She nodded noncommittally. “Help me with my boots, please?”
She sat on the bed and I knelt to take off the stiff, pretty new boots with their intricate, multicolor stitching. She took off her jacket but sat still. I pushed her skirt up. She had on long black stockings, a black garter belt, no panties. Slender, very white thighs. Her pubic hair was short, like the hair on her head; they’d shaved her cunt, the hair was just now growing back. The black stripes of the unadorned garter belt drew the stockings up very high, very taut. The whole effect was so ambiguously situated between whorish and conventlike— after a year, did she really remember so precisely what I liked? Or maybe it was just what Constant liked.
I undid the garters. And then I put my head down and caught the embroidered edge of a stocking in my teeth. I could feel her thigh under my lips and I slowly pulled the stocking down, my mouth sliding over her knee, her calf, her foot. I kissed her instep. And then I repeated the whole business—for the other stocking, the other leg, the other foot. She had just the slightest, heartstopping trace of a purple welt on that second thigh, not quite healed—I lingered on it. It made me want to eat her alive.
I reached for the hook of the garter belt, pulled it softly, and it fell away. The little black miniskirt was made of some stretchy fabric. It was easy to pull off, and she helped me, lifting her ass slightly. I pushed her back on the bed, very gently, so that she was still sitting up, and straddled her. And, much more slowly than I wanted to, I unbuttoned her shirt, while she kissed my neck, my shoulders.
And there she finally was, and I stopped caring about what she might want. I fell on her, grabbing her ass, tonguing her breasts, moving her up to the pillows. Forget the sensitive lover thing; at that moment all I wanted was to get as much of her into my hands as possible, before I got as much of me as possible into her. She moved against me, wrapping her arms around me, arching her back. I felt the hard points of her nipples against my chest. I moved into her, too quickly, really, to savor the familiarity, but I would, later, next time. I tried to work carefully, moving in long, slow strokes. I wanted to last forever, I was afraid I wasn’t going to last at all, I guess I lasted long enough—to hear her cry out, anyway, roughly, from the dark bottom of her voice.
And afterward, after I felt her come one last time—just a little internal flutter—I heard, or maybe felt, a low laugh bubbling up from her belly. I’d forgotten that laugh, but now I remembered it—her laugh that caught the ridiculous edge of sex so exactly.
I’d punished her, of course, the first time I’d heard that laugh. I’d been charmed by it, but I couldn’t let her get away with such flagrant disrespect. I gave her four, I think, or maybe six. It was early on in our time together, and she was still pretty awkward in most ways, but she surprised me by how gracefully she took those strokes. Funny what you remember. And what pushes you forward. I wondered how long until I’d be disciplining her again. But for now, it was enough that she was here, under me. For now.
Safe Word is the second book in Molly Weatherfield's series. Read an interview with Weatherfield, and Erin O'Riordan's review of the first book, Carrie's Story, here.
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