Free Safe Word: An Erotic S/M Novel by Molly Weatherfield

permission, as a reward for all the little chores he's
been doing. Only he wants to fuck me where Mr. Constant
fucked me-shit, Carrie, he worships the guy, how slow can
you be, figuring that one out? He worships the guy, he'd give
anything to be in my place, and he hates my guts, especially
because I've been taking him for granted, as a functionary. Oh, and if he can't be in my place, at least he wants to be in
the place where his boss's cock was.

    And I heard myself say, very softly, almost meditatively,
"Well, he did come in my mouth, but that was before dinner,
before I ate the oysters, and some sorbet to clear the palate,
you know. And after dinner he fucked me a lot up the ass,
but he didn't come, I think he was feeling kind of affectionate
to me, so he decided to come in my cunt...." Just trying to
be helpful. I figured he wasn't allowed to beat me without
specific permission, and I didn't think he'd want to tell Mr.
Constant about this little conversation. Of course, I thought
belatedly, it's not as if he's going to forget this conversation
the next time he does get permission to punish me.
    But for right now, I'd won-well, the battle, if not the
war. Well, maybe a small battle, anyway. Because even if
he was going to fuck me, at least he wasn't interested in
discussing it any further.
    "Shut up," he said, "and turn around. Head on the
floor."
    This probably had always been Plan A, anyway. Well,
it was what would hurt me the most, and after all, he'd so
neatly marked the spot for himself yesterday, with his X. And
I won one more tiny battle that morning. I didn't cry, though
he hurt me a lot and I certainly wanted to.
    "Take a shower," he said afterward, standing up and zipping his fly. "There'll be some clothes on the floor for you
when you get out, next to your food and water. And hurry
up. Our plane leaves in two hours."
    The clothes I found on the floor, next to the cut-up banana
and rice gruel, were smaller-sized versions of Stefan's: black jeans, black collarless dress shirt, black leather jacket. He'd
probably had to buy them for me, and he wanted to make
it clear that he hadn't spent any more time than necessary
picking them out. They fit, I guess you could say, in an
approximate way. Probably Mr. Constant wouldn't be on the
flight, and so it wouldn't much matter what I was wearing.

    The plane trip was uneventful. I was right about Mr.
Constant's not being there just me and Stefan, looking like
your basic bratty rich leather kids in first class. When we got
to the security gate, he silently and matter-of-factly took my
collar and cuffs off, and sent them through on the conveyor
belt, and just as silently and matter-of-factly put them back
on me after we'd gone through the metal detectors. Some
people stared, but I wasn't bothered by it as much as I would
have thought.
    He said almost nothing to me the whole way, except to
tell me I couldn't have coffee or alcohol. He did hand me my
glasses and the book I'd been reading before the auction, and
then he buried himself in some terrifyingly abstruse-looking
journal, its subject matter seeming to be balanced on the cusp
of mathematics and economics. At least that was what I could
tell from my occasional peeks at it. As for the runic-looking
notes he furiously scribbled on green index cards, they might
have been physics or Gaelic or-for that matter-Greek. I was
surprised that he let me peek at all, but his concentration was
so fierce that he didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he refused
to let on that he was noticing. Well, it must be a perpetual
humiliation for him to have to shepherd me around like this.
    Maybe, I thought, he'd kind of fade from view when we
got to the island. But I doubted it. I imagined him lurking in
corridors, like one of those infinitely resentful Shakespearean villains in their black velvet doublets-Edmund, lago,
Richard III. He even somewhat looked the part-though
more your handsome