I wondered if I should slip out of bed, to sleep on the pallet on the floor. But his arms were tight around my waist.
"It won't be like this after tonight," he said, his voice sounding loud in the darkness. "Not at all." I moved a little closer to him. To show him that I understood what he was saying.
"But tonight I wanted to make love to the girl I spoke to at dinner. That nice, eager..." His voice trailed off into a yawn.
Clueless, I thought, as he turned onto his back and fell serenely to sleep. Clueless is the word I believe you're looking for, Mr. Constant, to describe me. The cold metal ring dangling from the front of my collar bumped against my breastbone as I curled up into a more comfortable position. I crossed my arms lightly across my chest, being careful not to touch the ring. He hadn't forbidden me to, but I didn't think it was mine to touch.
She took a deep breath and stopped.
"Oh, yes," Jonathan said happily, "I've missed your stories."
He lay on his back, pleasantly buzzed, his mind's eye reviewing the procession of images. Unpleasant guy, Constant, but hardly stupid. Nouveau riche, a little crude perhaps, but there was substance there-well, he'd chosen her at the auction, hadn't he? Tacky though, showing her off to that kid, that waiter, like that-and I would have punished her for so evidently enjoying his hand on her. And in her, too, jeez. I like the hotel part though, lovely, all the fetishes, the tears. I look forward to watching them work you. Oh, yes, please.
I'll make love to her now, or in a moment, he thought. She deserves it. Although usually he masturbated to her stories. Or thrust himself into her mouth, sometimes just before she finished the last words. But he was feeling pleasantly affectionate at the moment-and anyway, they'd fucked so hard earlier that this time he'd been able to let the buzz build slowly, free of urgency. But it was getting on time, now, he thought lazily....
So he didn't comprehend at first when she informed him that now she'd like a story in return, please.
He sputtered a bit in amazement.
"You heard me," she said.
"But you're the storyteller," he protested, weakly.
"And just where," she demanded, "is that written?"
He sighed. A story? My god, what was she going to ask for next? Still, he couldn't very well wimp out on it. And after all, there was a lot he needed to tell her. But making a story out of it-deciding what counted as beginning, middle, and end. The exposure-one thing to lay your body on the line, but to lay out your sentences, your sensibility, to scrutiny like that-well, he'd do it, but just this once.
"Okay," he laughed. `Just give me a minute."
JONATHAN TELLS A STORY
There were parties to go to, the nights before the auction. During the days, I wandered around the city-it had a few good buildings to look at. Kate had accompanied me on a few of these walks, when she'd had time for me-when she didn't have meetings to attend, appointments to keep. She wasn't going to have any time for me today, though; the governing board of the auction association would be voting on the coming year's budget. I was envious of how seriously she took it all.
I shivered as she pulled away from me, chilly air rushing in to replace the warm, rosy flesh that had engulfed my body. I sighed, looking out the window at the lead-colored sky. A freezing rain was beginning to fall.
"There's nothing I want to see at the cinematheque today," I said. "And the museums are closed. Good thing I've still got a few crappy novels to plow through."
"You'll get cranky, reading in here all day" She sat back on her haunches as my cock dropped out of her. Her knees were still tight around my thighs. "I'll send somebody over to keep you occupied this afternoon."
"Thanks," I said, holding onto her ass, trying to keep her in bed, "but I'm already cranky. Do you have to go?"
I could see the little vertical line peeking out below the red-gold bangs falling down her forehead. She gets that line there when I act spoiled, babyish. I sighed again, letting just a little too much time go by before I said anything.
"I'm sorry," I said then, reaching up to trace that line with my finger, and then tracing her profile, her pure jawline, the silky curtain of bobbed hair bending against the back of my hand. "Of course you have to go," I said.
She swung a leg over me and sat on the side of the bed, elbows on her knees, letting herself hang for a moment, her flesh taking on bluish tones, the cynical sag of a Degas whore squatting over a washbasin. My chest tightened-she doesn't usually let me see her that way; I'd be insanely jealous if I thought she allowed anybody else that intimacy. And then she stood up quickly, belly concave, everything suddenly tight and pumped and in place. She was pretty pissed at me.
