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Her Safe Word was Magenta Ch. 01: The Terminal

By: Wykdwolffie



Part One – The Terminal

Looking back, he had spoken only three sentences to her, and that was the first. They had written back and forth for quite some time, starting when she sent him a message on a popular fetish website. They had seemed to click quickly and well, talking about things both mundane and fantastic, and he had a knack for finding out things about her that she hadn't even known herself.

The phone call she received before they met was not from him personally, but rather "her Handler". An assistant, friend, servant, or submissive of his... she was never told which, and it didn't really matter in the end. They had discussed the travel plans, (oddly enough) the layout of her hotel room and its bathroom, what she could expect and should not expect, and various other minutia. The last thing Handler had told her was that her safe word was to be, "Magenta." She was to bring only one plastic baggy with her, which she was to refer to as "her safety", containing a cell-phone, identification, and money and/or credit card. Upon speaking the safe word she would immediately be released, dressed, and taken safely back to the Terminal. There would be no further discussion or play after that. That is how his Mentor had taught him, how his Mentor had been taught, and so on.

She arrived at the Terminal at 9:07pm. She was tired, as she had not been able to sleep the night before, and was told not to sleep during the trip. She was dirty, as she had not been allowed to shower or clean herself for that same period of time. She had on no make-up, her hair was not fixed, her nail polish was chipped and uneven. She felt like she looked a complete mess. 

In their exchanges, she had revealed (rather, he had revealed, and she had expressed after) a deep desire to be reshaped, reformed, & renewed. He had told her that any artists' idea is to start with a blank canvas or unblemished block of marble...but when one chooses to rebuild, one must break something down to its essence and start with the basics. He would do so, but only on his own terms.

Her phone beeped, and she looked in the bag to see that she had a voicemail. It contained only four simple words. "Your Safe word is Magenta." She could not later explain why, but she played the message over and over again. It sent a tingle through her. After she had heard it thoroughly, she closed the phone and placed it back in the bag. She looked up, and knew him instantly.

He stood over six feet tall, relaxed, and confident. The cut of his clothes was not of the highest caliber, but clean and crisp and relaxed. A burgundy long sleeved shirt sat over black jeans, and low-top black boots. He had a walking cane in one hand, and a brown paper bag in the other. His greying dark hair lay in a low-banded tail over his right shoulder, and his dark blue eyes gazed into her soul.

As she walked over, he handed her the bag, and pointed towards the ladies room. She stuttered out a hello, which was met only with a stern look, and the unwavering finger pointing to the lavatory door.

She walked into the ladies room, closed and locked the door. Placing the bag upon the counter near the sink, she opened it to find a note. It read, "Wear this, and nothing else. Bring nothing else, save your safety." Under the note was a white suede collar with a small open Masterlock in the ring, with its key in it. Nervous, but excited, she stopped there to remove her clothing (disposable, due to a 'friendly' tip from Handler) and she placed the collar around her neck, and slid the shackle of the lock back in its place. Back in the bag, she found a pale satin nightshift of a moonstone hue. As she drew it out, she noticed it was absolutely filthy, covered in splatters of mud and other filth. She knew she should feel revolted, and was confused by the surge of thrill inside of her as she placed the stinking cloth over her body. The bottom of the bag contained a thin olive-hued trench coat. She slid it on, and then threw the bag, her old clothes, and even the note into the Wastebin. She placed her 'safety' in the coat pocket, and walked back to him.

He stood in the same place, unmoving, unwavering, waiting. His hand came up, and his index finger made a circling motion. She turned slowly, and he nodded his approval. He held out his palm, and for the first time, in so many ways, she placed her safety in his hands. He slid it into his pocket, and in the same movement, withdrew a length of chain with a leather thong on the end. The thong was around his wrist, and he brought the last link of the chain to her collar, slipped the shackle of the lock through it, then closed the lock and removed the key. Exposing her safety once more, he placed the key within, and then returned it to his pocket.

Again, wordlessly, he turned around and began to walk out of the building. She stared after him, until that first jerk of the leash brought her to her senses, and seemingly almost toppling over, and she walked quickly behind him to his car.

