Safeword Quinacridone (9 page)

“No.” He looked at her in disbelief and she considered her feelings. It wasn’t practical to be upset about the people in someone’s past, so why didn’t she want to see? She shrugged. “It’d be silly to be jealous of women you had sex with before we met, but it doesn’t mean I want to see it.”

He dipped his head as if approving her point, and he and his bare-naked ass walked to another wall and opened a door, revealing a giant LCD monitor in a silver frame with a white keyboard hanging below. He unfolded a brushed stainless shelf, situated the keyboard and mouse, and clicked through a few screens. The movie came to life showing a thin woman on the cross, nude, with her wrists and ankles encased in what looked like white leather and attached to the frame’s hardware.

Travis’ voice came through the speakers. “Tell me what I can do to you Casey. I want to be clear about this before we begin.”

“You can flog and whip me until I bleed, Sir.”

“What’s your safeword?”

“Whiskey, Sir.”

“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 o
ne 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 safew
ord 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’l
l 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 her 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 t
ime 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.”