Safeword Quinacridone (14 page)

When she could breathe again he ran his fingers through her hair, his voice lazy, confident. “I think that worked for you?”

She laughed and sat up, moving out of his arms. He let her, thank goodness, so she only moved a few feet away, though she had the distinct impression he was treating her as one would a feral cat who didn’t want to be touched. “You have to ask? I hadn’t realized there was a name for what I needed until I started reading, and once I discovered the word —
objectification
— I got myself off umpteen times just contemplating the concept.”

Pulling a pillow casually into her lap, she continued. “What you just did, with the sheet, it was...I mean, it’s silly, I knew it was you and you knew it was me,” she shook her head in wonder, “but that thin sheet changed
everything
.”

* * * *

Travis let her move away, thankful for the few minutes he’d been allowed to hold and caress her. He didn’t sit, but moved his arm up to prop his head in his hand. “Tell me something you’ve read that objectified someone but was too much, and you wouldn’t want done to you.”

He noted she didn’t take long to answer, only needing the few seconds cover she obtained by scooting to the top of the bed — farther from him — and leaning against the headboard, keeping the pillow in her lap as cover.

“There was a story of a girl who couldn’t go in public anymore because her master had arranged for so many body modifications. She had no hair
,
not on her head or even eyebrows or eyelashes. He’d had
her front teeth removed so she coul
d give better blowjobs. She had partials she could put in to eat, so I guess that didn’t keep her from going out, but by the end of the story she had no vocal cords and couldn’t speak, and he’d had a surgeon amputate her legs so they didn’t get in the way when he fucked her, and
...
no.”

Travis knew people who’d removed all hair from their slaves, but when she reached the point about the teeth, he found himself a little horrified. He was dumbfounded she brought up amputation, but kept his face carefully schooled so she’d only see acceptance, as he wanted to be sure she felt comfortable telling him anything.

He knew many Doms asked this question to find out what women wanted but were afraid to admit to. He desperately hoped Cara was taking him at his word and telling him the things she truly didn’t want to experience. Travis’ two biggest guidelines were to be sure everything was consensual, and
no permanent damage
. He could tell by looking at her she was aroused, and was mortified at the notion of Cara wanting to truly lose essential body parts. He considered a few possible scenarios to try to figure out if she were looking at it as a fantasy or pondering it as a reality.

She’d been looking at her hands and raised her eyes to meet his,
and
he had
a
feeling it took effort for her to meet his gaze. “I want to keep my life as it is outside of sex, but I think I’d like to see how far we can take the whole objectification thing, as long as nothing interferes with my art or the ability to go to gallery events. I need to be able to talk and walk
,
so...” She shrugged as she trailed off.

His heart found a regular beat again as the impact of her words sank in. She didn’t want to lose body parts for real; she was turned on by the fantasy. He could work with that.

He sat up but didn’t move closer, not wanting her to feel she had to run. Trying another approach, he aske
d, “What turned you on the most? W
hat have you found yourself returning to and re-reading.”

Cara’s face blazed red. “It was another Master/slave story, where the Master had parties and his slave was always a party favor. He’d pose her somewhere and bind her in place, immobilize her, so anyone could have access. She’d be fucked over and over, used all night long, sometimes in the mouth at the same time as her pussy or ass. He’d insert a ring gag so she couldn’t talk right, and drooled; and she was tied so she couldn’t move anything
,
sometimes not even fingers or toes. A living, fuckable statue.”

He looked at her appraisingly
and resisted adjusting his legs to hide the fact his cock was swelling again. “You did enjoy sex with strangers.” He paused, his mind swirling around a thousand possibilities. “If you could safely be objectified by total strangers, would you want to?”

Her face showed eagerness, but then a shadow passed through her eyes and she shook her head, almost as if she were convincing herself, instead of him. “If we’re in a relationship it wouldn’t be... I mean, sex with strangers scratched an itch at the time. But if I have you then you’ll be scratching the itch. So...”

He relaxed inside, realizing she wanted it, but was hung up on monogamy. They could cross that bridge later
—
no need dealing with everything all at once
. H
e said, “You’re dancing around without answering, but that’s okay. We’ll talk about it later. Much later. Are you hungry? Do you want something more substantial than fruit?”

He saw her glance at his cock and start to say something, but chicken out and nod her head.

Yeah, he wanted her again, too, but they had other things to talk about first.

* * * *

Cara spooned some oatmeal, the glistening peaches peeking out between the grains, and looked around Travis’ huge assed kitchen as she savored the bite.

“I have friends coming over later. I’d love for you to hang out with us.”

She
put another bite into her mouth to avoid answering right away, as she wasn’t
comfortable meeting a roomful of strangers
. After a few moments of silence he
added, “I want you to meet my friends, Cara.”

She swallowed
and said,
“You’re throwing a party?”

“No, just having some people over. The plan’s for an evening of geeky computer games. Some of them work for me and there’ll probably be a little shop talk.” He shrugged, looking a little embarrassed again. “Since I’ve never had a regular girlfriend you may have to deal with some good natured ribbing.”

Yeah, that was what worried her. That, and people knowing what Travis did to her when they were alone. “Your friends know you...”