She seemed to have cheered up, though, after her shower. She kept the bathroom door open, letting in fragrant steamy air, and chattered about the silly characters she'd have to argue down at the meeting. She wouldn't tell me what they'd be arguing about, though.
"I mean, it is a `secret society,' after all," she said, her eyes glittering green in the mirror as she carefully outlined them. I was drinking coffee and eating toast in bed.
"Want a slice?" I asked. "You'll need energy, to fight the good fight for all us parasites who'll be staying in bed today"
"They serve bacon and eggs," she said, "and strong tea in glasses. Very good schnapps, too. Anyway, I argue better when I'm hungry. I'll eat after I win." I watched her pull on some intricate new underwear, pour herself into one of her little power suits, zip up formidable high boots. A reverse striptease: She began to look tall-amazing that she can pull off that illusion-and I felt myself getting hard again. She glanced at me and smiled.
"I'll send somebody for early afternoon," she murmured, tossing a fur-lined raincoat over her shoulders and shutting the door behind her.
I didn't ask whom she'd send over. She was traveling with an entourage-her three personal slaves and a trainer to attend to them, for those times when she was attending meetings, or coping with me. Fine with me, whichever one she chose. Surprise me, I thought. They were all pretty spectacular.
It was the boy, Randy. Good choice, I thought, as dusk gathered, late that day. He'd been very accommodating, all in all, though there had been a point, midafternoon, where he'd needed a spanking with my slipper. Right now he was kneeling at my feet, energetically polishing my shoes, his bare hands buffed shiny black as he rubbed the cakey polish into the leather. He used his tongue from time to time, too, neatly, like a cat. He was very decorative, curved over my feet like that. And it was a lot better shine than I would have gotten in the hotel lobby.
I was sitting in the armchair, across from the full-length mirror, so that I could also see his butt. Nice. But he was finishing up now, I realized, because he was getting a little hypnotized by his reflection in the toes of my shoes.
"Hey," I said, smacking him lightly on the shoulder, "kneel up, Narcissus. You're done."
I wouldn't discipline him for it. He'd put in a good afternoon, amusing me and keeping boredom at bay, and if he liked to look at himself once in a while-well, he really was awfully pretty. He raised his head, big amber eyes veiled under long black lashes, shy smile on his face.
"Let me see your hands," I said. Mmmm, a few little blisters on the fleshy part of the palm, under the black shoe polish.
"How will you clean them?" I asked.
"Steve's got some kind of solvent, Jonathan," he said. Steve was Kate's lead trainer. "It works very well, but it kind of hurts the blisters."
I bent and kissed him. "Yeah, but you need clean hands, after all."
"Oh, yes, Jonathan," he agreed.
Narcissus. Kate's boy slaves always looked a little like I had, in my late teens. I wondered if Randy knew that. Probably not-probably he wouldn't be able to discern a trace of resemblance between his perfect little self and a guy in his late thirties. Which gave it a touch of elegant melancholy, for me. It's a long rainy afternoon play with your pretty former self, sweetheart. Your unconscious former self. Although of course I'd n
ever been anywhere near as unconscious as he seemed to be. And certainly not as eager to please.
I looked down at him, kneeling easily at attention. Polishing my shoes had aroused him-his cock was stiffening under my gaze. I lifted it with my foot, rubbing my instep against the bottom side, nudging the base of his balls with a shiny polished toe. His face remained impassive, but his breathing became just a little ragged.
I stroked his cheekbone, and then the graceful sweep of his eyelid-lightly, with one of my fingers-while I continued to probe him, below, with the toe of my shoe.
"You've been a good boy today," I said softly, "even with your one little lapse. But now it looks like you're in some danger of blowing the whole thing, doesn't it? I mean, it would be pretty disgraceful if you came all over my shoes, wouldn't it?"
He was struggling to breathe evenly.
"Wouldn't it?" I repeated sternly, jerking his chin up.
