Shannon gulped. "Storage won't be necessary."
It was four blocks to the bus stop, and a short ride to the station. Shannon took the key from her miniscule purse and inserted it in the locker. The coin dropped inside as she turned the key to open the door. She slung the black gym bag over her shoulder and forced a bright smile on her face.
"This is it. We can go now."
"This is everything," he repeated, giving her a stern look.
She nodded.
"And where have you been sleeping?"
She indicated the station with a sweep of her arm. "You can ride the bus all night for a couple of bucks. Even the YWCA costs more than that."
"Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? Are you stupid?"
She shrank back from his ire, blinking rapidly. She couldn't cry again, her mascara was almost empty.
"Come along," he snapped.
She hurried to catch up to him as he strode off with long, purposeful strides. He didn't speak to her on the ride back to his neighborhood. But when he opened the door to his apartment, his anger was gone. He gave her a beautiful smile.
"Welcome home, sweetheart," he said. "You've seen the kitchen. You're welcome to use it anytime you like. I have a tab with the local market, so you can call and order groceries anytime. They deliver. The living room is my studio, so no guests. I don't watch TV, and seldom listen to a radio. I find it too distracting. You're welcome to put either in your bedroom, if you keep the volume low or use headphones. There's only one bathroom, so if you like to take long baths, please leave the door unlocked. Any questions?"
She gave him mock salute. "Aye, aye, captain."
"Sassy wench. What was that for?"
"Do I get time off for good behavior?"
"No. You'll get time off in six weeks, when I'm through with you. Got it?"
She blinked, feeling very close to tears again. Six weeks. She could put up with anything for six weeks. Even a dominating male with a heavy hand and mercurial mood swings. And although he'd spanked her more soundly than she'd ever been spanked in her life, he hadn't once belittled her or made her feel hopeless. She fingered the Celtic cross that hung from a solid chain around his neck and wondered how her dad and this artist could believe in the same god. "Got it," she whispered.
He swatted her rump over the skimpy skirt, making her gasp at the renewed discomfort. "Get some sleep. You never know when I will call you to pose again."
Shannon stumbled down the corridor, past the bathroom, and opened the doors at the end. One was a masculine room, with clothing strewn across the floor, change on the dresser top, dirty dishes and half-empty fast food cartons, and the smell of gym socks. The other room had to be hers. There was a twin bed with a bedroll and a pillow - no pillow case. A barren end table, and nothing else. Not even a curtain in the window. Luckily, he was on the top floor, and the building across the street had no upper windows at all. Shannon stripped out of her clothes yet again, and slipped into the bedroll naked. If she were going to be posing naked every day for six weeks, she might as well get used to it. Kerrick pulled the stool over to his easel and perched on it, staring at the painting. It was good. It was very good. Now that the heat of the moment had passed, he could look at it with a little detachment. It was a lovely portrait. He could look at it for hours, but would anyone else? Or was it too personal? Was it meaningful to him only because he'd been the one to put those marks on the soft swell of her bottom? Why would anyone else want to hang this painting in their study or hall?
It was a story of redemption. The girl was lovely, but generically so. She was "any girl". "Any woman". She was Eve, and the wrong-doing she had committed was original sin. She could be any man's wife, any man's lover. And she had been spanked because someone loved her. Because she knew that she needed it, needed to be punished and forgiven. And she would make an honest effort to behave differently in the future.
Fear lanced through him. There was that word again - love. He did not love her! He barely knew her! He could never be so stupid as to fall in love with another lost waif, not again. Maybe a part of him needed her - maybe he'd sleep with her after all. But only to get her out of his system. In six weeks, he'd be putting her on a bus home, and he'd go overseas. New Zealand ought to do it. It was summer down there now, wasn't it? Why did so many runaways wind up in Northern climates in the winter?
