Mr. Constant and I looked at each other across the table. That is, I looked at the flowers, the silverware, his hands, everywhere but his face. And I felt him looking at me all over, sternly, while I struggled to manage my body, my eyes. I realized that he was speaking to me.
"...Much better," he seemed to be saying. "I'm glad you take instruction so well. You'll have to learn a great deal of patience and control. But you seem to be making a good start.
"You can look at me tonight," he continued. "I know you've been waiting for me to tell you a little about what you can expect. And you can ask me some questions."
I raised my eyes, slowly, past his wide chest and shoulders, the aggressive set of his short neck. He had salt-and-pepper hair, in a brush cut. Large, blunt, decided features, ruddy skin, large pores. And the glinting gray glasses. I was glad to be able to look at his face, but I was disappointed by how little it revealed, with the glasses hiding his eyes.
"You like being publicly displayed, don't you?" he asked. "You like it much more than you thought you would."
"Yes, Mr. Constant."
He nodded. "I thought you'd respond that way," he said, "but it was just a guess. It's a relief to know that my buyer's instincts were correct. Because I intend to show you, on the dressage circuit."
I'd seen dressage shows, of course. You'd taken me to some, Jonathan, to show me how much I had to learn about submissiveness. I thought of the participants, offering their open, vulnerable bodies to an enthusiastic crowd, to judges who would decide which of them had presented the most appealing and comprehensive tableau of availability and obedience. I knew how much control it took, and I didn't think anybody in their right mind would enter me in a difficult competitive event like that.
"I employ an excellent trainer," Mr. Constant was saying. "You'll receive a lot of instruction. Of course, it will take a lot of work, but I think you'll try hard for me. I think you'll want to present your body in all the difficult, painful modes we'll teach you."
I found that I didn't quite have the breath to give sound to my assent, but I mouthed the words, whispering that yes, Mr. Constant, I would try very, very hard.
"But ultimately," he said, "I see you as a racing pony. I find pony races very entertaining. Have you ever seen one?"
"Uh, no, Mr. Constant."
"We'll take you to one, so you can see. They're loud, fast, a little dangerous. And people bet large amounts of money"
"But Mr. Constant," I said, "I've only had a week of beginning pony training, and I've never raced or competed at all...."
"Yes," he nodded, his glasses opaque in the candlelight, ,,the odds will be stupendous."
I thought of protesting, but of course I couldn't do that. I giggled instead, nervously.
He didn't seem to mind. His body spread out a little in his chair, his neck relaxed a bit. "I'm rather an arriviste," he confided. "I wasn't born so wealthy-I've just perfected a few tricks that seem to work very well in the current financial environment. We work from my place in Greece, mostly, except when I have to go to New York from time to time. But the way we approach the market-it takes very good satellite technology and lots of time and concentration. So my only amusements, really, on the island, are the occasional party and checking in on your training-yours and Tony's. And then attending the races and competitions where you're shown.
"I suppose," he said slowly, "that outside of my work-outside of the risks and quick decisions and highstakes- what I most enjoy is a disciplined body, painfully bound and displayed for my entertainment, either at a public competition, or at night, in my room."
"Will it be very painful, Mr. Constant?" I felt my voice wobble.
"Painful enough to entertain me," he said somberly. "You can buy slaves, you know, whose specialty is pain. But I know you're not one of those. And neither is Tony. I prefer material like you, it turns out-fast, eager learners who can be taught to bear what they have to, but who never quite get used to it."
He seemed to have scoped it out pretty well.
And then he added, laughing a little, "Oh, and don't waste your time wondering whether I'm really one of those tycoons whose dearest wish is to be tied down and beaten. I've met a few of those gentlemen, but we don't seem to have much in common."
"Well, uh, it all seems very, uh, simple, Mr. Constant." It scared me a little. I didn't know if I'd be good at simple.
"You'd like a bit more mystery," he nodded. "Hidden motivations, complex revelations. Ah, yes, like your Jonathan."
