly,
without any grace or dignity at all. And when I disciplined
her with the whip, she whimpered and howled.

"Naughty puppy," I said, smacking her nose with my
rolled-up newspaper. And then I snapped my fingers for
Sylvie to bring a large white china bowl of water, a tureen
almost. "Drink it all," I said to Kate, pushing her neck down
with my foot. She wasn't quite fast enough, though, so after
she finished I punished her by muzzling her, and attaching
her leash to a post in the deck's railing. The wood of the deck
would be hot under her knees, I thought, sliding into the
Jacuzzi. I closed my eyes, luxuriating in the quiet, the sound
of birds in the trees, and the distant jingle and rattle of a pony
cart on the path. As I said, they take good care of you there. I might have dozed off, had I not felt Stephanie's fingertips in
the spaces between the muscles in my shoulders, smoothing
out the tightness.

Was that a whimper? Too faint, too shy, I thought. No
need to move so soon. I bent my head a little to kiss the fingers of Stephanie's right hand. No need, certainly, to open my
eyes yet. And again, the whimper-plaintive, a whine almost.
"Damn," I said, stretching.

I opened my eyes, turned my neck to look at her. A little
flushed from the bright sun, and still up on her knees at attention. And she had to pee. She tried not to move, but I could
see the tension in her thighs, the tightness in her belly. She
whimpered again, through her muzzle, humbly pleading with
huge, sad eyes. I sat up straighter in the water and motioned
for Sylvie to light another cigarette for me. And I watched
Kate watch me smoke it slowly.

But now we were finally out for a walk, Kate crawling
behind me in heavy little boots, kneepads, and gloves. My deck
had some back steps down to the garden, but I hadn't used
them. I'd led her out to the hallway, and she'd followed me,
carefully descending the big, curved, graceful main staircase
on her hands and knees, past the maid rubbing the newel post
with lemon oil, through the entry hall, and out the front door.

I wondered if she'd be feeling the pebbles through her
kneepads, as we ambled slowly down the path. "Heel," I said
sharply, bending to sniff the lilac hedge. The flowers were
doing nicely-the phlox, the impatiens, delphiniums and
poppies and beds of lavender. We'd pored over the seed catalogs together when she'd redesigned this path. Of course, she
couldn't pee here.

"Come on," I said, tugging at her leash. "Good girl."
The words had slipped out. But damn it, she was being too
good. Well, I'd known I'd have to work against her fearsome
self-discipline.

We crossed to a pretty meadow between the lawn behind
her house and the stables, the dressage ring, and the bridle
paths that led into the hills. I headed toward a stand of eucalyptus, and yes, good-here were two of her clients, a young
woman, dressed only in thigh-high red patent leather boots
and torn, faded jeans, and a naked young man kneeling at her
feet. There were fresh stripes across his chest and back. And
now, I thought, he was in for a more unusual treat.

I led Kate in the couple's direction, feeling her leash
grow taut in my hand as she hesitated. She knew what I had
in mind. "I felt that," I said mildly She whimpered, her eyes
pleading and puppylike. Please Jon, she was telegraphing
to me, please, not in front of my guests. "You're a naughty
puppy," I said, jerking her leash, "getting me out of my
comfortable tub when you didn't really have to pee. Well,"
I turned sharply, "let's go back to the house. Perhaps you need
another bowl of water."

She bowed her head resignedly, and I turned again, back
to the couple in the meadow-he was standing now, his legs
spread wide, and she was probing his balls with a shiny little
metal device. But they both turned to look at us.

"Sorry," I called, "I didn't mean to disturb you. I'll be on
my way as soon as the puppy does her business."

And that was fun, their dumbstruck looks. They dropped
roles and stared at each other in astonishment. Can that really
be her? I could read in the young woman's expression. And oh
yes, here was his urgent nod back. Absolutely. Oh, my god, it is her, Liz, I know it, I can tell-she was unforgettable, that
first weekend when she showed you how to whip me. I'd recognize her anywhere.

She was peeing now. You could hear it, hissing as it hit
the dusty ground. A weak little stream, her muscles were
probably too cramped to let it out any more quickly. Good.
It would last longer. She was squatting, her hands behind
her back, her eyes-in her muzzled face-open to my gaze.
Helpless, needy, open, exposed, and (finally) humiliated. It
didn't last nearly long enough. The couple by the trees were
transfixed, watching her shake herself now, to get rid of the
last drops.

(It had been Steve's idea. "But," I'd asked hesitantly, "is that
okay? I mean, don't her clients depend on her, for a certain
image, you know?"

He'd nodded solemnly.

"Most of them," he'd said. "But there are a few who'd
be... honored."

And somehow, he'd seen to it that they'd been in attendance that weekend.)

"Roll over," I said. And I laughed to watch her get all tangled
up in her leash. I hunkered down to scratch her belly and
she gave a low growl of pleasure, rolling around at my feet,
sniffing at the inseam of my jeans, and then back up on her
knees, licking my face rapturously after I unhooked the tangled leash and took off her muzzle. And when I picked up a
stick and tossed it into the meadow, she scrambled off as fast
as she could go. We zigzagged across the meadow that way, me throwing, her fetching. Just a boy and his dog-Timmy
and Lassie-sweaty and carefree on a sunny spring morning.

All the way to the paddock, where Randy had been
harnessed to a cart. He looked quite beautiful in his tail and
harness, and he'd attracted some admirers. Interestinglooking people he was posturing for-the small, dapper man
with beautifully cut short white hair, the skinny, striking,
neurasthenic-looking girl. I smiled cordially at them. Time
for some grown-up games.