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

bright brown hair that fell around
his shoulders. The tail was attached to a dildo up his asshole,
which was held in place by narrow leather straps attached to
a belt around his waist. Just like the tail I'd worn during my
week of pony training. But it wasn't the technology that made
me catch my breath, it was the gender coding. Because all the
pony slaves I'd been trained with had been girls. I knew boys
did this sort of thing, too, of course, but I hadn't seen a lot of
them, and I was oddly moved by the long tail streaming out
from between the cheeks of his tight, muscular boy's ass. I
was glad that my hands were bound behind my back, but I
couldn't help rubbing my thighs together, moving my hips in
rhythm with his.
    Well, I'd have to learn those moves soon enough, after
all. But I'd never be nearly as good as he was, I thought. It was
discouraging, and frightening: What would they do when
they discovered that I was a washout? I reassured myself that
it would be a while, anyway, before they gave up on me. And
until then, I told myself, at least I'd get to try it-to preen and prance, to snort and toss my head, and to respond, as he
was doing, to her small hands, skillfully wielding the reins
and riding crop. She almost never gave him a verbal command, doing it all by degrees of touch, laying the whip on
him but also, it seemed to me, cajoling him with prods and
tugs. I wanted to know what it would feel like.

    They seemed to be finished, now, or taking a break. He
stood before her and she spoke softly, sternly to him, criticizing his performance, I guessed, though I couldn't hear the
words. He hung his head. And then he turned and bent over,
presenting his ass to her for punishment. He turned again,
straightening up so that she could beat his cock. And then
she took off his bridle so that he could kneel and acknowledge his punishment, kissing the riding crop, and then the
soft, red, peat-mossy ground at her feet. The slope of his
back was unspeakably elegant, I thought, trying to memorize
it in my muscles.
    She pulled him to his feet by the big ring in his collar,
and she slapped his ass and sent him loping toward a small
stable a few hundred feet away. And then-gulp, show's over,
Carrie, time to show your own unimpressive stuff-she headed
toward me.
    I knelt at attention, my eyes on the dirt at my feet.
And I wasn't entirely surprised at the stinging swipe of the
riding crop against my breasts. I didn't know why I was getting it, but I did know that somehow I'd had too good a time
watching Tony.
    She reached for an odd, harness-like leather contrivance
that was hanging on a fence post.
    "Stand up, asshole," she said. She had a nasty, nasal little
voice. "I thought you might need this," she continued, buck ling strong brown leather straps around my thighs. There
were clumsy little squares of wood on the inner surfaces.
Just wide enough to keep my thighs apart, to deprive me of a
small way of pleasuring myself. I hoped they wouldn't make
me wear this all the time-it would make me waddle. But I
could see where they'd think I might need it.

    She freed my hands from behind my back.
    "On your knees," she said briefly. "On your knees and
present."
    Present-the verb in its imperative case, as in "Present
your body to me, slave."
    She paused for an uncomfortable moment, realizing that
I didn't know what part I was supposed to present first. And
then she sneered, as though it should have been obvious to
anybody, "Ass."
    Okay. On my knees, turned around, back arched. She
probed, roughly, but I was ready for her. Impatiently, she
pushed me through the other stages of the presentation.
Cunt. Crawling around to face her, kneeling up, parting my
legs, leaning my torso back to show her how wet and open I
was. She pinched my labia. She put her fingers up me, way up
this time. The difficult part was remembering that this was
for her, not for me. I had to be still, controlled, no matter