“Do you want a warm-up tonight?”
“Minimal, Sir. Work from a flogger to the whip, but I don’t need much.”
Cara watched in sickened awe as Travis swung the flogger and struck her back. She listened to the gasps and screams, saw the Travis on screen grow hard, watched him stroke himself occasionally, but mostly concentrate on what he was doing to the woman on the cross. After about twenty minutes he turned her around and flogged her breasts, pussy, and the front of her thighs until they were all bright red, and Casey was crying between what sounded like moans of pain and cries of ecstasy interspersed by screams of agony.
Travis had obvious skill, and his control of the flogger and the woman was a huge turn on for Cara. Casey seemed to simultaneously want and fear the pain, and she clearly did not want him to stop.
Cara’s legs involuntary rubbed together a few times, and she held herself intentionally still as she watched the flogger travel up and down the body on the monitor, alternating casual lashes with the occasional strike he threw his entire body into. She was tempted to say she needed to use the restroom, so she could masturbate in private, but couldn’t tear herself away. She needed to see what happened next, and was both aroused and appalled by the spectacle playing out before her. She could feel Travis watching her occasionally but couldn’t bring herself to look at him — afraid of meeting his eyes, of what she might see in them, and of what he’d see in hers.
Her attention remained glued to the Travis on screen, and when he was through thrashing her breasts, pussy, and thighs and said it was time to turn the woman back around, she started crying harder.
Gut wrenching sobs spilled from the speakers as he reattached wrists and ankles, but he ignored her tears, finally addressing her when he’d restrained her again, saying only, “What’s your safeword, Casey?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m not saying it. It’s alcohol. Jack Daniels. But I’m not saying the word.”
He nodded and replied, “Very well,” and walked out of the screen, returning with a long whip with only one strand, not a bunch like the others.
Cara watched for only another thirty seconds and suddenly couldn’t be in the room with those screams any longer — they were going to haunt her nightmares. Surely only a sociopath could want to make a woman scream like that. She ran down the hallway and flew into the guestroom with the dresses, closing and locking the door behind her.
Travis opened the door within seconds, as if she hadn’t locked it, but only took one step into the room before moving sideways and dropping to the floor, leaning against the wall with arms wrapped around bent legs to show he had no intention of coming near. Cara sat in a Queen Anne’s chair, her knees too shaky to stand.
“You heard me ask for her safeword when I turned her around. She knew what was about to happen. She could’ve stopped it, but she didn’t want to. She craves the pain.” His voice changed to a pleading tone. “Cara, please stop looking at me like I’m a monster. That could’ve happened — I could have become a psycho who did those things to people whether they wanted it or not, but I didn’t. I can only enjoy it if I know the woman wants it. That’s why I asked for the safeword again. I needed to be sure.”
Her voice trembled. “You’ll never be able to do that to me. If you plan to convince me to... No. I’m sorry. You need to look elsewhere.”
“I don’t wish to do any more to you than you’ll enjoy. Please believe me. I want to be honest with you; I want to tell you I do worse things to women than flog and whip them, but I’m afraid of scaring you.”
He shook his head, his voice sad. “I don’t want you angry with me a month from now when you discover flogging is one of the tamer things I’ve done. This is my big secret, now you know why I’m comfortable controlling what happens where sex is involved. I can handle whatever secrets you have, Cara. I think we have complimentary kinks. You need rough sex; so do I.” His sigh filled the room as he dropped his forehead to his knees, hiding his face a few seconds before raising his eyes to hers once more. “You wanted to see me with a professional, and I showed you. I want you to be my girlfriend, but I’m not asking you to do any of that. I’ll only encourage the things I think you’ll enjoy. Okay?”
Not likely. Not for a million dollars. She looked at him but couldn’t handle the eye contact, and dropped her face as the woman’s screams echoed in her head. “How much did you pay her?”
