"The safe word," Master said, looming over her like a shiny black PVC-covered monolith, "is homecoming."

Cynthia bowed her head, shuddered from the chill in the basement's dry air, and licked Master's pointy, filigree silver-tipped boots.  But only for a moment.  Master caught her by the short, straight blond hairs at the back of  her head and pulled her to her feet.  To her tip toes.  He walked her to the table, threw her on its hard steel surface, spread-eagled her legs and arms and strapped her by the ankles and wrists.  Cynthia sobbed.  The metal's coldness wormed through her flesh and gathered in pockets, like water settling into cracks to freeze and break apart rock cliffs.

Master went to the basement wall filled with restraining devices.  Cynthia watched the back of his hood-covered head and imagined the head beneath the plastic; the sweat and the tainted man-stench and the garlic oozing from his pores from the dinner she had prepared for him.  Her breathing rate increased as he picked and hefted and considered pieces of equipment, and she remembered the thickness of his real fingers under the gloves, the hair, the carefully cropped nails.  She closed her eyes for a moment as her back and thighs and belly felt the ghost sensation of his rough finger-tips painting words in shit and piss.  When she opened her eyes again, he had already made his selections and turned around.  He was staring at her through the mask's eye holes.  The sound of his breathing filled the basement.  She wanted to call to him.  She wanted to beg and plead for anything but release from his hold on her.  But the words did not escape.  The feelings cringed, curled inside of her, waited.  Hoped for fulfillment.  Anticipated punishment.
 
 

Master came to her suddenly and worked over her quickly.  He started from her frail neck, closing the collar too tightly, connecting it with leather strings to nipple clamps he tightened with a tiny screwdriver, which he   connected with fine chains to a harness, with small dildos in the front and back, which he locked around her hips with padlocks.

As punishment for closing her eyes while his back was turned, he added gauntlets to her forearms lined with points that pricked her skin.  She understood her punishment, and lowered her gaze in submission.

He released her.  She dressed, cloaking her bindings under baggy clothes, under his scrutiny.  She accepted two keys from him, left the house and went down to the subway with all the other people going to work.  The knapsack she carried was heavy and awkward, and a few people glanced at her in annoyance when they brushed up against it as the train rocked.  A young man dressed, like her, in jeans and jacket, kept looking at her through the crowd.  The dildos massaged her as she rolled with the train's rhythm, and she broke into a sweat.  She pressed against the car's center pole when she had the chance, wrapped a leg around it as more people pushed in, closed her eyes and pursed her lips while a climax rolled between her hips to the starts and stops and rolling of Lexington Avenue line taking her downtown.  She came, grunted, moaned, gasped, trembled.  An old woman asked if she was all right, and she nodded her head, wiping the patina of sweat from her forehead with her palm. The young man had watched throughout the ride.  When she got off at 59th
Street and headed west towards Central Park, he trotted up next to her.

"You're a little far down and East for a Columbia student," he said breathlessly, pointing at the logo on her jacket.  He winced, apparently as pained as she was by his line and whining voice.

She stopped suddenly.  He jerked to a stop, smiled uncertainly, put his hands in his pockets.  She showed him the blade she kept in her jacket pocket.

"Fuck off, asshole."

His face went through changes.  She left and continued to the Park, stopping once to lean against the marble side of a building to have an orgasm.

She always liked going to the Park first, no matter what the weather. She could always find shelter, and when the weather was nice she enjoyed communing with nature captured in a concrete and steel shell, bound by tar roads and paths.  Sleep came to her as short, peaceful lulls on a bench, under a bridge, in the bushes.  The regulars never bothered her anymore.  The knife handled the rest.

She roused herself in the late morning, bought franks with the allowance Master had given her, mingled with the early lunch hour crowd entering the Park.

Her walk was slow, lazy.  She looked down, not at the people rushing past her but at the cracks in the sidewalk, paper being blown by the late September breeze, and pairs of leather shoes.  Once she had worn head phones she had found on the street, but even without being connected to a radio they interfered with her hearing.

