Safe Word

by Molly Weatherfield

  "She is made for a whip like this, Monsieur," the old man said, tracing the furrow of my ass with it. He'd removed my harness and bridle, but I was still wearing a collar and cuffs, high boots and tail. I stood sideways in front of the mirror, my back deeply arched, my ass sticking way out, my head very high. It was a classic dressage posture, and I'd won a contest with it once. I could see that the saddle maker understood the pose, the slope of my neck, the tense line of my belly. My muscles strained to hold position, and I could feel my cunt becoming visibly wet and shiny along its slit in front. Well, that's why they'd shaved me, after all, so that you could see. I felt the old man's critical eyes on me.

  "She is very nicely trained," he complimented Jonathan, who smiled proudly, "and very sensitive." He flicked the whip at me-underhand, lightly hitting the underside of my breasts and just skimming my nipples. The air whistled, and I winced at the sting. And then-quickly, while I was still steadying myself-he rotated his wrist sharply, and swung squarely at my ass, across the welts Jonathan had raised the night before. He did it so casually that you couldn't see how much force he was putting behind the blow, and I really had to work to keep my balance when it hit me. I shuddered, shook the tears from my eyes, and murmured my thanks as formally as I could. Je vous remercie, maitre."

  "Oh, yes," Jonathan said, "this will do very well."

  The old man told me I could get dressed then, that we were finished. He unbelted the tail from me and pulled it out brusquely. I unlaced the boots and handed them back to him. Of course there was no question of my taking off the collar and cuffs. While I was dressing he wrapped the riding crop carefully in brown paper. And when we were ready to leave, he gave it to me to carry. I knelt to take it, and to kiss his gnarled, age-spotted hand.

  "And if you ever race her near Paris, Monsieur," he said, as he escorted us to the door, "please let me know. I'll come and I'll bet a thousand francs on her." Jonathan laughed and assured him he would.

  The lingerie store was in a much classier part of the city-in Passy, where the great courtesans in Colette's stories used to live. Of course there was a dressing room here, quite a roomy, comfortable one, its chairs upholstered in warm peach velvet. Otherwise, though, the experience was fairly similar to the one at the saddle maker's-well, nastier, actually, in ways.

  Not that I didn't love parts of it-like feeling the salesgirl's little hands rolling the fine, black, seamed silk stockings up my legs, and attaching them tightly to the garters hanging down from my waist. And I loved the feel of the corsets themselves. I imagined them being handsewn in convents, by wistful novices who'd never get to wear them, but who'd dream about it sometimes, in shadowy, troubling images, very late at night. They were so expensive, these productions of silk and lace and cruel steel ribbing, that Jonathan was getting the royal treatment from the sales staff. The pretty shopgirl, with a cute, retro smock over her sweater and short skirt, flirted with him while she fetched and carried items for me to try on. And the severe-looking store manager in her credible knockoff of a couturier suit pointed out the fineness and subtlety of the stitching. Of course, Jonathan might have gotten that kind of attention even if he'd been spending less. But I could see from the glances the women exchanged that they were genuinely impressed by the money he was laying out.

  And I could also see that they were annoyed at me, for watching them. There wasn't enough time to lace me really tightly, since we were trying lots of garments. But they did pull the laces as sharply, as spitefully, as they could, every chance they got. They'd pretend to explain something to Jonathan-you see the curved panels here, Monsieur, and the double seams at the back-but the real point would be my gasp as the corset's ribs suddenly dug into me. They shoved me here and there, staring insolently at my collar and cuffs and at the stripes and bruises on my ass. I knew their contempt was salted with envy, but it was powerful for all that and I lowered my eyes under its force.

  Which didn't stop them. They kept at it until they finally realized how much Monsieur was enjoying the show they were putting on for him. It was one of his nastier modes, his sneaky way of politely and innocently inviting other women to torment me. And by the time they'd figured out what he was up to, it was time to wrap up the prets a porter and tally the custom orders, to be sent to him later, in California. They were a bit stiff and sullen with him then, but he thanked them politely, with that infuriatingly modest smile of his, for all their sage counsel and charming assistance.