How did he know this about me? I didn't know how much information the auction people collect, in the folder that's available to interested buyers. But I guessed there would be some pretty elaborate psychological profiles in there. And, oh shit, of course-he'd read your note, Jonathan. Well, after all, I thought, Stefan wouldn't have given it to me without routing it by his boss first. He'd read it and he seemed to find it amusing. Or perhaps not so amusing. A hint of rancor crept into his voice.
"Oh, yes," he said, "I've met him...he puts in an occasional appearance at a party or exhibition. I think Ms. Kate Clarke must have introduced him to me a year or two ago."
He grimaced slightly.
"Quite the master," he said, "for a girl who's read so many books. Fancy bastard. Handsome, too. And he seems to have had all the time in the world to amuse himself by playing at being in love with you. Kept you guessing, I expect. Was he really in control of things?, you wondered-or was he secretly pining, no, what's the word? oh, languishing, yes, that's it, was he languishing for your little soul?
"He wants you to guess about it all this year," he added, "on my time. Well, you have my permission. As long as your body is obedient. I'm less concerned about your soul, I guess, than he supposes he is.
"He spoiled you terribly," he concluded, "but he didn't ruin your good instincts. I think a little simplicity, as you put it, will improve you tremendously."
"Avignon," he chuckled, as the waiter came back into the room with the first course, "Avignon, March 15 next year-well, the Place d'Horloge is a nice venue for a reunion. And we'll keep you too busy to fret much about it in the meantime. But," he trained his glasses at me, "it's rather an old story, don't you think, Carrie?"
"Yes," I said softly. "Yes, thank you, Mr. Constant."
And then we both turned our attention to the food that the polite waiter was setting out. Oysters. Very cold, with a peppery sauce. Lots of them, too, piles of them. I'd never had oysters where you didn't have to count how many you could have. The waiter opened a bottle of wine. He didn't make a big deal of staring at my breasts, but he didn't look away either. I dipped an oyster into the sauce and swallowed it slowly.
"It's very good, Mr. Constant," I said.
"Yes," he answered placidly, the rancor drained from his voice, "and it's nice to watch you, Carrie."
"Thank you, Mr. Constant," I breathed, trembling.
"What else did you talk about?" Jonathan asked sourly. Well, it's no fun being dissected so neatly by someone you have absolutely no memory of meeting. Still, he enjoyed thinking of her, eating oysters in her pretentious collar, bare, painted breasts above the punk Roissy dress.
Carrie scanned his face.
"He didn't say anything else about you," she assured him, a small, opaque smile on her lips.
CARRIE
A girl who's read so many books. I didn't usually associate the bookish side of myself with the outrageously got-up girl who'd allowed herself to be sold to the highest bidder. But maybe there was a connection. Enthrallment to narrative, the joy of being ravished by the text. Interesting. And interesting that he knew it about me. It gave me the courage, during dessert, to check up on something. It was in my contract, but you couldn't be too sure.
"Mr. Constant, I will get some time to read, won't I?"
"An hour or so," he answered, "most afternoons. There's a small library, and we can download books from Project Gutenberg."
"Thank you, Mr. Constant. And will Stefan be training me?"
He laughed. "Stefan? What gave you that idea? Oh, the punishment today. Nice job, don't you think? But no, he's my secretary. He works for me on the financial end-well, that's what I hired him for. But he also does chores for me, when I don't have time for them. Bright boy" He shrugged, bored with the question, pausing before he added, "You've never had a trainer, so you don't really understand what it's about."
I hoped he might describe it. But he just sipped his coffee, leaning back comfortably in his chair, and smiling at my respectful posture and bare breasts. And at my eagerness, my ignorance, my naivete, I thought.
The polite waiter asked if we'd like more coffee. Mr. Constant shook his head. He stood up, and told me to stand up, too.
"Pull up your skirt," he added. "That's right, all the way up, and bend over the table."
He pushed my waist down, so that my ass was in the air and my breasts were crushed against the table beneath me. They felt sticky-raspberry sauce, perhaps. I heard the waiter draw in his breath and mumble something.
"Have them add the upholstery costs to my bill," Mr. Constant added, chuckling at the stain I'd left on my chair.