He opened the door for her, a Devil in Gentlemans guise, and as she sat, he placed the rest of the leash on the dashboard, before closing her door. As he entered and sat in the drivers seat, he shut his door and buckled his safety belt, then slowly took the leash from the dash. He pointed to the floorboard on her side of the car, indicating she could sit there. As she moved down, he slid the leash through the armrest of his door, and jerked it tight, forcing her to lean towards him. He fastened it there, and began to drive.

It could have been minutes, or hours, she was not sure. Everything became a blur of sensation. She could feel the hum of the engine, the material of the seat she leaned on, and each note of il dolce suono as it left the speakers of the car. When the car stopped, and he put it in park and shut off the engine, her world began to focus once more. He unfastened the leash, opened his door, and to her surprise, dragged her out of the car through his door. He prevented her from standing, but rather pulled her on her knees. He closed the car door, and then without so much as a glace around him, led her to the red door of room #17.

Her Safe Word was Magenta Ch. 02: Preparation



The pavement was rough, the concrete of the walkway before the door was more-so. Her hands and knees gained many a small scrape that were unnoticed as her focus remained on the door ahead, and the hand that held the tether of her leash. He opened the door, pulled her through it, and continued in, allowing the door to close itself behind them. The bedroom was dark, lit only by a single red bulb in a small lamp to the side, and she was had no time to look around as he led her briskly to the bathroom. 

He flipped the wall switch, and she was momentarily blinded by the white light that filled the room. Before her eyes could adjust, she was pulled completely into the room and his foot on her back pushed her face-down on the floor. The bathroom door clicked closed behind her. Her wrists were pulled around above her head, and with a small click, were placed into handcuffs just past comfortably.

With one hand on the chain of the cuffs, and another on the belt of the coat she wore, he pulled her easily to her feet. Quickly, silently, he moved her into the shower/bath, and it was only then that she began to notice things were a bit unusual. The shower curtain had been removed, and there was what seemed to be a stainless steel towel rack at roughly his eye level on the back wall of the shower. The shower head had been removed, and replaced with a hand-held model in a bracket with a flexible tube connecting it to the wall.

He lifted her arms above her, and unlocked one cuff. He quickly removed the coat and filthy shift to toss them in the bin near the toilet before putting the chain around the steel bar and closing it quickly once more around her wrist. Stepping back out of the shower, he turned the water on, and watched as the cold water sprayed across her body. She squealed despite herself, and he adjusted the water to a warmer temperature.

The details of the room, she would see only in passing, but would see again, and remember well later. On the back of the toilet sat a small silver tray holding a bottle of water, a napkin, a Rocks glass, and a small packet of Aspirin. On the lid of the toilet was a small white cloth, holding what appeared to be a wood-backed loofah, a small bristle brush similar to what her father had used to clean his shoes, a block of a whitish-yellow bar she guessed to be soap, and a straight razor.

Anything else was blocked by his back, and she only then noticed that he had removed his shirt. Instead, he now wore a clear plastic apron and a pair of pink dishwashing gloves on his hands. (She stifled a laugh, barely, afraid of the reaction it would elicit. In his hands he held two small bottles, which he placed on the white cloth.

Reaching for the silver tray, he opened the bottle of water, and poured half into the Rocks glass. Such a simple and mundane action, but for some reason his meticulous motions brought pause to her. Setting the bottle down, he tore the packet open, and grabbing her jaw with one hand to force it open, tumbled the aspirin onto her tongue. He threw the empty packet back onto the tray, and held the glass to her lips. She drank, washing the pills down perhaps a bit quickly, and coughed. He looked at her intently, and then turned the knob of the shower three-quarters of the way to hot.