  Oh, and we did another errand in between. One that was more unambiguous fun-well, for me, anyway. After the scruffy Bastille neighborhood and before the snooty sixteenth arondissement, we stopped at the street called Gaite, with its all-day sex shows, sex toy emporia, and peephole theaters, to get me some shoes. Nothing made to order here, just your basic trashy sex shoes, with six-inch spike heels, pointy toes, and ankle straps that locked with little keys Jonathan put in his pocket. The skinny, unshaven proprietor, wearing tight red and black striped pants and a Fabulous Freak Brothers T-shirt, tutoyered both of us as comrade sexual outlaws, gesturing expansively with cigarette-stained hands as he delivered a rambling lecture on the theme liberte, egalite, fra- ternite. His interpretation would have surprised Robespierre, I thought, but it would have made total sense to the Marquis de Sade.

  I loved the nutty speed-freaky theorizing. Although when the peroration got to identity politics, both Jonathan and I almost lost it-him in fidgets, and me in suppressed giggles, watching him contain himself. He hates situations like this, I thought, times when the lower orders-artisans, salespeople, receptionists-forget that they're only bit players in his movie. He needs them to fuss over him, he floats through life on their ministrations (in an earlier century, he probably would have called them "tradespeople"). And he thinks they should keep to their places; he almost shudders when they intrude their own agendas. Fancy bastard. In an earlier century, I grinned to myself, tradespeople might have sent him rolling off to the guillotine. But, I chided myself, I probably wasn't allowed to have thoughts like this any more.

  And, in all fairness, the speech had thrown us off schedule. Jonathan had also wanted to buy me a dress to wear that evening. But Freaky Francois had taken up so much time that when we'd finished at the corsetiere, it was too late to do anything but head back to our hotel. I had a dress in my backpack that would have to do, though just a dark red pullover sweater that came down to the middle of my thighs, but it was cashmere, with a big cowl neck. I had rolled it up carefully, so that it wouldn't wrinkle, and I spread it out now, on a chair next to the large three-part mirror in our hotel room.

  Of course, I would have preferred wearing something Jonathan had chosen for me. But it didn't really matter. The essentials were in place. I'd been outfitted. Fitted out. Pressed into service. Rigged and appointed for use.

  I gazed at my reflection, the new collar and cuffs, the black corset buckled tightly around my waist. Fetishism, I thought-fetishism is commodities talking dirty. Inanimate objects calling the shots, brute matter laying down the law. Jonathan had been right the night before. I'd looked silly without restraints-sloppy, dreamy, forgetful. I needed to be put in my place. To be called to account by leather pressing against my throat and steel nipping at my waist. To be thrown off my natural, accustomed balance by spike heels that tilted my pelvis way back and flaunted my ass. I couldn't speak without permission, but the fetishes were loud and insistent-a chorus, a carapace, of ritual and regulation. Of rank and authority, hierarchy and order, my mute bruised body a perpetual novice in orders.

  "Fix your makeup," Jonathan had said a few minutes earlier, when I'd lifted my head from his cock. He'd reached into his pocket and handed me a new lipstick, in a dark plum color, almost black. It would need to be precisely applied. Going outside the lipline would make me look clownish.

  "It's time to go to dinner," he called now, as I carefully blotted my lips. (He'd taken my watch from me that morning when I'd reached to put it on.) He was still lying on the bed, in bluish early evenin
g shadow We hadn't turned on any lights except the bright one I was using for my makeup. I could see his legs, reflected in the mirror, his long, narrow feet. My makeup looked okay, I thought.

  "Put on your dress and let me look at you," he added. I pulled it down over my head, smoothed the skirt around my hips, and moved the cowl neck downward, slightly, in front, so that-if you wanted to-you could see an inch or so of leather at my throat. I turned toward him, eyes lowered and dark mouth slightly open.

  And he didn't give me permission to raise my eyes until dinner. To his silky gray shirtfront, bisected by a paler gray tie. And his shoulders, his dark jacket, silhouetted against a planter filled with gaudy parrot tulips. And his eyes flickering like candlelight. He leaned forward on his elbows, and smiled lazily.

  "It's been a nice day, hasn't it?" he asked. I agreed that it had, Jonathan.

  "And all in all, you've been very well behaved," he continued. I thanked him, but I wasn't sure I liked that all in all.

  "Of course," his tone sharpened, "you had rather too good a time at the shop on Gaite. I'll have to punish you for that." I thanked him again, for catching that.

  "But even if you hadn't betrayed that little slice of attitude, I'd be planning to beat you tonight, you know, just to try out the new whip." His smile became savage.

  "Tell me, Carrie, do you prefer being whipped as a punishment or to give your master pleasure?"