He exhaled in frustration but patiently answered her question. “Eight thousand, and I gave her a fifteen hundred dollar tip. It was kind of a special thing; we negotiated for the camera and for me to draw blood. Our contract says if it ever ends up on the internet and she’s recognized then I owe her another fifty thousand.”
“Was she refusing to safeword for a bigger paycheck? Would you’ve tipped her if she’d stopped you? “
“Probably not if she’d safeworded at the beginning, but once it became intense I’d have still tipped her. She safeworded once in another scene and still got a nice tip. I do expect that unless they’re hurt they’ll service me, get me off, but I don’t hold a safeword against them.”
He dropped his head into his hands, ran long fingers through his hair, and raised his eyes back to hers, imploring her to understand. “I try very hard to learn their limits so they don’t have to safeword. I pride myself on taking them to the edge of what they can endure, and no further. It’s a challenge — how far can I take them? Can I get them aroused enough to endure the pain and want more?”
Cara shook her head. “I could buy a lot of paint and canvas for almost ten thousand dollars, but it’s not enough for me to do that.”
His smile lit his entire face. “I really do think I could fall head over heels for you. I may have already. You don’t think in terms of food and rent, but paint and canvas. Many of the girls I hire spend the majority of their income on clothes, shoes, personal trainers, and plastic surgery. Their job is to look good and they take it seriously. Your first love is your art; and everything else comes second. I love that about you — your passion, the way you see the world around you. Please don’t think I’m a monster.”
She thought it through again, and her fear of him faded a little, though her disgust was still front and center. He sat on the floor, nude, not at all threatening, and she sighed. “You’re right. You did ask for her safeword again, and when I said mine, you let me go and helped me get away from you. Can you take me home now, please?”
“If that’s what you want, but I don’t understand. It sounded as if you’d realized you don’t have to be afraid of me.”
“Right. I’m agreeing it’s safe to let you drive me. When I first came in here, I was trying to figure out how to get home. I have my debit card and some cash, and was wondering how much a cab to the bus station and a bus ticket would cost. I’d deliberated if it’d be better to ride a bus back to Chattanooga, or to give one of my housemates gas money to come get me, and was trying to determine a safe place to hang out and wait while they drove down.”
He looked even more deflated than before. “I’m sorry. I wanted to show you it was possible for someone to crave the whip, but it doesn’t look like you were ready to see so much. I thought you were, but...I screwed up. I’ll bring the new clothes in here and then I’ll get dressed so I can take you home.”
“Just bring my clothes. I don’t need the stuff you bought. You can return it.”
He shook his head as he stood, his voice dejected, shoulders slumped. “I’ll bring it all in. If you don’t take it with you it’ll be donated to the local homeless shelter. I hope you’ll wear it home but...shit. I’m sorry, Cara.”
She watched him walk out the door, and looked around for a clock. The one on the night table showed a little after ten, which meant he should have her home by midnight. Her fingers itched to hold a brush or pencil and she wished she could sketch on the way. She wanted to draw anger and pain; needed to express it in some way before she went crazy.
Chapter Six
A week later, Cara finished h
er oil on canvas; full of black, purple, violet, and red. The colors in her heart.
She couldn’t paint someone being whipped or spanked without having to answer a lot of questions, so she’d created a picture of two girls in a blackberry patch, a storm in full force around them with brambles waving in the wind, rain thundering down around them, and distant bolts of jagged lightning. The girls wore summer halter-tops and shorts, and their skin showed scratches from the briars, a few of them bleeding. Their faces reflected pain and fear — no escape, no way out but through the thorny vines. Buckets were abandoned on the ground, half-full of blackberries but lying on their sides with berries spilling out, forgotten in the storm. A tiny house was far in the distance on a hill, illuminated by the lightning and probably at least a mile away.
She stopped painting and stepped back to view it from three feet away, then six. Satisfied, she finally turned to gather supplies and begin her cleanup, but was surprised to see Papa Bear leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. Arms crossed.