"Yes, Jonathan," he whispered, "it would be disgraceful." I could feel his balls tightening, his hips contracting.
"I could let you fuck me," I said thoughtfully, jerking his head up a little further. "Hey, look at me, kid, we've got some serious problem-solving to do here." His eyes flew open, the pupils big and black, distended with fear and desire.
"See, here's the problem," I said. His cock was swollen, like a mushroom after a summer rainstorm. "If you fuck me, you'll get shoe polish on my nice white cotton T-shirt, or on those bedsheets, hey, even on the headboard of the bed or something. I mean, you'd leave nasty little black fingerprints somewhere, wouldn't you? Wouldn't you, kid?"
"Oh, no, Jonathan," he gasped, "I'd keep my hands behind my neck ...uh, no, clasped at the small of my back, I think, and I'd keep my balance."
I glanced down at the neat muscles in his belly. "Yes, I suppose you could do that. But how do you intend to grease my asshole? Not with those fingers."
"With my tongue, Jonathan," he whispered urgently. "It's, uh, unusually long."
"Really." I had to laugh, pressing my fingers into the corners of his mouth to open it up. "Show me."
And it was, too. Long, pink, strong, a semicircle of even white teeth beneath it. Kate must have opened up his mouth like this, I thought, when she'd examined him, in some auction hall somewhere.
I dropped my foot, let his chin go, stood up, and stepped over him to get a small jar of grease from the top of the dresser. I opened it, put it down on the floor in front of him.
We were still in front of the mirror, facing sideways now. I took off my shorts, keeping my eyes on him as he bent gracefully from the waist, dipping his tongue into the jar. His back straightened-a flower unfolding-as he carried his little wad of grease up to my ass.
Ah. He pushed it in, patiently, insistently. Not too deeply at first. I could feel his nose, between the cheeks of my ass, his chin below. He dipped down again. And yeah, his hands were folded at the small of his back, like a skater. He held his body elegantly. And his mouth and chin were shiny with grease and saliva. I liked the contrast.
A bigger cargo of grease this time. Perhaps I'd opened up more, while I'd been watching him. Oh, yes, he really could use that tongue. He pushed it upward, wiggling it a little, too. Breathing hard, straining the muscles at its root-muscles I hadn't really given much thought to until this moment, the more fool me. I felt my belly clutch a little, tremble, as he made another trip downward. I didn't want him to finish this part.
No, scratch that. I got a glimpse of his cock, springing out from him, dark and shiny, but with a kind of downiness, too, and a drop of precum at its tip. I knelt on the bed, spreading my legs. Sighing, opening.... "Oh, and kid...I want you to make this last a while."
A deep intake of breath, and a clenched-sounding "Yes, Jonathan."
And he did make it last, opening me, filling me-filleting me-enthusiastically, but respectfully, too, drilling into me like a docile little machine, never forgetting who was boss. I came all over those sheets that I'd been so solicitous to protect from his fingerprints. And then he finally let go-screaming, almost, with relief. I could feel his hard belly muscles relax as he allowed himself to drop lightly on top of me. But his hands were still behind him.
He kissed the back of my neck, softly, and then he rolled off and slid off the bed, to his knees. Waiting for me to pay him a little attention. I took my time.
And then-first things first. Nope, no smudges, no fingerprints. Not on the sheets, the pillows, not anywhere on the bed. And not on my T-shirt either. I turned slowly in front of the mirror, to get a full view of it. Of course, it was pretty sweaty-I needed a shower. I pulled off the shirt, tossed it in his direction. "Good job, kid." He smiled-quickly-swiveling his head to catch the shirt in his teeth. Great reflexes. He dropped it gently on the floor, in front of him, and bent down to kiss it.
I sat down on the bed and had him remove my shoes and socks-with that talented mouth, of course-and then I kissed him. A long one, holding his curly head in my hands.
"Well," I murmured, nuzzling him, breathing in his smell-and my own, "you didn't blow it after all. So when you go downstairs to Steve, you can tell him I said you were a very, very good boy today."
He thanked me, a goofy, angelic look in his eyes.