Cynthia listened to every passing conversation.  Turning on to Seventh Avenue, stopping now and then to stare at window displays, hovering by the doors to banks, restaurants and bars, office buildings, Cynthia continued to strain for every word uttered in her vicinity.  Some men watched her, followed her for a while, spoke to her.  She ignored them.  Once, someone had grabbed her arm and tried to drag her into a waiting van, but she had kicked him in the balls, slashed him and the driver, and run into the nearest subway.  Master had banned any excursions into midtown for six months after that episode, and kept her locked in the box under the basement for three months on bread and water as punishment.  For the next three months, he had sent her to Brooklyn and Queens, and then allowed her Midtown only once a week for another six months.  During  that bad year, he had often given her safe words in foreign languages, making her task so much more difficult.  But she had always managed to finish the cycle, no matter how long it took, and return to Master for more.

Midtown was the best hunting ground for safe words.  So many people, so many frantic discussions, arguments, exchanges of information.  Businessmen speaking into pay and cellular phones, agents bubbling enthusiasm as they emerged from restaurants, tourists reading from guides to family members.  The sidewalks were a sea of language, filled with words leaping through the surface noise to capture her attention.  She could often pick and choose one to her liking, or if her approach failed, find another without too long a wait. There were people who would never be missed, people desperate for the moments she could share with them, and more importantly, people who could learn from her. Those were always the best.  Master appreciated those even more than the ones who would not be missed.  There was no more precious truth than the Master's, as it was spread by her, Cynthia, Master's acolyte.

". . .homecoming. . ."

Cynthia focused on the word, found its speaker.  An older man, wrinkled dark blue suit, polyester socks, cracked brown leather shoes with worn heels. Wedding ring.  He was talking to a young Asian woman in a sharply tailored suit in browns and greens who looked away often as he spoke.  Cynthia followed them.  As they came to the corner, the younger woman squeezed the man's upper arm, said something, patted him on the back and fled across the avenue as the light turned.  The man called out after her, waved, then stood still, looking in different directions as pedestrians and cars sped past him.

She came up behind him.  He turned, saw her, hesitated.  Smiled as she gave him a half-smile.

"You lost?" he asked, his voice gruff.  He adjusted his glasses as he took in her college student image.  One of his jowls trembled.  He took a step towards her, and his belly paunch nearly hit her.

She stood her ground, allowed herself to lean forward, her jacket to fall open.

His eyes took in the outline of her breasts under the black T-shirt.

"Well, not quite," she began, glancing from side to side, as if suspicious that she might be jumped by someone, then looking straight into his eyes.

"It's stupid, really, but I just broke up with my boyfriend, the bastard threw me out, actually, and, well, I got an airline ticket set up for me at the airport tomorrow from my sister, but I need to get to the airport, and I need a place to stay for the night, and this sounds so stupid 'cause I know everybody hits people up for money on the street, so, like, I'm not asking for money, and I'm not trying to rip anybody off, but if, like, I can just get a lift and sleep on somebody's hotel floor, I'd be fine, that's all, I'm not even asking for food or money or anything, and I'm not gonna hurt anybody," she said,  holding out her hands and shaking her head and turning around in a circle to show off her thin body, "so, I saw you, and I thought you looked like a salesman, or some exec from out of town, and like you might have a hotel room I could sleep in, on the floor, just on the floor, you know, and maybe you'd be going to the airport and could give me a lift, or maybe you know somebody who could, just as a favor, no big deal, hey, don't worry," she said, taking a step back, "I'm not forcing or selling, and look, if I offended you I'm sorry and—"

"Wait," the man said, holding up both his hands palm out, "wait, catch your breath.  Give me a minute here," he said, shifting from one foot to another, checking off faces flashing by, his own expression shifting with his thoughts.  "You know, I'm not from out of town and I don't have a hotel room you can sleep in—"

She turned aside his outstretched arm and started to walk away.  "Hey, I'm sorry, didn't mean to bother you—"

"Wait, young lady, wait."  He was next to her.  The sickly sweet scent of his cologne washed over her, mingling with the acrid stench of exhaust from a bus going by.  "I'm not unsympathetic, you know, I have a daughter in college, must be your age, it's just that I can't very well take you home to the wife and kids, you know, what would they say?  So listen, what's your name?"