The water felt like it was searing her skin, almost too hot to bear, but not quite. Not quite. The room began to fill slowly with steam, and she imagined herself to be a bit light-headed -- whether from the pills she had thought to be aspirin or the heat, she was not sure. He grabbed the nozzle, and soaked her hair and head thoroughly, massaging her hair to ensure every strand was wet, then replaced the nozzle. Grabbing one of the two small bottles and pouring the entire thing on her hair, she realized it was shampoo, and he began to wash her hair. No man had ever shown her such attention, and she began to lose herself in the sensation of it a bit. His hands were firm, and a bit rough, but very efficient. He grabbed the nozzle and rinsed her hair clean as completely as he had lathered it before repeating the procedure with the conditioner.

The bottles went onto the silver tray, and he picked up the bar. Her left arm was first to receive his attention with it, and the texture of the bar was rough. The lather was slow to come, and she felt as though her arm burned a bit more with the soap on it. She realized it was a home-made soap, most likely a bit of lye, and then all relaxed a bit. He lathered up her other arm, and tilted the shower nozzle down so the water left her.

Down onto the cloth went the soap, and his hand came up holding the shoe brush. She blinked, not quite trusting her eyes. His other hand grasped her left elbow tightly, and as he began to scrub, she let out a sharp cry of pain. It was the first she made that night, but it was far to be the last.

Surely the brush was made of fire, and not horsehair. Surely he was not using such a coarse tool upon her delicate skin. The brush went back and forth across her skin with a swishing motion... working the harsh soap upon her, removing any trace of dirt, mud, or shit from her skin. She felt as though it was taking skin as well, and what she could see of her arm held a warm red color.

What sounds she thought she must be making. How embarrassing this was, to be chained here, and crying over soap and water. He reached for the nozzle, and ran the hot water of the freshly cleaned arm, washing away the soap. Her arm surely had never been so clean in all her life. She took a deep breath as he replaced the nozzle in its mount and began to work on the right arm in the same fashion. It felt as though it took forever, and yet when he finished, a part of her thought it done too quickly. Not to worry, however, as her breasts and stomach were next.

Before he began her breasts, his fingers found her nipples. The gloves she had almost laughed at had a strange texture, and now she understood why he wore them. The lye in the soap on them warmed her nipples before his fingers twisted fire into them. Not a cruel movement, nor for pleasure, it seemed a movement of efficiency, as though he wanted to clean every inch of her. As soon as they stood erect, they were met by the bar and brush. Her legs and feet met the same treatment.

A pause came. A lull of sorts. She was aware of the stinging in almost every inch of skin, and the water as hot as ever was still cascading over her body. Her eyes closed and opened several times, and she shook her head to focus once more upon the man before her. Her eyes met his, and she realized he had been observing her, almost studying her reactions and movements.

A hand full of lather went down towards that special place between her legs, and another reaction-based scream escaped her lips before she realized the lather was not from the lye soap, but shaving cream. A deep breathe and sigh of relief, and she could swear she heard a chuckle escape his smiling lips. Then came the straight-razor, gleaming in the bright lights she only then noticed were in each corner of the room as well as the center of the ceiling. No time to worry about her body not being in the best shape, no time to be self-conscious as he parted her legs further and drew the razor across her thighs gently. 

The blade was cold, and sharp. So sharp. She knew if he flicked his wrist in the right direction, he could sever her flesh, and she would watch herself bleed out. That fantasy would stay only in her mind, however, as his movements were Masterful. Quickly, with a surety only an artist could display, the razor slid back and forth gliding over her lower pelvis. Across her pubic mound it sailed, and those oh-so-tender lips below. Only a flick here and there to rid the edge of the cream and hair upon it, then it went back for another swipe. Her breath caught as the gloved fingers spread her open, and the razor darted up to catch the last few stray hairs. Her breath only returned once the nozzle came down, and the last bit of lather was washed away.

What torture could be next? Her eyes felt fogged like glasses, and the lids were heavy. Her secret place throbbed from the briefest touch and attention, and her skin felt aglow. When he began to rub across her flesh with the loofah, it was so soft by comparison that she almost disregarded the sensation. It was as short in duration as the rest of the exercises in cleanliness, and he returned it to the white cloth. He turned the water off after giving her a final rinse, turned, and shut off the light as he walked out of the bathroom... closing the door and leaving her alone with her thoughts in the steam-filled dark.