"Yes, of course, go ahead," he continued hospitably, and I felt a hand, I guess the waiter's, tracing my butt, following the red lines from Stefan's switch. Mr. Constant explained why I'd been punished, and how well I had responded. I wasn't much now, he continued, while I felt a deliberate finger move up into my cunt, but he was confident of my potential, and of my ability to learn. The finger slid delicately over my wet, sensitive insides and then moved slowly out again. I bit my lip.
Mr. Constant grasped my shoulders and turned me over, so that I was lying on the table, the light shining in my eyes, the two men darkly silhouetted against it.
"Just bought her today, after all," Mr. Constant concluded. "So she's got a long way to go. Well, you'll see-I'll let you have her next time, as a tip. But tonight, well, here, the service was excellent."
As my eyes adjusted to the light shining into them, I began to make out details. The waiter was about my age. He was slight, with wavy black hair, a delicate, aquiline nose, and gold-rimmed glasses, cute in a nerdy sort of way. Studious-looking, like somebody I might have hung out with in Berkeley. And he was looking at me intently, his lips parted, so that I could see the little gap between his front teeth. I couldn't help wondering whether there would really be a next time.
He helped me up, deftly brushing crumbs off me and wiping off my sticky tits, and then regretfully (or did I imagine that?) putting them back into my dress. He picked up my cloak and I could see that he wasn't sure whom to give it to.
"Mr. Constant," I said, very softly. He turned, surprised and almost angry, and I could see him wondering if I were up to this after all.
"Please, Mr. Constant," I said, "may I carry my own cloak?"
He nodded, and the waiter handed it to me, and as we walked back through the restaurant, past the staring diners at their tables, I swept it behind me, like a train, feeling myself grow proud of and almost intoxicated by the spectacle I knew I was creating. You once asked me whether I liked to be looked at, Jonathan. Well, I guess you knew, even if I didn't really, until that evening.
He smiled. "Of course I knew."
He'd shut the door of the hotel room behind us and cut the laces of my dress with a pocket knife. I was kneeling now, at his feet, wearing only my shoes and stockings. The leash I'd worn that afternoon was a shiny pile of links under a bright lamp on the table at his elbow, next to an old leather casket that looked like it might originally have held jewels or coins.
I watched his large hands select items-shiny metal, dark leather, matte rubber-from the casket, arranging them on the table's lacquered top as though he were preparing for surgery. Finally a riding crop, next to a slender whip coiled like a watchful black snake at the table's edge. He buckled the casket shut and put it on the floor.
He considered the hardware he'd chosen for a minute, then picked out a brass clamp to bind my cuffs together behind my back. And now a pair of nipple clips. They were pretty, actually, shaped like silvery little seashells.
"Good," he murmured, fingering my right nipple, which had stiffened when he'd run the palm of his hand lightly across it, "very good, very obedient little body." He opened a clip and closed it painfully on me. I kept silent, as tears started their mascaraed paths down my cheeks. I breathed hard, leaning into the pain, as it bit into my other nipple, tugged at my other breast.
The clips were attached by a silver chain. He tugged at the chain, lightly, this way and that. My breathing became tremulous, sobbing moans bubbling out of me, ebbing and flowing with the awful pulling at my breasts. He kissed me-light kisses on my cheeks, my eyelids, the underside of my chin near the collar. He picked up another of the shiny objects from the table and hung it from the chain between my nipples. A weight. No, not just a weight, a bell. It tinkled gaily. He took it off, substituted a heavier one, with a deeper sound, and unhooked my wrists.
"Hands and knees," he said, slapping my ass lightly. "Head up," he continued, "and crawl around the perimeter of the room. Quickly. I want to hear the bell jingle loudly"
I bet he did. He knew the pure chiming sound made the pain seem rougher. I circled the room, hoping he'd tell me to stop, and then I just started around again. "Head up, Carrie," he called. "Keep that bell visible, or I'll hide it inside of you. And then you'd have to work much harder to make it jingle, wouldn't you?"
So I arched my back as I crawled, leading with my breasts, like the figurehead of a ship.
"Better," he said, as I finished the second circuit of the room, staying on my hands and knees at his feet, "but you need a little help."