Kerrick pulled out his sketchbook. He would miss this painting when it sold. He never made a copy of a painting, but he kept a sketch of each one. It was the only way to make sure that each was entirely original. Then he did a close-up of just her face. The tilt of her chin, the way the lower lip protruded in a little kiss-able pout. This girl was going to keep him up nights. The sooner he slept with her, the better. Hours later, he was still awake. Kerrick tossed back the blankets and shoved his feet into a pair of boots. A brisk walk might clear his thoughts. The cold shower hadn't worked. He jabbed his wallet into a hip pocket and quietly locked the door behind him.
The jukebox called to him from the sports bar below, but he wasn't interested in the smoky atmosphere or endless love songs. Across the street and down the block was an adult superstore that had an interesting collection of paddles. Kerrick had seen them before when looking for an erotic foreign film someone had told him was artistically original. He'd never been in to bondage or punishment before, but he couldn't get the image of Shamika's bruised bottom out of his mind, and he knew that the next painting was going to be on a similar theme.
The store was busy even at this time of night. Kerrick almost walked out empty handed, but no one here seemed to know him as the famous artist. He was just another guy with a kink. He worked his way through the dirty movies, past the display of love potions and flavored oils, to the BDSM paraphernalia at the back. There were nipple clips and cock rings and whips and chains and handcuffs and other things he didn't even want to know how they were used. It was a big turn-off for him, more so than the cold shower. He almost walked out again, until he saw a woman pick up a hardwood paddle and swing it against her palm. It made a satisfying smack, and she winced, but swung it yet again. She put the paddle back and tried another one, this one of some sort of plastic. She tried a number of paddles before selecting one, giving Kerrick a nervous smile as she tucked it under her arm.
"The Lucite is cheaper, but there's just nothing as satisfying as a good, wooden paddle, don't you agree?" she giggled.
"I wouldn't know," he admitted. Anonymity had its perks. "I'm pretty new to this. Do you mind if I ask, who are you buying it for?"
"For me. For my husband. I mean, so my husband can spank me with it. Does that surprise you?"
He nodded. He'd had to practically blackmail Shamika to let him spank her. Why would any woman want it?
"We love each other, but marriage is tough. This helps us to keep the lines of communication open. After a good, hard spanking, we cuddle and talk and talk and cuddle some more. We usually don't have sex until the next day, but I can tell you, sex after a spanking is some of the best sex you'll ever have."
Kerrick felt his ears burn, that a complete stranger would share such intimacies, yet a part of him wanted her to keep going. "How long have you been doing this? Allowing him to spank you?"
"Oh, gosh, I can't remember. Almost since we met, I think. We lived together for a few years, and we just celebrated our tenth anniversary."
"How often does he spank you?"
She blushed this time, perhaps just realizing that she'd drawn a crowd. "As often as he feels I need it. Sometimes every day for a week, sometimes a whole month will go by without one. Good luck, I'd better be going!" She ducked out, rushing to the clerk to pay for her purchase before he could ask another question.
Kerrick grabbed a paddle just like the one she had selected. Then he chose a cane, a whip, and a pair of handcuffs. Maybe there was a little bondage in him after all? Kerrick paid the clerk then hurried home.
Chapter Three
Kerrick whipped up a batc
h of pancakes from a mix, fried some eggs, and burned a pound of bacon before Shamika stumbled out of the shower. She had her hair wrapped up in a towel, and another one tucked under her arms. She hadn't bothered to dress, which amused him. It did seem like a pointless gesture, knowing that she'd be posing for him naked very soon, yet if she were going to parade around his house naked, he'd be in a constant state of arousal.
"You don't cook much, do you?" she said, biting into a piece of black bacon.
"I can cook. I was just distracted. When I'm in the mood to paint, cooking is just a waste of time. It's easier to order take-out."
"Cooking is one of the few things I do well, so if you don't mind, I'll take over for the next six weeks."
"Be my guest." Damn, she was cheerful this morning. He was exhausted.
"We can share the dishes, though. Washing and drying should always be a two-person job. It's so boring otherwise."
