Safeword: Quinacridone

by Candace Blevins

  He shook his head. “No. I vowed to be honest with her, to cherish her, and to be true to the nature of our relationship.”

  “So, she knew you’d be screwing whoever you wanted when she married you?”

  He was quiet a moment before saying, “We had a contract saying I owned her, long before our wedding. I chose to marry her so I’d have more rights and claims over her, not less freedom to do as I please. Marriage allows me to make medical decisions, and makes it easier to take away her financial autonomy. She has a legal right to use the credit cards and sign checks, but she doesn’t have permission to do so unless it’s an emergency. If she does, and I don’t agree with her definition of an emergency, she’ll be punished.” He tilted his head. “So she doesn’t.”

  “Do you let other men fuck Meg; the way Travis can let others have the use of my body? Has Travis fucked her?”

  He nodded. “He’s used her body for his pleasure many times, but not since he met you. To answer your initial question, Meg is forbidden orgasms while others are enjoying her. She’s only allowed to show pleasure while her Master is fucking her.” He smiled. “Though, even then I don’t always give permission.”

  Cara’s insides ignited at the thoughts of Travis not allowing her to orgasm while he watched other men take their pleasure with her body. She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around her legs. “What happens if she...does?”

  “Comes without permission? She’s punished, of course. I won’t go into specific consequences with you today. Another time, maybe, but I think I’ve given you more than enough to absorb.”

  “You went to Europe with Travis on occasion, when he wanted to be far from home to explore some of his more extreme kinks — were you married to her then?”

  He nodded. “We’ve been married a long time, Cara. I love her more than words can possibly say, but we don’t have a normal relationship. I adore her, cherish her, and would never harm her.”

  “But you hurt her.”

  “I do, and she loves it, just as you do.”

  “So, you didn’t cheat on her with me.”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry I called you a bastard.”

  He laughed. “It’s okay, the title fits often enough, just not for the reason you thought. Are you ready to go back in?”

  She suddenly remembered how she’d left, and groaned. “Shit, no. How will I explain why I ran out?”

  “Travis already handled it.” He smiled. “When you left he told me you’d seen me with someone a few weeks ago and probably thought I’d been cheating on my wife with her. I said I’d talk to you and explain.”

  She scowled. “It’s almost like the two of you have done this before, you’re so practiced.”

  The chair made grating noises as he stood and put it back where he’d found it. He returned to her and offered his hand, and she let him help her up, but pushed him away when he tried to draw her into a hug.

  He moved back, saying, “Just as I’d be okay with Travis hugging Meg to comfort her when I wasn’t around, he’ll approve of my giving you a platonic hug now. I know you were turned on when I told you about my relationship with Meg, and we’ll have to tell him about that, but I’m sure he’ll be fine with it.”

  He touched her face, gently insisting she look at him, and it so resembled something Travis would do that her eyes went straight to his as he said, “I’ll never do anything with you I’d want to keep from him, and it’s a good rule of thumb for you, too. Doesn’t matter the situation — if you’ll feel comfortable telling him, it’s probably okay. If you’d be embarrassed telling him, or tempted to not inform him at all, you should most certainly check with him first.”

  She stepped away, nodding. “Maybe it has nothing to do with Travis, and I need to think about all of this before I feel comfortable hugging you.”

  His head tilted as he regarded her thoughtfully. “I like you Cara, and I think you’re great for Travis. He needs a sharp mind that can keep up with him, and someone with enough moral fortitude to avoid getting lost in his debauchery. Take all the time you need, and if ever you choose to hug me again I’ll treasure it all the more, having lost it.”

  She had no clue how to even begin to respond, so she turned to the door and ushered him out before double-checking the lock.

  A game was in full swing when they returned and she sat beside Tricia, helping her maneuver through the ruined building and warning her when someone came at her from behind or off to the side.

  Tricia was something of an anomaly, mostly appearing genderless at work in her army boots and hiking clothes. She was a super-genius, like almost everyone who worked for Travis at that level, but she wasn’t as much of a geek as most of the team. Certainly still not quite socially acceptable in polite circles, but so self-confident, poised, outspoken, and easygoing it was impossible to classify her as geek.

  When the game finished Cara moved to the computer she’d used earlier and joined the next without anyone asking what’d happened. A couple of hours later Cara and Tricia ended up in the media room alone when all the guys left to get popcorn for the movie. Tricia leaned against the chair in front of Cara, saying only, “Spill.”

  Cara had no idea what she was talking about for a few seconds, but ran the evening through her head and felt her face grow hot when she realized what Tricia wanted to know.

  She shook her head and Tricia laughed and sat beside her. “Sorry, that was cruel. You don’t have to tell me anything. I mean, we all know Travis isn’t exactly normal, and most of us have an idea Paul is part of it. Well, maybe not most of us, but the ones who’ve been around since Travis was eighteen or so, when he was still figuring things out.”

  Cara buried her head in her hands and wished the floor could swallow her. Tricia rubbed her back. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to embarrass you. Most of the guys are clueless; my figuring things out doesn’t mean the whole room has an idea why you were upset.” She sighed. “Just forget I said anything, I wanted to tease you, but you look mortified.”