"Turn around," he continued, "stand up and show me your ass." I obeyed, bending slightly at the waist, opening for the dildo that I knew was coming, shivering at its hardness, moaning at the feel of his hands on my hips as he belted it into place. He pushed me back onto my hands and knees, still facing away from him, and I felt something cold running down the center of my back. A chain. It went from the ring at the back of the collar to what I guessed was another ring, at the back of the dildo. He pulled it tightly, so that I had to hold my head even higher, showing more of my breasts. It pulled at the tightly wedged dildo, too.
He told me to turn around again and face him; I shuffled around on my knees. He considered me for a minuteI could tell he enjoyed these little decision points-before he hung another bell between my breasts. He picked up the whip.
"Around again," he said, cracking it against my ass, "quickly"
It was more painful this time, keeping my back arched so extremely, pain now coming from my asshole as well as my nipples, the bells discordant with each other. I had to figure out a new, twisting motion to keep both bells sounding, even though every twist pulled the chains tighter. And when I didn't move fast enough, the whip would catch me, while he tugged at the leash. When I'd completed that circuit of the room, he pulled me to him by the ring in my collar and stroked my face. I kissed his hand.
He tapped the bells, making them ring again. He traced the outline of my mouth with the riding crop. "I look forward," he said, "to coming by and watching them work you in the corral."
Yes, I thought, come and watch. Please.
"And just the mouth, too," he mused, "for a bit and bridle. And next time ...hmmm, perhaps I'll attach a leash to your nipples, and direct you from there. Or your labia." He stroked my belly and squeezed my ass. And then he yawned contentedly.
"The possibilities," he said, "are not infinite. One comes to the end of them in about a year's time. But at the beginning, it's always a great pleasure to contemplate them, in their variety. Undress me."
I was a little dazed, though, I guess by the variety of possibilities ahead of us, and I hesitated for a moment. He laughed and hit my thigh with the crop. "You can use your hands," he said, a rough edge to his voice cutting through his amusement. "And hurry up," adding another stripe to my thigh.
He leaned back while I fumbled with buttons, zippers. He was patient, as I suppose people who always have things done for them must be. And I did hurry, because I wanted to see him. He had a broad chest, slightly short legs. Muscular shoulders that his suit had emphasized, and a slight curve outward at the belly, which it had hidden.
He stood up, naked, his cock erect. "On the bed," he said, "hands and knees." He examined the whip marks on me ("Good, good," I heard him murmur again). And then he took the dildo out of me and fucked me up the ass. Deeply, but almost pulling out from time to time, repeating the moment of entry as many times as he could. He ran a blunt hand over my front, my neck and throat, slapping my breasts to keep the bells jingling.
And then he did pull out, leaving me empty and gasping. "Come on," he whispered, leading me by the hand to the bathroom, where he sat down on a marble bench that made one of the sides of the sunken bathtub.
"Wash me," he said, nodding to the piles of snowy towels and washcloths. I knelt before him; his cock was shiny, purple, the skin stretched taut. I was very careful, very gentle, very thorough. I felt like I was performing a ritual from some early half-forgotten Mediterranean religion. My belly trembled, my breath was shallow.
I put down the towel and took the tip of his cock into my mouth. Then I licked the seam along its back, my lips reaching his balls....
He pulled me up so that I was kneeling between his legs, his bent knees tight around my torso. He took the clips off my nipples, and I blinked, in the bright white light, while he kissed my face, my neck, waiting for the pain to subside. He picked up another of the washcloths and carefully cleaned the runny makeup off my face. And then he led me back to bed, gently pushing me back onto it, kissing me all over, and licking my bruised nipples. He took off my shoes and stockings, which, of course, were down around my ankles by now. And he took off his glasses for the first time. His eyes, I just had time to notice, were large and hooded, a light, greenish hazel in the dark. I looked at him for a moment as he raised his head, shifting his weight, pushing his cock into me. And then it was pure indulgence, just the lovely simple hard stroking, a treat for me, the only treat I'd ever get from him. I accepted it happily-kicking and coming until I was exhausted. He raised himself higher on his knees then, lifting my ass in his hands, coming and fucking me deeply.
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