"Fine. But the dishes can wait. After we eat, I want to get back to my easel."
Her hand trembled, but she forced a smile to her lips. "Oh. Yes. Um. The pancakes are good!"
"What? Three grand isn't enough?"
"No! It's perfect. Really. I'll pose for you. Whatever you ask."
"Good."
He dumped the rest of his breakfast in the trash. It wasn't sitting well. He pulled a chair out from the table and set it in the living room, going back and forth between his easel and the chair to adjust the angle. Shamika took her time eating, then rinsing her plate, and returned to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Kerrick grew impatient. "Get out here," he shouted when he'd reached his limit.
Shamika scooted to the living room, both towels absent. Her hair was damp and freshly combed, one lock curling over her breast as though she'd put it there just for him. Her bottom sported a few faint bruises, but the redness was gone. "Where do you want me, sir?"
Out of his head. No, that wasn't entirely correct. He wanted her out of his cock, but that was too crude to say. "Bend over this chair, like you are waiting for a spanking."
"Are you going to?"
"To what?"
"Spank me?"
"Of course."
"Why? What did I do?"
Kerrick glared at her. "You signed the bloody contract! You wanted to model for me, that's the only excuse I need. Now bend over the damned chair. Stick your bottom out, fold your arms over the back, and look - how would you look if you were waiting for a spanking, one you know you deserve?"
"It would be easier if I deserved it," she muttered, her chin set at a stubborn tilt.
"Okay. Think back then. As far back as you need to. Did you ever do anything wrong, for which you never got punished? Something you feel badly about?"
She hesitated, but then she nodded, her eyes swimming with moisture.
"What would your father have done if he found out?"
She shrugged. "Yell at me. Send me to my room. Ground me. And make me copy down pages from the Bible."
"How would that make you feel?"
"Angry."
"But not penitent?"
She shook her head.
"Okay. I'm going to spank you for this thing that you did. I am going to make you sorry you did it. Then you are going to know that you are forgiven."
"Daddy never forgives me."
"I will. Every time."
Shamika grabbed the back of the chair. She folded her arms across it, and laid her head down on her arms, her face turned towards the easel. She moved her feet to a wider stance, lowering her back and exposing more of her bottom to his view. Then she caught her lower lip in her teeth, as he'd seen her do on several occasions. It was perfect.
"Now, hold that! I don't care what you think about, or what you do, but don't change a thing. Not even your expression."
She knew better than to nod. Kerrick grabbed a fresh canvas and started blocking in her figure immediately. He blocked in the chair, but put it in a corner instead of the center of a room. He painted a switch against the wall with deft brushstrokes. Maybe he'd use the cane on her today, which should leave a mark similar to a switch. He could do a painting of her next with her striped bottom on display. He didn't stop to think about who would want to buy such a painting, or where they would hang it. It wasn't his job to sell his work, only to create it. And for some reason he never fully understood, his work sold. Swiftly. And for more money than he'd ever dreamed of.
He wondered what was the terrible thing she had done that drew tears to hover on her eyelashes. Damn, they were black again. He forgot to tell her to skip the mascara. Her hair was a pretty shade of golden brown, like bourbon whiskey, her eyelashes should be the same color. Well, she could go wash her face later, if he needed to give her a bathroom break.
Her skin tones were the loveliest shade of pink, but hard to capture. Some pinks had lavenders for undertones, but hers had no hint of blue. His usual shadow colors just looked muddy when blended to the pink. And what color was the highlight? In most nudes he used an ochre wash, but the yellow was all wrong for her. He tried straight white, then barely touched his brush to the cadmium yellow. He wasn't sure if it worked, but he'd leave it for now.
The figure was perfect. Shamika hadn't moved, hadn't distracted him, hadn't even so much as sneezed all the time he'd been studying her. Now though, he noticed a single tear hovering on her eyelashes and he felt like a heal. It hadn't been there moments ago. He added that final touch to the painting, then stretched his arms and gave into a big yawn.
