Safeword Quinacridone (24 page)

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 image 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 ove
r a dining room table — a living
candelabra as a roomful of people in elegant formal wear dined under her, none looking up.

In a reflection of a sketch from years earlier, Cara was drawn as a computer desk, bent over with the monitor strapped to her back, and
her
ass facing the user so he could pull her onto his lap and fuck her as he watched a porn flick on the screen.

There were pictures throughout the books of her as a statue at a party, often used by multiple people at once with an endless line of men waiting their turn.

Travis took photographs of the drawings he wanted to talk to her about, or might want to try to duplicate. While many of the images turned him on, others disturbed him, and he needed to give himself a few days before thinking about it too much.

He had looked up Billy Jenkins after Cara’s revelation and discovered the fool was on this third wife. He played pro-football, with a contract worth millions over a couple of years, but he lived in a modest three bedroom home because his first two wives had taken him to the cleaners. The idiot had no savings and was deep in debt.

Travis had learned a great deal about shallow women, and could easily see the third marriage was also destined to die an early death. Comparing wife-number-three’s online wedding pictures with a photo from a recent charity event, he immediately noted breast enhancements and shapelier nose. A few minute’s research branded her a society whore — presiding over various charities and elitist organizations, and always picture perfect. Travis found hundreds of photos of her online, each capturing beauty-pageant smile and posture with nary a single bad snapshot. He also couldn’t find any images of the couple within ten feet of each other over the past six months, where before the football player’s arm was usually around his trophy wife.

Revenge on Billy Jenkins would be pointless, as the man was his own worst enemy. Travis had set an alert to give him a report of any news about Billy Jenkins, and within a few weeks a sports article blamed a costly fumble on his lack of focus, noting his wife had served him divorce papers a few days prior and he was currently living in a hotel. Travis had deleted the alert, confident his decision to do nothing was the right one.

After looking through Cara’s sketchbooks, he wished the man had been a worthy opponent; he’d have enjoyed crushing him.

* * * *

“I’ve made a lot of kinky equipment for you over the years, but damned if this isn’t one of your most perverse.”

Travis grinned. “Let’s install the mannequin and give it a test whirl. I measured carefully but we may need to adjust the height.”

The life-sized model with Cara’s exact measurements had come in handy a number of times as Travis designed and ordered furniture; and he was once again glad he’d thought of it. They strapped the ankles and wrists into the mechanism and turned it on, and Travis was pleased to see the platform raise the figure to the underside of the desk, ass at the edge tilted just right for fucking, legs bent and spread wide. Travis scooted the chair to the desk and pulled the mannequin onto his lap, pleased to discover the height was perfect. He pushed down on the back end and the spring allowed him the half dozen inches of movement he’d need.

The contractor laughed. “I’d wondered at first why we were making this in here instead of the playroom, but I think I understand now. This is the media room, so you’ll have a way to get off while you watch porn, is that it?”

Travis angled his eyes up without moving his head. “Got it in one.”

“This girl’s serious, then?”

Travis’ smile faded. He trusted Mike — nothing had been leaked so far, but the artisan hadn’t asked personal questions before, either.

He raised his head to give Mike his undivided attention. “Why do you ask?”

“You’ve never had me build furniture specifically for someone else’s kinks before she came along. You designed equipment around your desires, with nothing custom made for a specific woman.” He lifted his hands in supplication. “I don’t want to pry, sorry if I overstepped.”

“No, Mike,” Travis sighed. “It’s okay. You know more about me than most people because you’ve made so much of my equipment.” He shook his head. “The speculation about what Cara might be into since she’s with me makes her uncomfortable enough
,
she’d be devastated if it got out she had her own kinks. I wish I could shield her better.”

Mike began collecting tools and settling them into his toolbox. “That’s healthy, then.”

“What do you mean?” asked Travis, leaning back and tilting his head.

“The equipment you’ve had me build recently,” he waved at the desk and motioned downstairs, “all points to objectification; but it’s just sexual, right? If she wanted to be an object for real the gossip would feed that by making her one of your possessions. From what I’ve seen, she’s driving the same car and pursuing her career. She’s still her own person.”

Travis stood and paced, thinking. He’d talked to Paul about this at length, wanting to make sure he wasn’t doing damage by feeding into Cara’s need for objectification, but Mike’s words struck a chord and he was grateful for the perspective.

“Thanks Mike. I’ve done a lot of soul searching and a lot of research. I balance the time I spend objectifying her by insisting she accept my seeing her as the woman I love; even though Paul has talked to her and assures me this isn’t something that needs fixing. It’s her kink, not a personality flaw.” He shook his head. “But having you validate it is a big help. It’s like the monster inside of me that needs to come out and hurt people
;
he’s not part of my everyday life, it’s purely a sexual thing. I’m not broken, just different. Objectification happens to be what turns her on; she’s not broken, either.”

Chapter Seventeen

Cara took extra care shaving, as requested, careful not to further arouse herself. She glanced towards the vanity for the thousandth time, seeing the flesh colored swim cap, blindfold, wrist and ankle cuffs, breathable butterfly gag, and lube.