“What happened while you were with Travis Winslow?”
She’d promised to keep Travis’ secrets and hadn’t said a word about their date, even after pictures of them at Six Flags had been splattered all over the internet gossip sites. She closed her eyes briefly before meeting Papa Bear’s gaze. “He was a perfect gentleman. We had a blast at Six Flags and had dinner at a condo he keeps in Atlanta.”
“You came home wearing different clothes.”
She smiled. “Can’t get anything by you. Apparently, when you’re terribly rich and didn’t pack clothes, you can call a department store and tell them what you want and they’ll put it on your charge card and have it delivered. He offered me a shower and ordered a fresh outfit so I wouldn’t have to put my sweaty clothes back on. It was nice. Extravagant. But sweet.”
“He hasn’t been back around. What happened?”
“I’m not sure he’s right for me. That’s all. He’s a nice guy.”
“You don’t like nice guys.”
She felt herself blushing, but didn’t drop her eyes. “Right. Again, can’t get anything by you.”
He uncrossed his arms and took a few steps into the room, his hands hanging several inches from his sides; he was a large man and his posture made him look even bigger. “I disagree about his being a run of the mill nice guy, and I think he did something that freaked you out.” He nodded his head towards her painting. “I think this picture shows how disturbed you are by whatever occurred.”
Cara looked at the floor a few seconds before meeting his eyes again. “Okay, something happened that bothered me, but it’s because he showed me a side of myself I hadn’t realized was there. It’s possible he’s the perfect guy for me.” She looked away, turning to see Papa Bear’s profile reflected in the sunroom’s glass without having to look him in the eyes any longer. “I can’t get him out of my head, but I’m terrified of what it means about me if I choose him. Everything is just so fucked up in my head, Papa Bear.”
He walked to her and turned her around to look at her painting, resting his hands on her shoulders. “Pain proves we’re alive, it can wake us up, and can be nothing more than another sensation. Not all pain is bad. But you didn’t create a story about pain; your picture is about choice. Those girls could’ve chosen to leave in peace before the storm started, but now the branches are seething and moving and there’s no way they can leave without being torn up, but if they stay they’ll also be scratched by the brambles. They’re getting wet either way, and if they stay out they also risk a lightning strike. They’ve lost their options. Their time for choosing wisely is past and now the choice is whether to stay and be cold and wet and hurt, or try to escape and be cold and wet and hurt.”
“Fuck. I didn’t...you’re right. Shit.”
“You thought you were capturing their pain and the storm’s fury, didn’t you?”
“I was painting their pain and the storm’s fury, but I had no idea I was exposing the loss of choice, too.”
He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Travis is in the living room talking to Kiki. I think you should talk to him and I believe the painting would be a good place to start. I’ll bring him in here, or you can go to your room and I’ll send him up, or I can go tell him you don’t want to see him and escort him out of the house.”
Cara shook her head. “I don’t want to see him, and please ask him to leave me alone when I’m working, too. I don’t want to have to wait his table anymore. Tell him it made me feel as if he were paying for time with me, and I felt dirty.”
He briefly patted her shoulder and rubbed her arm with his huge hand before walking to the door. “I’ll let him know you don’t want to see him but I won’t promise to deliver the rest of your message. You say he was a gentleman, so I’ll treat him as one.”
Chapter Seven
Cara called Junior the next day and met him at his place. She wore a summer dress with no underwear, and when he opened the door she walked past him without saying a word. She took a direct route to his bedroom, taking her dress off and draping it over the footboard as she stepped out of her sandals.
He followed her, smiling as he unbuckled his belt and pushed his jeans down.
“I like this about you, darlin’. You’re here to fuck and I don’t have to mess around with stupid romance shit.”
She looked at his wide leather belt, wondering if he’d pull it from the loops and hit her on the ass with it, curious how it’d feel. No way would she suggest it though, Junior was rough enough without getting ideas about possible uses for a belt. She reached for his cock as he dragged his shirt off, and he grabbed her and kissed her, pawing her breasts, groping them and groaning as his tongue invaded her mouth,.