"Cynthia," she answered, suddenly shy.

"Mine's Harry.  Listen, Cynthia, if you want, I can take you out to the airport, set you up in a motel.  It'll have to be a cheap one, I can't afford the big ones—"

"I don't care, honest."

"You just have to wait until I finish working.  I got a family to feed, you know, and the boss wouldn't like it if I suddenly took out with some pretty young thing."

"No."

"So why don't you wait for me here, on this corner, at five fifteen.  I'll pick you up.  Drop you off at the airport.  It's on my way home.  No bother."

He watched her, then patted her shoulder gently.  "If you're not here, I'll just figure you found somebody else to put you up and give you a lift, okay?  No commitments."

"No, no, that'd be great, really, I'll be here.  Five fifteen."

They left exchanging smiles and reassurances.  Cynthia walked too quickly back to the Park to grab some sleep and had an orgasm that doubled her over and nearly drove her to her knees.  In the bushes, she took one of the keys and unlocked the padlock over the front dildo.  She pissed, replaced the dildo, put away the key.

Harry picked her up at the appointed time.  He drove a six year old dark green Buick with a dent on the front left end.  They drove to Queens, circled LaGuardia Airport until Harry found a small motel on a side street filled with warehouse and factory buildings.  He gave her cash.  She registered, bounced back to the car and thanked him.  When he offered to bring her back some food, she accepted and told him the room number.
 
 

He was gone ten minutes and returned with a Kentucky Fried Chicken bag.  Cynthia watched him park the car around the back and search for the room number.  She let him in before he had the chance to knock.  He entered the room, wrinkled his nose at the stale smell and the faded carpet and bedspread colors.  The TV was an loud, a talking head reporter describing the city's latest political machinations.  Cynthia closed the door, took the bag and set it on the table, took off her jeans and T-shirt.

"My God," Harry said, "what happened to you?"

Cynthia let a tear dribble down her cheek as she came up to Harry.  She put her arms around him, and when he had hesitantly embraced her, she led him back to the bed.  His tie had to be loosened, his jacket removed and shirt unbuttoned before he began to relax.  She encouraged him to take off his pants with her hands, then went to the table as he stripped.  She took a sip from the soda he had brought back, dumped the small vial of liquid she had hidden between two fingers into the soda, insisted he drink.  Her finger on his lips silenced questions about her bindings.  Kisses and a massage eased him into the stupor caused by the drug she had given him.

She pushed Harry back on to the bed, finished undressing him, expertly bound his arms and legs to the bed with sheets.  The video camera and collapsible tripod in the bag were quickly set up.  After turning on the camera, Cynthia stepped around to the bed, unlocked the two padlocks.  The front dildo was secured to a gag mask she secured around Harry's head, the other to a device which thrust the rear dildo up into Harry.  He regained awareness while she straddled his head, humping his face.

He screamed, but the TV drowned whatever sound the gag did not stifle.  She humped and squeezed through the local, national and show business news, stopping at last to change video tapes.  He watched her with desperate eyes.  His fingers stretched, his legs strained against their bindings.  Cynthia smiled, moved slowly, savoring his attention.  She took out the crop and beat him, limbs first, through the first hour of network TV.  She made his skin turn red but stopped short of breaking skin.  When the family hour of entertainment was over, she started on his genitals, probing, picking, giving him short, sharp blows.  His screams turned to whimpering.  She changed tapes again, and this time rubbed his body with ointments, kissed and licked him, bit him, until he hardened with excitement.  She slipped a condom over him and took him.  He came quickly, as she had expected.

With the knife at his throat, Cynthia took off the gag.