He finished her sentence when it was clear she wouldn’t. “Are kinky? A few know more details than I’m comfortable with, but I was young and talked a lot when I was experimenting and learning. But they’re my friends and like me anyway. The rest have seen the gossip, there’s no getting around that, but they aren’t part of...” He shrugged. “I keep my life pretty compartmentalized. I have kink friends and I have geek friends, and other than two exceptions I don’t mix the worlds.”

Not sure how to gracefully bow out, and realizing she’d probably need to meet them sooner or later, she said, “If you want me to meet them then
...
okay. Just, I’m not good with that sort of thing, so stay with me?”

“Of course, Cara Mia. Would you like to play, or sit with me and help?”

“How would I help?”

“Warn me if you see someone coming. Give me ideas for what to do next.”

Relieved she’d have a chance to watch first before being pushed to play, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I can do that at first, but once I get the hang of whatever you’re playing I might want to join in. Is it okay if I decide later?”

He nodded. “I’ll even stop and help you a while, if you want. Just tell me when you’re ready. Timothy will be here, you’ve worked with him on the education project, so you’ll know someone.”

“I haven’t met him in person, just emails and a few phone calls, but he seems nice enough. How will he react when he realizes we’re together? Will it change the way he interacts with me? I don’t think I want to work for your company Travis. People will assume I have the job because I’m fucking the boss.”

“But don’t you see? Timothy will know it’s not true. Sure, I pointed him to you, but we weren’t together then, and I didn’t tell him to hire you, just suggested he look at your work. All decisions since have been his — I’m brainstorming the deep coding
and
he’s in charge of the user interface.”

He sighed. “It’s up to you whether you want to keep working for us on a contract basis, or as an employee, or not at all, but I hope you’ll join us on at least a few projects here and there. You’re good Cara, damn good, and you’ll be an asset to our teams if you agree to create for us.”

Chapter Eleven

Travis watched the monitor as the makeup artist worked on Cara. He knew her deepest fantasies enough to start making a few actually happen, and while some were so dark it might be years before she was ready to experience them, she was primed for this one. He’d prepared her for weeks, getting her accustomed to incredibly restrictive bondage, testing how far he could take the objectification and keep her titillated, and assessing her pain tolerance without a warm-up when properly aroused.

He watched as Jazz stained her skin a rich mahogany, noting the makeup artist didn’t pay any more attention to breasts or genitals than arms and legs. That was the beauty of hiring a gay makeup artist — he was doing this for the art, not the opportunity to fondle a beautiful woman.

This was only the beginning of Cara’s objectification for the day
,
manipulated as if she were an object instead of a person. Jazz was told she’d play the part of a human table in a music video, and had been advised she needed to get into character and didn’t want to be spoken to or treated as a human. He was to move her to the positions he required without speaking unless verbal directions were absolutely necessary, and even then he’d express the position he needed the table, without requesting it of her.

Cara had merely been informed the furniture maker would convert her to a table.

Travis had never enjoyed objectification, never really considered the concept. Looking back, he realized he’d objectified many of the women he’d paid, but he hadn’t thought in those terms. He’d tried to treat them respectfully but that only went so far when you paid someone to let you hurt and fuck them. With Cara, he was willing to do anything to please her. The fact she’d turned out to be a masochist on top of her desire for objectification was icing on the cake.

He knew why he was warped — watching his first porn at eleven, and violent pornography at twelve or thirteen, had created the possibilities of a monster. If a mentor hadn’t come along at the right moment...it pained him to think of the direction his tastes may have gone. The beast inside of him still existed, still glorified at the sounds of a woman screaming in pain, but he needed to know she wasn’t being traumatized, and she was okay with it, wanted it.

If he’d never learned how to do this consensually, hadn’t been taught to hurt without harming, he might have turned into one of the assholes Cara used to find and fuck as one-night stands. Only, he’d have been one of the monsters who landed women in the hospital and then paid them off to prevent them from pressing charges.

He shook his head
and watched
as Jazz affixed faux wood wrist braces; then forced Cara’s hands into fists with the faux wood mitts, giving the appearance of the balled foot of a table leg. She was positioned on fists and knees, with her knees resting on matching sturdy table leg bases, padded for her comfort. Her feet were pulled up and attached near her thighs, giving the table more of a streamlined look.

Jazz retrieved the glass tabletop, the leather straps dangling as he carried it. He double-checked to see which end went near her head before settling it onto her back and running the bindings around her torso
,
one at the base of her breasts and the other at her hips. He tightened them several times
,
testing the glass for stability.

The table sloped towards her head and Jazz lifted each hand and turned a crank, making the wood under her fists telescope out. He had a good eye because he didn’t have to fiddle with them much to level the tabletop to the perfect elevation for playing cards. He didn’t know the height of the pieces under her knees was actually designed to place her at the ideal height for fucking.

Travis kept an eye on Cara’s face to make sure she retained her arousal — fully immersed in the objectification experience. He’d arranged two mirrors, so she could look into one and see her profile reflected in the other from the side and a little behind. She looked more like a table imitating a person than a person imitating a table, and he knew this would appeal to both her artist’s brain and the portion of her psyche craving objectification.

It bothered him when he couldn’t coax her into talking about where this need came from. She insisted it was merely the way she’s wired, but he was certain something must’ve triggered it. He didn’t think she was lying to him, more like deluding herself by not facing whatever had happened.