“Mmmm, you have the nicest tits. Not huge, not small — barely more than a handful. I love these tits.”
Why wasn’t this working for her? She was usually worked up enough to want to jump his bones by now.
“Lean against the wall bitch. Let me get a condom on so I can fuck you like you need. I don’t think we’re gonna use the bed today.”
She turned, hands on the wall as he’d said, and his cock nudged her pussy once before he drove in hard enough to lift her legs off the ground and thrust her into the wall.
A strangled grunt of pain escaped her chest and he said, “What the fuck? You aren’t wet? Need me to diddle your clit first? You don’t usually need that.” He reached around and mashed his finger into her clit, but it still didn’t do much. A twinge, not enough to get her excited.
“How’s a man supposed to fuck you like this, with your cunt dry? Ah hell, I ain’t got patience for this.”
He pulled out and she heard him spit a few times, and then felt his cock at her ass, the spit-slick condom poked into her and she worked to relax. Oh yes, being used for his pleasure, no care for how she might feel. Her pussy wasn’t wet so he’d use her ass after spitting on his cock. This was about his satisfaction; hers didn’t matter. She imagined he’d paid her and had a right to be pissed about her lack of arousal.
It almost worked. Almost. Now that she knew the fantasy could include him whipping her for his pleasure, it was all she thought of. How would the whip feel on bare skin? Would it be as good as the spanking? Would it make lines of fire instead of the large slap of heat his hand delivered?
Junior was fucking her ass now, her face and breasts pushed into the wall, her feet off the floor, and she wasn’t the least bit aroused. She relaxed, let him in, even fought the wall a little, but...nothing. What’s more, she knew there was no safeword that’d make him stop at this point. He was a first class asshole who truly cared nothing about whether she was enjoying this or not. Travis had wanted to hurt her, but he’d wanted her to enjoy it.
Junior didn’t take long, thank goodness. She put her dress on, slid her feet into her sandals, and left while he discarded the condom in the bathroom.
Chapter Eight
Travis walked into the dining area as Cara refilled glasses
and she tried to pretend she hadn’t noticed him. She made sure her people were okay, topped off their drinks, and turned to see him sitting at one of her tables. Son of a bitch. Not again. She looked up, hoping no one would be snapping pictures of her taking his order. That’s all she’d need — someone to grab a picture of her with him at work, where they could get her name.
She’d had to field endless phone calls from family and friends a few days after returning from Atlanta, as someone had recognized Travis at Six Flags, taken pictures of them together, and sold the images to a tabloid. The gossip sites assumed she was another of his call girls and she’d had to assure her family and friends it’d just been two dates, he hadn’t paid her, and she didn’t intend to ever go out with him again. The tabloids didn’t know who she was and assumed she was from Atlanta, thank goodness.
She put the water pitcher up and walked to him, pasting on her best fake smile without caring how phony it looked. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Sweet tea, please. I know you have a break coming up, can we talk?”
Her heart beat double-time and her legs went week. He’d been watching her, if he knew that. Or maybe he’d asked someone. She managed a courteous, “I’ll be right back with your tea,” before turning and heading to the kitchen.
Her body went through the motions without needing her brain’s involvement, filling his glass, retrieving an order for another table, delivering it to the family, and finally taking the tea to Travis.
“Are you ready to order?” She was impressed her voice sounded almost normal. She felt as if it should be wavering all over the place.
“I’m sorry Cara. What can I do to convince you to go out with me again?”
She lowered her voice. “For starters, you can give me space. If I could quinacridone out of this situation I would, but it’s my job to take care of the person sitting at this table, and you know it. You’re paying for me, specifically, to serve you, and I feel dirty and cheap and...shit. Unprofessional.”
Safeword: Quinacridone Page 7