Safe Word

by Molly Weatherfield

  "Come over here," Kate said in an icy voice. She was sitting on the side of the bed, the shiny black cock rising impressively from her lap. Stephanie quickly crawled over, her hands still at the back of her neck. Kate lifted her chin in her hand, looking at her searchingly.

  "So you think your masters are here for your amusement?" she asked, very softly.

  "Oh, no, Kate," Stephanie sobbed.

  "Or perhaps you'd like to judge us too, award us prizes, hmmm?"

  "No, no, Kate, of course not."

  "I don't think you really deserve to wear that pretty prize anymore, do you?" Kate took it off, roughly.

  "No, Kate," quieter now, but more deeply humiliated, and also adjusting to having the clips off, and the slaps to her breasts that followed.

  "I think a spanking," Kate decided. "It will hurt her, but it won't add any more marks, just a nice, deep, velvety pink background for the ones she's already got. Stephanie, ask Madame Roget if she will honor you by spanking you as you deserve."

  But Stephanie had gotten a bit carried away by the proceedings, and pleaded tearfully to be spanked as long and hard as Madame possibly could.

  "Tacky, darling," Kate admonished her coldly. "I said, ,as you deserve.' Don't give yourself airs. Madame will decide how long and how hard."

  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.

  CARRIE

  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.

  CARRIE'S STORY CONTINUES

  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.

  She gave me about five minutes, and then she kicked me to a standing position so that she could take the tail out, tossing it into a basket, I guessed for an assistant to deal with. She took my leash out of her pocket, reattaching it to my collar.

  "You'll get down on your knees when we go into the house," she said.

  The good news, she told Mr. Constant, was that I had some talent as a pony. It had taken me a while to find my stride, she added, but she knew how to get to it now, and we could work on that. Yes, maybe even train me to race.

  He nodded, pleased, from behind a big, scarred, old wooden desk. It was a small, surprisingly plain office, adjoining a bigger workroom. I'd seen Stefan in the other room, behind a computer, as well as some other youngish people, also at computers, or at phones and faxes. A dark, slender woman with big almond eyes had looked up curiously from her screen for a moment, before Mr. Constant closed the door between the rooms. The only luxurious thing about the office was the French windows behind me, leading to a long deck. We were on the cliff side of the house, Mr. Constant peering down at me against a wide expanse of darkening, late afternoon sky over the sea.

  But the bad news, she continued, was that except when I was harnessed up as a pony, I was horribly spoiled.

  "I'll show you," she said, and commanded me through the series of presentations I'd done before lunch, but this time with a running commentary to Mr. Constant. I was slow here, she pointed out, self-indulgent there. "And look at thi
s, will you," she continued, "she seems to think she's being touched and examined for her own pleasure." I stopped listening about halfway through, completing the exercise in a haze of shame and a shimmer of tears, kneeling up and hanging my head miserably.

  "She practically expects you to say please and thank you," Annie concluded. So any training she could give me would be a waste, on top of those bad habits.

  Mr. Constant looked disappointed. "You're not going to let me have her tonight, are you?" he asked.

  "Well, you're the boss," she said.

  "But you're the professional," he answered. "I rely on your judgment. What do you want to do with her?"

  "Lend her out for a week to all the people who work around here. The stables, the garage, the kitchen. She doesn't understand any Greek, which is good. Let her figure out what they want from body language, gestures, snaps of the finger. They'll let her know if she gets it right. And if she gets it wrong....

  She picked up a basket from a low shelf, retrieving some hardware from it. I felt her attaching something to the ring at my neck. A slender chain, two chains. And at the end of each, an implement of punishment. From one, a cat-o'-nine- tails, and from the other, a switch made of a bunch of twigs bundled together. The chains were long, perhaps four feet. The whips would dangle on the floor, even if I were standing.

  "I want them to be able to get a good swing," she explained to Mr. Constant. She put a leather belt around my waist and tucked the doubled-up chains in it. She nudged me to my feet, so that he could see how well the arrangement worked. The cold, jingling chains wouldn't get in the way of my walking or crawling. And if someone wanted to punish me, the whips were easily accessible, the chains easy to pull out from the belt. She demonstrated, once, with the bunch of twigs against my ass. And yes, she could definitely get a good, painful, stinging swing.