"You yell or scream, and I'll kill you," she whispered.

"Please," he croaked.

"Yes," she said, putting the dildo into her own harness, this time its smooth, pale length pointing outward.  "You will."

She straddled his chest, leaned forward, probed his mouth with the dildo while keeping the knife at Harry's throat.  The stink of his urine permeated the air.

"Tell me what you've done to your daughter.  The older one, the one I remind you of."

"Nothing, I swear, did she—"

She thrust the dildo into his mouth until he gagged.  The questioning continued past midnight, distilling deeds innocent and ambiguous into desires and fantasies.  She stopped twice to change the video tape.  At last, she sat back on his chest and stared at him, saying nothing.  He coughed, shook his head, wriggled his body.  His chest was slick with sweat under her.

"Are you happy?" he asked her finally.  "Will  you let me go, now?"

"Only if you say the safe word."

"The what?"

"You know.  The word that will set you free."

"No, I don't.  What, what is it?"

She slapped his face.  "You said it, once, on the street.  I heard."

"When?"

"Today.  Right before we met.  You see how generous I am, to give you so many clues?"  She pushed the knife against his throat again.  "Because if you don't say it, I'll be forced to finish this.  Because I'll know you want me to finish it.  Don't force me.  Please.  I've done it.  Just say the word.  I beg of you."

"What word?" Harry shouted, then pulled his head back as she pushed the knife harder against his skin.

He sputtered, pleaded, rambled.  She had to coax the name of his companion from him, and what his intentions had been in taking her out to lunch. Minutes were wasted in crying jags.  A pitiful journey, taken in a tremulous voice, took them from his childhood days as a neighborhood bully to the days of finding his own true and small place in the world.  It was dawn by the time Harry had retraced the previous day's conversation and repeated the safe word.

Cynthia slid off of him, unstrapped the dildo in him, washed and disinfected it, re-inserted both dildos into her, and put on the locks, all in front of the camera.  After dressing, she put the equipment back in the bag, then finally stopped and packed the camera.

"You're lucky," she told Harry.  "I was running out of tape."  She loosened the knot holding one of his wrists, paused at the room door.  "Give my best to the wife and kids," she said.  "Especially to that college daughter of yours."

She walked through the crisp early morning to the airport, where she took a cab into the city.  She made her way back uptown, all the way up to the house.  Master, dressed in jeans and a tank top, opened the door.  Cynthia handed him the knapsack.

"May I have another safe word, Daddy?" she asked.  It was the one time she was allowed to use Master's real name.

Master let her in and took her down to the basement, where she was released from her bindings and punishments.  Master took her to the cramped shower stall in the basement corner, washed her down and disinfected her wounds.  She donned a black rubber baby doll slip and stripped the waiting Master, worshiped Master's body, took him into her in every way Master wished to enter.  When they were done, Cynthia sat in Master's lap, and they watched the tapes together.  She was pleased when he echoed Harry's faint groans and grunts and squeals over the background blare of the TV.  She was even happier when Master promised her another safe word, tomorrow.
 
 

 
About the Author:

Gerard Houarner  is a Rehabilitation Counselor at the Bronx Psychiatric Center.  This qualifies him to, among other things, live in the Bronx; belong to a writer's group called Circles in the Hair (CITH); edit the anthology Going Postal from Space and Time (and perform Fiction Editor duties for the magazine Space and Time); write a novel, The Road To Hell, scheduled to appear soon from Necro Pub; and appear in Tales From Zothique, More Monsters From Memphis, Palace Corbie, Brutarian and Bloodsongs.  He promises not to get better if he can keep getting published.  Visit Road to Hell Publisher's Page.

About the Artist:

Sean Simmans is the Cover Illustrator of DEAD END STREET PUBLICATIONS LLC and the Creator of THE BELIEVABLE TRUTH @ Scowlzine and VIBE Nation (UK). In addition he illustrates for UMM Magazine (Canada) and is staff illustrator for Blood Moon zine.