eXcessica publishing
Safeword: Quinacridone © 2012 by Candace Blevins
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be access by minors.
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Cover design © 2012 Tara West
First Edition December 2012
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Safeword: Quinacridone
By Candace Blevins
What happens when an introverted artist who only likes sex when it’s a one-night stand meets a computer-geek-extraordinaire with his own sexy secrets? Objectification, romance, pain, adoration, lots of kinky toys, and oodles and oodles of wonderfully imaginative sex.
Join Cara and Travis on their journey to mesh their distinctive sexual tastes into a loving relationship with blow-your-mind kink.
Ob·jec·ti·fi·ca·tion:
1. Treating a person as an object for use, with no regard for a person’s personality or sentience.
2. Regarding someone as a commodity; considering them merely an instrument towards one’s sexual pleasure.
Examples of OBJECTIFICATION:
1. A woman is on her back at the edge of a tall bed with hands and feet bound together and restrained above her head. A curtain drapes from a canopy above and puddles on the backs of her thighs. The man about to penetrate her sees only female genitals available for use.
2. A woman is dressed in a full latex blow-up doll costume with durable latex ‘pockets’ stuffed into her orifices. She is bound into a position giving easy access to all three holes at a party. Her face is completely covered excepting nose and mouth. The men do not know who is in the costume.
Safeword: Quinacridone is a stand-alone book. You do not need to have read the previous books in this series.
Warning: This title contains graphic language, consensual BDSM, extreme objectification, bondage, watersports (one scene), chemical play, fisting, temporary body modification with saline injections (one scene), and the use of toys including clamps, canes, plugs, paddles, whips, floggers, and zip-ties.
Chapter One
Cara pushed stray hairs away from her face, her ponytail having long lost the battle of restraining them. Almost time for her three o’clock break, she refilled drinks at all of her tables before heading to the back, untying her apron as she walked. It always felt good to take it off and hang it up, and not have to feel on for a little while.
As she walked from the dining section to the internet and gaming computers the sounds around her changed from the clinking and clanking of dishes to the pitter-patter of keyboards and the clicking of mice. The manager set her up for an hour of computer time, a free perk when they weren’t busy.
She preferred a workstation at the rear of the room, with a decent keyboard and mouse, and situated to minimize interruptions. Relieved to find it open, she slid into the chair and opened a window to log into her computer at home.
The image had started as a complex photograph of a field of flowers, and she’d changed flower colors here and there until the client’s logo could be seen in the field as if planted that way. Part of the monitor was zoomed in to work at the pixel level with another section displaying an overview when someone startled her with, “Wow, you’re good. And fast. I had no idea they had such high-end graphics programs for use here; they should advertise.”
She didn’t bother looking up, just kept working as she said, “They don’t. I’m logged into my home computer.”
“What, the walls started closing in on you so you decided to work on your computer from here instead of home?”
She shook her head, annoyed, but figured answering his questions would make him leave faster than telling him to go away. She kept clicking as she talked. “No, I work here and this is my dinner break. I’m on a deadline and using my hour to try to get this finished; it has to be in the client’s inbox by 8:00 tomorrow morning. Is there something I can do for you?”
“Ah, then I’m bothering you. I tell you what — give me thirty seconds to turn around and look at me, tell me your name and phone number, and I’ll leave you to your work.”
She lifted her hand from the mouse and turned, not smiling. “My name’s Cara. You can’t have my number.”
He smiled. “Well, hello Cara. I’m Travis. I’d like to take you out to dinner sometime, and it’ll be hard to invite you without a way to call.”
Her eyes scanned him, finally seeing him as a human and not an interruption. She’d learned how to tell which guys would be able to get her off in bed and which wouldn’t — going out with the latter was pointless, as it only led to awkward moments and hurt feelings. As a general rule, geeks didn’t have a clue how to treat her in bed, and the combination of being here and attracted to her because of her computer skills put him into the running for the title. Unless he was an artist, which still didn’t necessarily bode well for date-ability, but...
“Are you an artist?”
“No, I design software. New ways to use the internet. You’re much better than my graphic artist and I pay him an arm and a leg. I don’t understand why you’re working as a waitress. I could probably help you find work but that’s not why I’m asking you out.”
Geek. Definitely a geek. “You haven’t asked me out. You’ve said you’d like to, but I haven’t heard an actual day and place.”
He paused and Cara could almost see him replaying the last couple of minutes in his head before saying, “Wow, you’re right. If you aren’t busy tomorrow night would you like to go to The Melting Pot with me?”
How had he managed to pick the one restaurant she wanted to try? Or maybe he’d picked an expensive place to get her attention? She needed to be safe, but realized she was considering his offer.