  Actually, I'd given some thought to that conundrum. I mean, I never exactly prefer being whipped-but, well ...I took a breath, choosing my words carefully.

  "Well, Jonathan, being punished is more, uh, necessary. I mean, it's sort of like keeping accounts straight. But being whipped purely for a master's pleasure, well, it's more profound. And a whole lot more difficult to bear." I heard my voice tremble at the end-I was remembering the saddle maker touching the ends of the new whip together. I arched my back, feeling the sting at my nipples. Jonathan watched, nodding appreciatively.

  "Good," he said, "that's clearly put. Well, the first five I'll give you will be for Gaite. And then the rest-I don't know how many it'll be-will be for my own pleasure. It'll be nice knowing that you understand."

  He took my hand and kissed it.

  "It's nice, isn't it," he continued, "being out in the world like this, I mean. We'll take more trips like this. There are other interesting venues for this sort of thing. Some of the Eastern European cities, I'm told. Tokyo. Hong Kong, too."

  "Yes, Jonathan," I said, "it's very nice. And will you be entering me in many pony races?"

  He looked down at his plate for a moment. "Well, sort of," he said, looking unsure of how to continue. And then he took a deep breath. "Look," he said, "You want to know the terms of our arrangement. And you're right, you've been very patient and good, but you've got every right to know But I need to tell you one more story, before you'll really understand...."

  ONE MORE STORY FROM JONATHAN

  I would have thought that being censured by the association and disciplined by Brewer would have wiped out the stain of my little transgression. But it wasn't that easy. Because Kate was still furious at me. I called her-dozens of times-but she wouldn't answer or return my phone calls. They even turned me away at the gate when I drove up to her place in Napa. Finally, desperate, I hit on a plan.

  I phoned again, but not her personal number. This time, I phoned her appointment secretary. I'd never actually used the number, though I'd given it out once or twice. It had gotten lost from my Rolodex, and I'd had to call Uncle Harry to get it. I explained what I wanted to do-I wasn't surprised that he already knew why she wasn't talking to me.

  "You can use me as a reference," he assured me.

  "Thanks," I said, "I intend to." I'd lined up a pretty highpowered list of references already. The phone calls hadn't been pleasant, but everybody had finally been willing to help me. And vastly amused, it seemed, that I'd gotten myself into this mess.

  The appointment secretary was new, and hadn't heard of me. I was lucky there, since the old secretary might well have hung up on me. But all this new young woman seemed to know was that I wasn't in the computer system. Well, I'd never been a client, after all.

  "But I am a longtime membership of the association," I said. I could hear her computer keys clicking as she pulled up that database. "And I've got some good references." Which was what she really cared about. Mr. Brewer, Madame Roget...her polite, businesslike voice notched up a bit on the receptivity scale.

  "I'm faxing you an application right now, Mr. Keller," she said. "And if you're accepted, Ms. Clarke will want to schedule an introductory interview"

  The fax was coming through my machine as we spoke. Kate's obsessive about keeping her technology up-to-date. I scanned the pages quickly Good-they'd included a nicely done-up brochure, listing all the services she provided. The application form had lots of questions (long answer, short answer, multiple choice), and a blank page for a personal essay. The overachiever in me found it very reassuring. Getting into Kate's, I promised myself, wouldn't be all that different from getting into Yale. There was no return address on the application, just the fax number.

  "Thanks," I said warmly, smiling as I said it and hoping she could hear me smile through the phone lines. "Yeah, I think I've got everything. Thanks for all your help, Ms. Green. You'll be hearing from me very soon."

  Kate charged by the hour, by the afternoon, by the day, the evening, and the weekend. She didn't preside at every encoun ter-but the brochure I pored over made it clear that she had to know you pretty well before she'd leave you alone with Sylvie, Stephanie, or Randy, or any of the others. Well, she'd probably know you by the time she'd read your application. It was logically constructed, and the instructions were clear and to the point. I was impressed, and then surprised that I was impressed. What did I think she did all day, anyway, when she wasn't with me? Of course, the unpleasant truth is that I'd never thought about it one way or another-she'd always treated me like a pasha when I'd visited, and that had been good enough for me.

  I breezed through the short-answer questions. But here were some paragraph-long items that would take some thought. I sharpened a pencil. I needed to work these out on scratch paper first.

  First sexual encounter?

  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?

  Other important early sexual events?

  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?

  First experience of fetishism?

  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.

  First sexual disappointment?

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

  Well, that was som
e 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.