  Looking up in incredulity, Cara wondered if Tricia really thought she could forget it. The other woman smiled and said, “You’re good for him and I’m glad he found you. I didn’t know you before so I don’t know if he’s good for you, but I hope so.”

  “He’s...yeah, he’s good for me.”

  They heard the men jostling each other as they came down the hall and Tricia said, “If you ever want to talk, you know where my office is. I’d like us to be friends.”

  The men all barged in, arguing with geek vocabulary so Cara had no idea what they were talking about, and Tricia joined the debate.

  Cara glanced up to see Travis watching her, and when their eyes met he walked to her and kissed her before settling his mouth near her ear. “I’m sorry you were blindsided about Meg. I wasn’t keeping it from you; I just didn’t think of bringing her up. I promise I’ll never lend you to someone I know is in a monogamous relationship.”

  One of the guys interrupted with “Hey, Winslow, you still haven’t told us what we’re watching!”

  Travis kissed her forehead and turned, pulling a remote from his pocket and aiming it above the movie screen.

  “See the red light? This is your notification you’ll be videoed as you watch the film.” A few people gave happy war whoops at the news and Travis smiled and continued. “It’s a screener from one of my Hollywood friends; they want to see audience reaction before deciding on the final cut.”

  Everyone took their seat as he was talking, and he pushed the remote again to dim the lights and start the movie. As soon as it became obvious it was another comic book superhero installment, the men released their war whoops again and didn’t settle down until the speaking parts started.

  * * * *

  Cara said goodbye to the last of Travis’ friends and helped make sure all the computers in the gaming room were shut down as Debbie stacked dishes and headed to the kitchen. Cara was finally getting used to having people around who
handled the cleaning, organizing, and shopping, but the temptation was still there to follow and help.

  Travis stepped behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders. “Your choice tonight Cara Mia — either go to bed or the basement. If you choose the playroom I want your body on the spanking horse and your head in the stockroom. I’ll come find you in five or ten minutes.”

  His words set her on fire and she didn’t have to think about where to go as her feet descended the steps and she put her palm to the locked door.

  He’d hired someone to make a spanking horse especially for her, in two parts — a portion in a storeroom and the rest in the playroom — with a hole through the wall so she could lie across it as a unit.

  When properly situated, her head and arms rested in a room with stored tables and chairs needed for social events along with tools, cleaning supplies, and light bulbs; the symbolism not lost on her of warehousing her head in here while her body was used in the other room. A metal grate nearby looked as if it were part of the air conditioner but allowed him to hear her screams — or a safeword.

  She’d only safeworded a few times: the night she’d wanted away from him to go to the restroom, the scene on the plane when he’d first brought up flexibility, and the dreadful session with Jonathan. She’d come close a few times, but he seemed to have a gift for knowing when she was near her limit and was skilled at taking her to the brink of too much without going over.

  She climbed onto the spanking horse and rested her torso on the wide cushioned support so her breasts dropped through the holes. Her head and arms went into the storage room and she situated her face on the massage-table face rest. She placed her knees on their platforms, spreading her pussy obscenely.

  He’d shown her pictures of how she looked, so she’d see how the position dehumanized her body — displaying her pussy and ass at the perfect height for fucking, and dangling her breasts to be clipped and weighted, or played with in some other devious way.

  Satisfied she was properly installed, she pushed the button to lower the wall. Well, not the wall itself, but a mechanical door resembling one. It was padded and shaped to conform to her body, but still, once it was down she wasn’t going anywhere. She had an emergency release button, but using it was the same as safewording and the scene would end.

  Cara didn’t know how long she waited. Nude, spread out. An object stored until its owner might need it. Ten minutes can seem like forever when you’re displayed like a Thanksgiving turkey and looking at light bulbs, screwdrivers, and wrenches. The lighting was dim, but bright enough to see around her. Sometimes it was pitch black, other times brightly lit. She had no control over that, either.

  She felt a touch to her ass and something sliding into her pussy. Fuck, it burned. She couldn’t tell if it was ginger or hot peppers. Both hurt, but peppers would make her tender for days, where the ginger would stop hurting when removed.

  No words were allowed except her safeword, and the only acceptable sounds were screams of torment and suffering — or of an uncontrolled orgasm. No moans of pleasure. No whimpers of acceptance or complaint. She breathed through the pain as she desperately wanted to close her legs and protect her delicate tissues. The burn was intense.

  The first strike knifed across her bottom, a sharp edge of fire, a lightning strike obliterating all thought. The only thing existing in her universe was the pain. She screamed, writhed, and kicked her legs, momentarily out of control as her body tried to flee.

  She couldn’t come off the horse with the wall around her shoulders, but her hips could go sideways, and she felt him straighten her. Wide straps snugged over her back, around her thighs, and over her ankles. She pulled and tugged to test them, and relaxed when she was certain she couldn’t move.

  He touched the cane to her cheeks briefly before delivering the next stripe, letting her prepare this time. She fought the restraints on impact again, screaming at the searing intensity. She was pretty sure this was the Delrin, and damn, it hurt.

