Safeword:Quinacridone(129)

By: Candace Blevins


He stood without looking at her and walked to the side of the room to retrieve a rolling cart, pushing it in front of her so she could see the contents — his electrical equipment and steel butt plug, a small dish with nipple clamps, the bullwhip coiled around it, and several floggers hanging from hooks on the side. She looked up and saw cold eyes in an icy face.

“No objectification tonight, Cara. I’m doing this to you. I see you, the woman I love. And I will see you hurting. Tell me your safeword.”

“Quinacridone.”

He picked up the steel plug, large but not obscenely so, and put lube on it while she watched. She didn’t turn her head as he stepped behind her and she soon felt the cold tip of it pushing at her ass, but she didn’t relax.

“Let me in or have it forced.”

She needed violence and subjugation, wanted him to conquer her, and she clenched shut.

An unlubricated finger pressed in and she couldn’t stop it. He pulled sideways in her ass, prying her open and making room as she tried to hold herself closed. The finger left and something squeezed her clit, and pain rocketed through her, stealing her breath. She must have relaxed momentarily at the shock because the plug pressed in, breaching the outer muscles, invading. He pushed harder and faster than was comfortable and she squeaked in pain as the widest point passed, and it was in. She clenched around it, didn’t try to relax and accept it. She wanted to feel it.

He threaded the wire through her legs and connected it to the steel butt plug, and Cara was thankful for his silence as he adeptly installed equipment. He didn’t look at her face as he placed pretty, silver clover clamps on her nipples; her gasps of pain apparently enough. Brown twine connected her nipples to the spreader-bar over her head, keeping tension and lifting them high until she went to tip toes.

Travis reached for one of the harsh floggers that a year earlier he’d have ended with, not started. She wanted him to begin with the whip today, to be even more vicious than he planned, but she didn’t say anything.

He circled behind her and started at full strength, giving her no warm-up and no time to get used to the flogger. She could see him in the mirror, his arm traveling in a rapid figure eight pattern so the strands continually struck right, left, right, left again and again without slowing as he moved from shoulders to ass, and back again.

She wasn’t screaming yet, but released gasps and moans with the occasional “Fuck, that hurts” thrown in. He’d once told her true pain didn’t begin until one was past the ability to form words, but the phrases kept materializing. Maybe she was trying to make him hit her harder, because that’s the affect speech usually had during this kind of scene — challenging him to take her past the point of rational thought.

He put the flogger down, picked up two with knotted rawhide falls, and stepped behind her, swinging them in a Florentine pattern. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew he never left her in this position for more than fifteen or twenty minutes, to keep her arms from falling asleep, but it didn’t matter. There was no logic in this moment, only the pain. Right right, left left, right right, left left. No time to recover, the knots surely raising welts as they hit.

It was all Cara could do to draw breath between the screams.

Her upper back and ass on fire, she was beyond remembering to breathe through the pain as she desperately fought her restraints through the frenzied lashing.

When the floggers finally stopped, her screams continued for several long seconds.

In her haze she saw him pick up the bullwhip and walk to her.

“What’s your safeword?”

“I... ummm. Quinacridone.”

“I love you Cara. Can I hurt you some more?”

“Please Travis. Please.”

“Tomorrow I plan to ask you to marry me. Don’t answer now. Just be prepared for the question. I know you probably won’t remember this, so I guess I’m asking this part of you now, as practice for proposing to other part of you later.”

Cara rose a tiny bit above the fog and out of her subspace just enough so the first impact of the bullwhip near her right shoulder-blade made her scream. A thought floated through her mind that the screams didn’t sound like her — she wasn’t even sure they sounded human. She heard him walking towards her, felt his hand a few inches above the strike. Heard herself crying. She didn’t know how many times he planned to hit her and she didn’t care. She didn’t want it to stop.

The next lash struck like a lightning bolt as fire slashed across her skin and into her core. She heard the screams again and sensed the tears running down her face, some trailing down her neck and the center of her chest, others splashing off the end of her jaw and landing on her breasts.