Safe Word: An Erotic S/M Novel (24 page)

"Pretty pony, isn't he?" I asked, stroking his head under
his bridle. "I've reserved him."

The man smiled, and the girl nodded her head slowly.
"He's beautiful," she said, in a low, tuneless voice, almost so
quietly that I couldn't hear her.

The man put out his hand. "Arthur Geist," he said. "And
this is Ariel."

His name was distantly familiar. He'd written books,
I thought-semiotics, that sort of thing. I introduced myself,
exchanging some urbane guy noises with him, while Ariel
stared politely into the middle distance. She looked so bored
with the two of us that I wondered if perhaps she was his
daughter. Or a student he was going to have to fail.

"Nice dog, too," Arthur was saying, crouching down to
stroke Kate behind the ears. She was still panting a bit, but
she wagged her tail and licked his hand politely.

Ariel nodded absentmindedly, and then turned back to
Randy. "May I?" she asked me. Her skin was very pale, bluish
in the shadows of her cheekbones. And her dark blue eyes,
under long black bangs, were just the slightest bit too close
together.

I nodded, and she ran her hand slowly over his belly.
She cradled his balls, and I saw her little pink tongue dart out
and wet her lips. She stroked his cock a little with her thumb,
lightly grazing it with a dark-purplish fingernail. Using her
other hand, she pinched one of his nipples and then slapped
his face with a sudden, percussive motion. Randy continued
to breathe evenly behind the bit distending his mouth, but
he widened his eyes.

"You use a whip when you drive him?" she asked me.
There was a hint of Valley Girl syncopation underneath the
flat rhythms of her speech.

"Of course," I smiled, showing her the whip, which was
on the front seat of the cart.

She drew in her breath. "Oh," she said, "it's lovely"
She looked about nineteen, but I didn't think she was. She
could, I thought, just as easily be twenty-nine. I liked that
indeterminacy about her-doubtless a function of a very
skewed personality development. I was beginning to enjoy
this. Especially with Kate sitting at my feet and watching me
warily.

"Have you ever driven a pony?" I asked Ariel.

"God, I wish," she said. "But I have used a whip." She
took it from me, inspecting it thoughtfully, weighing it in
her hand. Arthur watched carefully, giving a small, delighted
shudder.

Dope, I said to myself. She's his mistress, of course. His
domme. Amazing-he's so smugly self-confident that I didn't
realize he's the bottom. But now that I'd gotten it straight, I
could see it clear as day. He drives over to her place south
of Market, I thought, in his little BMW. She rings him in,
he rides the industrial elevator up to her loft. Maybe she's chewing gum while she lets him through the industrialstrength security system. She knocks back a beer while he
takes off his clothes-the camel hair coat, the very neat little
Italian loafers. And she doesn't smile until she's beat him to
a pulp.

"You'd be a good driver, I bet," I said to her. "There's
room for two in the cart, if you'd like to join me." I could
see a shadow of concern for Randy pass over Kate's face.
Laudable, but a little inappropriate in a puppy. "Watch it,"
I muttered.

Ariel climbed into the seat. "Wait here, Arthur," she said.

"Of course," he said. And to me, "Should I watch your
puppy for you?"

"Thanks," I said, pulling Kate to her feet sharply, by the
ring in her collar, "but she'll enjoy running alongside the
cart." I climbed in after Ariel.

I showed her how to signal Randy what direction to go
in, and how fast. "I'll work the brake," I said. "You just concentrate on driving." I didn't bother saying anything about
the whip, just handed it over to her, admiring the strength
and elegance with which she snapped it.

"I want him to gallop," she said in her determined
monotone, as she drove him on. He was galloping a lot faster,
actually, than I'd been planning on, especially with the extra
weight in the cart and Kate running alongside. I sneaked a
look at her-dancing and capering, snapping at shadows and
butterflies. She was breathing hard, but she wasn't winded,
so I let Ariel do what she wanted for a while. But I was still
uneasy. Not that I could tell Ariel. I wanted her to like meand to think I was as tough as she was.

"If you go slower," I said, as we reached a sunny straightaway, "Randy will show off his form for you. Correct him if
you think he needs it." I felt like a child psychologist, trying
to cajole her to behave.