  The blaze in her pussy increased relentlessly and merged with the branding heat of the cane to create a giant conflagration. A finger touched her clit, the pressure hitting her brain a few seconds before the burn. She struggled against the restraints in vain, frantically needing to put her legs together, to move out of the way, to escape. So open, so vulnerable, with no physical way to stop the torturous fire or block the cane from crashing down again.

  Two more strikes of the cane had her screaming and very close to using her safeword, and then there was something at her ass. His cock. Pushing in. Fast, and hard. He was lubed but she wasn’t, and it hurt and burned and she immediately scaled the peak and bellowed in pained ecstasy as a wave swept her off the edge of the cliff, and she soared.

  He fucked her ass through her orgasm, and as the spasms and tremors finally began to fade, she felt a jog in his rhythm telling her he was close. She milked his cock with her internal muscles and just like that, he was coming.

  The plug was pulled from her pussy as soon as he finished, and something mercifully swiped across her clit, extinguishing the fire in both places.

  She grunted as a large plug pressed into her ass. While she was thankful he was making sure she didn’t leak, she wondered if he couldn’t have used something a little smaller. However, the instant it was in and seated, her objections melted away.

  The wall above her lifted, and when the last attachment point released she pushed up and back and was immediately in the warm cocoon of his embrace. He directed them to a leather sofa a few feet away and they both sank into it with Cara still in his arms.

  In some ways, learning to submit to aftercare had been her toughest challenge, but she’d had lots of practice in the months since the table scene, and they could have this kind of quickie scene and end with her comfortably crashed in his arms.

  She wound up lying on her side on the sofa, her head in his lap, his hand stroking her, comforting her. As she gradually floated back to awareness she rolled to look up at him. “I love you so much. I never knew it could be like this with anyone.”

  “Do you love me enough to let me look through your old sketch books?” His smile was joking, but his eyes serious, reflecting caution with a little hurt.

  She’d turned him down when he asked before, but realized she might need to reconsider. “Why is this so important to you?”

  “It feels like something I should know about you. I had no idea there’d be so many until I saw the cases on your closet shelves. You’ve kept them, so they must be important.”

  “Yeah, but they’re probably like most people’s diaries or journals. They show the journey my art has taken, from rough with screwed-up perspective to what I can do now. They likely show what was going on in my head at the time, too — in a roundabout way.”

  She sighed. “You already know everything; I don’t have any secrets. Look through them if you want but I don’t want to be around when you do.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Travis waited until Cara was off with Kiki before he explored the sketchbooks. He breezed through the first tablets quickly, amazed at how talented she was at a young age.

  When he reached the years she’d been the most reckless he took his time and studied each drawing. Perhaps she’d never painted dark things but she’d certainly sketched them. He didn’t think she’d spent much time on the disconcerting images; as if her subconscious had drawn them and when she realized what she’d penciled she’d turned the page and sketched something technically complicated and non-sexual, purposefully setting her mind to another task.

  He stopped at a self-portrait — Cara drawn as a blow up fuck-doll with gaping mouth and plastic hair, posed arms and legs, fake boobs and nipples, and artificial holes for ass and pussy. He snapped a quick photo and skimmed over another dozen happy pictures before turning the page to see Cara’s open-mouthed face drawn under a desk as someone watched porn, rendering her the receptacle for whatever stimulation the movie generated.

  Another ima
ge depicted a burlap sack over a crouched female with ropes webbed over the sack, binding her arms and legs to her body and pulling her torso towards her legs until her back was horizontal. A wide slit had been cut over the mouth, and two holes showed cunt and ass. Dollar amounts were written beside the three access sites, with arrows pointing to be clear about what was offered for sale.

  Travis noted several pictures of women in various stockade configurations, but the most prominent theme had wrist and neck locked with the woman bent at the waist, so she couldn’t see who was using her from behind, and had no way to stop the faceless man in front of her from vigorously fucking her face.

  He turned another page to see brilliant sunlight streaming through a window onto a kitchen table. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but something about the bouquet of flowers seemed off. He had to study it a moment before Cara’s face suddenly peered from the center of a flower. This wasn’t sexual objectification, it was just plain old being an object, and it disturbed him far more than the other images.

  Another sketch displayed her strung up by wrists and ankles, doubled over and hanging in the approximate shape of a punching bag. A grotesquely muscled man wearing large boxing gloves was preparing to take a swing, or perhaps another swing. Cara had only drawn enough of her profile to confirm it was a self-portrait, but not enough to see her expression.

  When he reached the more recent books the most disturbing image exhibited a kneeling Cara with breasts, pussy, and ass hooked to electrodes, with a lampshade over her head and her face pointed to the ceiling — the angle allowing the viewer to note the bulb in her mouth was lit. She’d even shown the shadow cast below her by the light.

  Yet another image had her decked out with melted wax all over and dozens of flickering candles wedged in the wax. She was suspended over a dining room table — a living candelabra as a roomful of people in elegant formal wear dined under her, none looking up.