I sat back up, folding my arms. "Do you think he'll have any kind of reward for you?" I asked.
He smiled. "Oh, yes, Jonathan," he said, eagerly. "He promised that if I was a good boy, I could give Sylvie and Stephanie their punishments. If they need them."
"Well, you'd just better hope they need them, hadn't you?" I laughed. "What would you use?"
"Oh, well, I know Steffie needs it, Jonathan." He had to work to keep from grinning too widely. "And I'm not sure what I'll use. A buggy whip, I think. Yeah, I think."
I stroked his hair. I hadn't known he was capable of that hungry grin. "Did anybody ever tell you you look a hell of a lot like me?" I asked.
But, "Uh, no, Jonathan," his bewilderment was quite sincere. "Uh, thank you, Jonathan."
I stood up and stretched. I needed that shower. "You can go now, kid," I said.
CARRIE
"Did you like the story?" he asked anxiously.
"Of course," I said. "You know I did." Well, the Randy part, anyway I decided not to think too hard about the Kate part. Or the fact that he'd had so much to occupy him, so soon after I'd been gone. Dumb, I chided myself. I mean, what did you think he'd be doing? Ridiculously, I'd imagined him bleak, unshaven, alone. Languishing for me, I guessed. Yes, languishing was the word I wanted.
He looked a little shell-shocked now, though, amazed by how much he'd enjoyed telling me everything. He'd really thought that all those times he'd had me tell him stories, I'd been doing it purely for his entertainment. Damn, I thought, another bottom's secret blown.
But he still needed to be reassured that I'd enjoyed hearing it.
"No, really" I laughed, summoning up images of blackened, blistered palms and pristine white T-shirts. I took his hand and dragged it over my breasts, my painfully hard and swollen nipples. He moved his palm back upward, slowly, over my throat, to my face. I kissed his fingers, sucked them. He moved his hands down over me, cupping one of them under my ass in the protected curve where it met the top of my thighs, stroking me there, while his other hand probed my asshole. He kissed me, using his teeth. I came-not tumultuously but I let myself, I had to-it was still thrilling to come whenever I felt like it. And when I calmed down, I became aware of one of his fingers up inside my ass, the rest of his hand still curved around it. He moved me toward him, as he might have drawn me to him on a leash, and settled back, sighing contentedly, a sovereign exacting tribute.
Not exactly high finance, guessing the currency he wanted to be paid in. But always as mysterious as high finance, discovering that what he wants is exactly what I want most in the world to do. I let the feeling wash over me while he moved his finger a little higher up me. And then I dragged my lips, still achy from when he'd bitten them, down over his chest, the fine black hair on
his belly. Down to his cock.
Slowly, slowly, he's getting longer and harder every time I move my mouth over him. Curving up toward the top of my mouth. Stay up near the tip a few times. Treat myself. Roll my tongue around it. But he's not going to wait ...he's pushed deeper, over and past the roof of my mouth and back to my throat. He wants me to go fast now, and now it's not just mouth, or lips. It's like it's all of me, and the atmosphere I'm breathing is entirely the smell of him. Hair brushing against my lips. He's got my head in his hand, he wants to move it himself, and my mouth is soft, liquid, and I can feel, I can hear, his little moans and trembles. He's dropped his hand now, he's disappeared, I don't even know where he is anymore, it's all his cock now, and my sucking, and swallowing, inhaling him, he shudders and cries out and comes and comes and comes.
JONATHAN
Ah yes, well. The end of a good day, I thought to myself. She was here beside me, the storytelling had been fun-and useful, it had gotten us talking, comfortable. Oh, and massively turned on, too, and very well taken care of, thank you. I felt terrific, as if I could sleep forever. I hadn't been sleeping well for the last few weeks.
I turned to her, wanting to gather her to me, before I turned off the light. She was lying on her side, her head propped on her elbow, eyes still bright and impatient.
"You're not tired?" I asked.
She shook her head. "Overtired. Wired. Like a kid OD'd on sugar."
Safe Word Page 5