She did enjoy putting him through his walk-trot-canter
routines, and he didn't disappoint her. He performed for her,
preening and prancing his exhibitionist little butt off. A more
experienced driver might have disciplined him for what was
in fact a disgustingly self-indulgent performance, but hey.
She loved it, and that was what I cared about right then. That
and keeping her under control. Anyhow, she seemed to have
decided that we were friends, because, as we headed back
to the corral, Randy in a graceful, leisurely trot, she turned
to me. "Do you ever go out and get yourself whipped?" she
asked pleasantly, not exactly smiling, but showing her small
sharp white teeth, with very pointed canines.

"On occasion," I said.

"I mean," she said impatiently, "by anybody besides
her?" She jerked her head in Kate's direction.

I had to laugh. Smart girl.

"Yes," I said, thinking of my recent session with Brewer.
"Well, on rare occasions," I added.

"Take my card, then," she said. She didn't give it to just
anybody, was the implication.

I'd expected the card to have heavy metal motifs emblazoned on it. But it just said ARIEL, in twelve-point Garamond,
with a phone number. Nice expensive stock, no design or
slogan at all. I put it in my wallet.

"It's a pretty name," I said.

"It's not my real name," she confided, as though I'd find
that difficult to believe.

"No, I guess not," I answered.

"But my real name would be like the worst, the world's
worst name for somebody who does what I do."

I'm not good at guessing games. "Lucretia?" I asked.
"Pollyanna?"

"Dominique," she said tragically. "My geeky parents
named me after Patricia Neal in The Fountainhead. Can you
believe that?"

Poor baby. On impulse, I leaned over and kissed her
mouth. She let me, though you could hardly say she kissed
me back. I wondered what exactly she did for sex. Well, for
recreation, you know.

"Come to dinner tonight," I said. "Bring Arthur."

She didn't respond to that. We were approaching the
pony ring now, concentrating on using the reins and brakes
together to come to a graceful stop. We did pretty well, too. A
stablehand came running out to meet us, to unharness Randy
and start to rub him down. Ariel turned to me and reluctantly
handed me the whip. "Thanks," she said, "that was fun."

And then she stepped out of the cart, putting her highheeled boot squarely into Arthur Geist's waiting, cupped
hands.

I got a rag from the stablehand, to rub Kate down. Didn't
want the sweaty puppy catching cold. She was exhausted.
And filthy. It was a hot, dry day, and she'd been running in
the cloud of dust that the cart's wheels had raised. Her hair
was matted, and sweat was making filthy rivulets down her
body. Her eyes were red and teary, too. I rubbed her gently,
thoroughly. She kept her eyes down, shivering a little. The
stablehand led Randy away to be hosed down, and another
stablehand came and wheeled the cart away.

Ariel turned to me. "So," she said, "what time should we
come to dinner?"

Kate looked up sharply.

"Eight," I said, "I'm in the big guest suite in the big
house."

And there it was, finally, the outrage I hadn't managed
to create any other way, writ huge across her face. Mess up
my cook's dinner preparations, Jon? You wouldn't dare, not
even you! Her chin lifted. Her eyes flashed, green electrical
storms.

I slapped her, sending her sprawling.

"That's three," I said coldly, while warmth flooded my
groin.

I'd brought the blunt little dog whip along with me,
tucked in my belt. I pulled it out now and raised my arm to
flog her. But wait a minute.

"Hey, Ariel," I said, "could you help me out here?"

She took the whip from me. "Cool," she said.

"But," I frowned, "I wish I could sit down." I was undoing my pants.

She shrugged. "Use Arthur."

He made a good bench, down on all fours.

I didn't have to tell Ariel what I wanted. Well, we all
understood what I wanted, especially Kate, on her hands and
knees in front of me, her mouth full of me, milking me with
her lips and playing with me with her busy puppy tongue.
Give it up, Kate-no responsibilities toward cook or clients today. Just to me. She winced, shuddering from time to
time, when Ariel pulled off a particularly nasty snap of the
whip, and she began to cry about halfway through, her tears
silently streaking down her dusty cheeks. But she never broke rhythm, never lost her focus. She drained me, and then, staying in puppy role, dribbled some cum down her chin and
onto the ground in front of her.

I almost lost it there, I was so charmed. Just as she knew
I'd be-Kate probably hadn't given sloppy head since we'd
been teenagers. "Bad puppy," I said severely, catching my
breath and somehow managing to maintain the rhythm of the
script. "Lick it up."

