Excerpt of Safe Word by Molly Weatherfield

"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 high stakes—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.

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 naïveté, 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.