"You may get up now," he said distractedly.
She moved slowly, wincing and stamping a foot as though to get the blood moving again. After a quick dash to the bathroom, she was back, waiting for him expectantly.
"What!"
"I'm ready, sir," she whispered.
"For what!" He was so tired. If she didn't let him get any sleep, he might as well let her go now.
She chewed her lower lip. Kerrick felt a ridiculous urge to kiss that lip before she bruised it.
"You, um. Said you were going to spank me again," she whispered. "I've been worrying about it all morning, and well, I'd, um. Like to get it over with."
Lust warred within him. He wanted to do it. He wanted to pull her over his knee and smack his hand against the rounded pink bottom that plagued him. But he was so tired he could barely think straight. "Not now. I'm going to bed."
"Please, sir? The waiting is almost worse than the pain!"
Fine. She wanted it, she'd get it. Hard and fast. Maybe she'd hate him for it, and he could stop drooling over her. Or maybe she'd want sex, like the lady in the dirty book store? That'd be fine, too. He reached for the cane, hoping that a dozen quick swats with it would suffice.
He directed her to lean over the chair again in the pose she had held all morning. She groaned softly, resuming the position. Kerrick stepped to the side, touching the cane to her bottom to adjust his stance. The flexible rattan cane felt foreign. He swung it in the air, observing how it arched, and wondered if the slender little tool would give much of a sting at all. He clenched his teeth and swung it down sharply.
Shamika screamed, jumping to her feet and clutching her bottom with both hands. "Oh! Ow! Oh, no! Please, no!" she wailed.
"Get back into position." He cleared his throat and scowled. Obviously, size didn't matter when it came to canes. When she obeyed, he saw a bright red welt across her once creamy flesh. But he'd started this, he had better finish. Maybe a dozen was too many? He'd give her half a dozen. Kerrick put his hand on her back to hold her in place, then swiftly brought the cane down - with less force - five times in rapid succession. Then he tossed the cane across the room.
Shamika straightened again, her hands hovering above her bottom, not quite touching the series of welts. Her face was wet with tears, her lips quivering. She bounced on her toes, which made her heavy breasts bounce, too.
"Oh, ow! Oh, oh, oh! Oh, that hurts! That hurts!" She coughed and sobbed and bounced.
Kerrick was a heal. Why did they sell can
es? They should come with instruction books. The more Shamika bounced and wailed, the louder she grew. It was as though the pain took a while to bloom, and was only now reaching its zenith. What should he do? Maybe it was time for her to confess her crime, so he could tell her she was forgiven.
He drew her into his arms and held her. "Sh, now. There, there," he whispered. He swayed from side to side, as though comforting a baby. Eventually her cries softened, until only little hiccups remained.
"Tell me, now, honey. What were you thinking about this morning? What was it that you had done, for which you were never punished?"
She didn't answer at first. He could wait. He wasn't going to let her go until she answered. "I was eleven, I think," she whispered.
He had hoped she was going to confess lying to him. That was the only crime she had committed that he knew about. Well, he could go on spanking her until she got to that one. Then they would be done. But maybe he'd never use the cane again.
"Daddy worked all the time. Nine, ten hours a day. Mom was a stay-home mom, but I told you before how she had all these animals. A milk cow, some sheep and llamas, dogs, cats, chickens - we raised most of our food. They act like anything you can buy in a store is poisoned with chemicals and antibiotics. But whenever Mom got sick, like a flu or something, then I had to do her chores. Most of the time I didn't mind too much. The llamas were really cute. But I hated the ram. He was always head-butting me if I turned my back on him, and that day he hit me good. So I kicked him back. And I didn't feed him, or give him any water. I didn't mean anything by it! I mean, I couldn't have kicked him anywhere near as hard as another ram would have hit him, but, well, he got sick. The vet had to come out, and we almost lost him. But I never told anyone that it was my fault."
The Painter Page 3