“Do you have a last name, Travis?”
He pulled a business card from his pocket, offering it to her. She immediately noticed the well-designed logo and had respect for his graphic design person before absorbing the words. It was apparently a tech company — Travis Winslow, President, CEO, and Visionary.
She reached for her purse and found one of her cards, with her name and email address on a light background of one of her paintings and a sticker on the back listing some places around town selling her real world art. There was no phone number; she rarely gave it to anyone.
He looked it over and raised his eyes to hers, and she noted he had a beautiful smile. “Nice to meet you, Cara Jamieson. Still no phone number, but a name and email’s a start. You’re an artist, so the graphic stuff’s a side job? You’re very good. I’m impressed and would love to see some of your
work. Are you free tomorrow evening?”
The few geeks Cara had bothered with had been horrible in bed, with no clue of what they were doing. Travis had confidence and a nice personality, but he was still the stereotypical geek — quite tall, too thin, khaki pants and a blue button-down complete with white t-shirt peeking out of the neckline. His hair fell somewhere between dirty blond and light brown, and was a couple weeks past needing a cut.
Her gaze paused at his eyes, trying to come up with their color — they weren’t quite blue and not really hazel, either. She’d have never considered the color for eyes in a painting, but they were striking and she made a mental note.
Returning her attention to the conversation, she looked at the entire picture again. He was so totally not her type, but she’d been wanting to eat at The Melting Pot.
“I’ll meet you there at 7:00 tomorrow evening. Will that work?”
* * * *
When Cara walked into her bedroom after her shift she pulled her clothes off and donned comfortable shorts and oversized tee before heading to the kitchen to make an egg sandwich. She lived in a large Victorian house, with a grant from the local Arts Council designating it exclusively for musicians and artists. They still had to pay rent, but there were rooms set aside for them to work, and it was heaven.
Her friend Kiki came in while she cooked, pushed herself up to sit on the counter, and asked how her day had been. Cara briefly told her about meeting Travis, dumping the scrambled eggs onto her bread as she finished.
Kiki stepped behind her to check the stove as Cara put the mayo and eggs away, congratulating herself for remembering, but her face went red as her friend turned the eye off.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’d do without ya’ll to take care of me.” She’d been thinking of buying ingredients to make Kiki a cake for her birthday, but instantly decided to order one from the diner instead.
“No biggie,” Kiki shrugged. “We all look out for each other. I want to hear more about this guy but I know you won’t go into details until you complete your project and can relax.” She smiled, almost daring Cara to argue, and finished with, “Come find me when you’re done?”
Cara walked the pan to the sink and flipped the faucet on, washing as she talked. “Yeah, yeah. It might be a few hours though. If you’re still up, we’ll talk.”
She quickly dried the pan and put it away before grabbing her sandwich and heading to her room.
Three hours later she sighed in relief as she uploaded the completed files to her client’s server and sent an email to her main contact.
Figuring she’d need to know something about Mr. Travis Winslow before she talked to Kiki, she googled him and discovered he was kind of a hero amongst the tech crowd. He’d written his first major piece of software at twelve, and sold his first company for several million dollars a month before he turned fifteen. Now, at twenty-six, he came up with new ideas, and created applications using technology in innovative and often groundbreaking ways. He’d develop a website or company around the software, get it up and running, and promptly sell it — usually for many millions of dollars — before moving on to another project.
There was also much speculation about him. According to the gossip sites, he’d never had a long-term girlfriend, and two of the women he’d taken to awards dinners had later been outed as very high-priced call girls. Some assumed he was gay, while others figured him too much of a geek to get and keep a girlfriend.
Cara found herself turned on by thoughts of Travis with a call girl, and wondered how he might treat her on a date. Would he handle her like a whore? Would he want to use her without worrying about whether she was enjoying herself? Maybe this Travis Winslow had potential after all.
She reached for his card and moved the cursor to the top of the desktop, activating the web cam and grabbing a shot. She wasn’t good at keeping up with things so she took pictures in case she lost them.
The occupants of the house currently included musicians, artists who worked with flat mediums, sculpture artists, a vocalist, and Papa Bear. Most people figured Papa Bear was named for his size and beard, but they didn’t see how he took care of them. He could look at their work, ask a few questions, and open up a thousand possibilities. Sometimes his questions might answer why a piece hadn’t felt right and what it might need, but he never told them these things; just found ways to help them find their own answers.