I stood up and hugged Ariel's skinny shoulders. "Lady,"
I said, "you got some wrist. Thanks."

She had her eyes on Kate, though, delicately lapping at
the little spot she'd made in the dust. "She was good," she
said in a distant voice.

"Yeah," I said briefly, "I know. See you at eight. Heel,
Kate."

When we got back to my rooms, Steve was waiting on
the deck.

"Get her cleaned up," I said, "and fix her up for this evening. Bring her back after she's gotten some food and rest." I
hadn't really wanted him there-too much like he was checking up on me-but I wouldn't have trusted anybody else to
treat Kate as a puppy while I wasn't watching. Sylvie and
Stephanie would have just brought her back to her own huge,
claw-footed bathtub, dumped in a whole bottle of healing
rosemary bath oil, and, after they'd gently rubbed her dry with
warmed towels, knocked themselves out giving her a massage
and a pedicure. No, it was only Steve who'd wash her off in a
big galvanized tub outside the stables with an ordinary scrub
brush, feed her some water and dog food before giving her a
nap in the straw, and then fix her up according to plan and
bring her back to me.

He probably was checking up on me, too, but Kate
looked so calm (even if exhausted) that he couldn't find any
cause for complaint. Well, not until I told him that I'd invited
Ariel and Arthur to dinner and would he please take care of
the arrangements. He grimaced at that, before he led Kate off,
leaving Sylvie and Stephanie to take care of me.

A bath. Sylvie got into the big sunken tub along with
me, scrubbing me gently, shaving my face expertly with a
straight razor, and then handing me over to Stephanie for a
massage. And while I rested for a few minutes on the massage
table, I heard the two of them fussing with the chairs and
umbrellas out on the deck, making sure I had a nice shady
spot for lunch. Berries for dessert, served on a silver tray that
Stephanie hugged to her front-the strawberries and raspberries and blueberries were heaped around her breasts.

"Clean off the berry stains," I told Sylvie, and she licked
away all the reds and purples, while I sipped minted iced tea.
And then finally a nap, inside, with just a little bright afternoon sun slanting through the blinds, the two of them curled
up on either side of me, each sighing contentedly whenever
I chose to stroke her.

My friend Tom arrived soon after that, for a pre-dinner
game of racquetball. He'd get to stay the night, too-the suite
included a guest room.

"Oh, and I forgot to tell you," I said afterward, in the
Jacuzzi, "we've got a dinner guest. Arthur Geist."

Tom whistled. "The Arthur Geist?" he asked. "The guy
who wrote Semes, Memes, Genes: Sites of Limnal Alterity?"

I glanced over at Kate, half hoping to see her sneer at that
monstrous title. But she was calmly retrieving the ball Tom
had tossed her, as though she didn't understand a word we'd said. Well, what would a puppy care about semes or memes?
Especially the gussied-up show dog we'd found waiting for
us when we'd gotten back from our game.

Incredible job Steve had done on her-I doubted that
she'd gotten any rest at all while we'd been out playing. She
had a poodle tail now, with a curly, silvery little ball of hair
at its end, tied in a little pink bow. Her hair was curled into
humiliating Shirley Temple ringlets, the ones at the sides
flopping over like puppy ears, the one at the top tied in a
bow to match her tail. My poodle, with her lips and toenails
lacquered a bright, tasteless pink. Her nipples, too. And her
pubis was shaved, to show that its lips were also outlined in
that awful pink.

We fucked her a little, with the handles of our rackets,
and now we were tossing her the ball, which she'd fetch in
her mouth, sitting very straight at the edge of the Jacuzzi.
She wasn't as quick as she'd been in the morning though,
because they'd tied her hands into little mitten-like booties,
and doubled her legs back, strapping them into place. So
it really was like she was getting around on four paws, on
her balled-up hands and bent-back knees, her back arched,
tail held high. But she still managed to retrieve the ball each
time. I wondered, idly, what I'd do to her if she missed one of
my tosses, if I threw it a little too hard and it bounced a little
too high, over the deck's railing and out into the yard.

"Arthur Geist," Tom was shaking his head. He's better
read than I am, and he was extravagantly impressed. "Wow.
If I'd known, I would have spent the week cramming."