The musicians had soundproof rooms in the basement while the artists and sculptors had the sunroom, built onto the back of the house to give them privacy while they worked. During the day the lighting was perfect, with three sides and the roof made of glass and the fourth side mirrored, providing all the natural light you could stand. Full spectrum lights illuminated the space at night, and they were all on when Cara entered, flopping onto the large chaise after turning it so she’d be able to see Kiki’s graceful fingers shape the clay as they talked.
Kiki glanced up briefly to acknowledge she’d seen her friend enter, but remained focused on her art. “Out with it. What made you agree to go out with him? I thought you’d decided you only choose assholes, and had stopped picking guys on your own.”
“The guys ya’ll chose for me weren’t my type either.”
Kiki shook her head and reached for a tool, deftly cutting the clay away in long, curling slivers. “I don’t get it — you don’t like men who’re polite, or the ones who consider your feelings.” She sighed. “Unless you consider how the guys you pick are all insensitive jerks, then it makes total sense.”
She stopped shaving at the clay to look up. “But they treat you like shit, Cara. They stand you up, and only call when they want to see you, and don’t give a flying shit when you want to see them. You seem to have been better off since you turned Junior into a fuck buddy. What’s the deal with this new guy?”
Cara had expected a lecture from Kiki. Needed it, in a way, to try to figure out what the hell she was doing. She sat up, gesturing with her arms as she replied, “I didn’t go looking, okay? And he’s not my type, he’s a major geek.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s attracted to me because he saw I had skills as a graphic artist, for crying out loud!”
Kiki raised her eyebrows and smiled in amusement, obviously not seeing this as the horrible piece of information Cara implied.
Sighing, Cara flopped back down, watching her friend’s hands on the clay instead of looking at her face. “I’m meeting him at The Melting Pot tomorrow. It’ll prolly just be the one date, and it may sound shallow but I’m only going because I’ve been wanting to eat there and it’s too expensive to splurge and pay for it myself. I googled him. He’s rich, he can afford it.”
Kiki looked at her a second and went back to shaving pieces of gray clay off her...horse? Cara couldn’t tell yet.
“If there’s something I know for sure,” said Kiki, “you aren’t shallow. You’re painfully shy around people you don’t know, terrible at choosing guys, and a gifted artist — but you’re not superficial. You wouldn’t have accepted if there weren’t some kind of attraction. Tell me about him.”
Cara told Kiki everything, except for the call girls. She couldn’t bring herself to talk to Kiki about them; it seemed like an invasion of his privacy. Kiki agreed he didn’t sound like her type and encouraged her to give him a chance.
Chapter Two
Cara arrived at The Melting pot five minutes before seven and was walking towards the door when Travis stepped out of a perfectly normal looking car. She’d read articles saying he owned a Ferrari and a Porsche, but she didn’t recognize whatever he was driving.
He caught her eye and grinned. “I drive the most ordinary car I own and still people look at it instead of me. Oh well, such is life. How are you today?”
They did the required, “I’m fine how are you, how was your day” conversation and walked in. Travis gave his name and they were led to a secluded area. The hostess turned on the recessed eyes of the burner at the center of the table, warned them of th
e heat, and as she stepped away a waitress moved in to take their drink order. Travis requested a bottle of wine Cara had never heard of, and the server looked impressed. Cara asked for ice water.
As the waitress walked away Travis said, “I’m sorry, I should’ve made sure you drink before I ordered the wine.”
“No, it’s okay, I drink occasionally, but I need water too. I’m clueless about wine, so if you ordered something designed to impress me you should know it went over my head.”
He smiled and picked up the menu, talking to her about the options available. They chose the base for the fondue pot, then the types of food to cook in it, and when their waitress returned he placed both orders.
Travis watched the server walk away and leaned back, looking a bit nervous for the first time. “I decided to take a look at your art today since your card listed a few places selling it. I hope it doesn’t seem too stalkerish of me, but I was curious.” He smiled again, and his eyes lit up as he said, “Your artwork’s amazing — your use of color and texture, your handle on perspective, the emotion you convey. Have you worked to get into large galleries in bigger cities?”
Drat. Other than one particularly absentminded artist, no one who’d appreciated her art had been bearable in bed. She smiled, trying to look sociable. “Thanks. It’s always good to hear when people like your work. There’s a Nashville gallery with mostly country music type stuff, and every once in a while I paint something appropriate for their clientele. I kind of lucked into the deal though, since one of my teachers emailed them an image I was working on and they liked it.”
“Are you in school?”
She shook her head. “No. I took the college classes I thought I needed, and a few my instructors recommended, but I can’t see spending the money for a degree. People don’t buy your art based on your education but on whether the piece speaks to them. I occasionally find another class or workshop I think I should take, but for the most part it’s just me trying to make a living with my art now.”
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