Lessons in Art

by Sam Eden

  It was not a very hard stroke but it did elicit a response. She cried out quite sharply and for a moment was about to move her hands to her bottom, but held back just in time. She’s remembered how much it stings, he thought, watching a red line appear where the stroke had landed.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘Sorry. One, sir.’

  He rested the cane on her bottom again and waited for a moment. He raised it and swept down a second stroke of similar power. She gave a soft grunt but no more as a second red line appeared parallel to the first.

  ‘Two, sir,’ she counted.

  He continued with another stroke in a similar vein, then stopped. He looked down at the three red lines across her bottom. Nicola had controlled herself well, barely crying out or moving as the cane beat her. He admired her courage, but it made him want to be crueller still.

  ‘No penalty strokes yet, young lady. I wonder if you’ll manage to get through today without any.’ He paused. ‘By the way, the last three strokes will be rather harder than the previous three.’ Nicola sighed faintly and he saw her grip her hands tightly together on the desktop. Then she lowered her forehead to rest on them, her shiny blonde hair falling over her wrists. She was bracing herself for worse to come.

  James whipped in the fourth blow across the middle of her behind. Nicola yelped loudly, struggling to hold her posture. He could sense her screwing up her face with the pain for some seconds before she was able to speak the number of the stroke. Her panties had fallen down her legs to the floor and she stepped from them to stop her heels catching. He picked them up with the tip of the cane and deposited them on the chair.

  For the fifth stroke he rested the cane just below her buttocks. Knowing what was to come she groaned slightly. He paused, aiming carefully to make sure he hit the narrow target above her stocking tops and did not fall lower to the backs of her thighs; he wanted no welts visible below her short skirts.

  The cane cracked harshly across the top of each leg. Immediately a raised red line began to appear. Nicola’s body shook as she cried out in pain. She lifted her right foot, holding the leg bent for some time as she fought to keep herself down. Now her breathing came heavy and fast. James was grimly satisfied.

  At last I’m getting to her, he thought.

  Eventually she lowered her foot again and gasped, ‘Five, sir.’

  He waited a full minute to let her settle before putting the cane in place across her bottom for the final stroke. Then suddenly he moved it away and quickly swished it in the air without hitting her, to see her reaction. Her buttocks clenched and she moved forward in anticipation of the blow, and relaxed back into place when it didn’t come. At that moment he raised his arm back behind his head and quickly lashed the cane across her cheeks, so hard it bent almost fully around her right side.

  This was too much. Nicola jerked upright and let out a piercing yowl. Her hands flew to her buttocks.

  ‘Agh... fucking hell!’ she screamed.

  He waited while she held her welted buttocks in her hands, stepping from foot to foot and still yelping as the agonising stinging persisted. He wondered if she would back out now and leave his employ. He was no longer sure another two sessions would be possible. But she had stayed facing the desk and appeared to have calmed down, although still breathing deeply. She eventually let her hands fall to her sides.

  ‘Six, sir,’ she said quietly.

  Although she’d had enough he knew she expected him to be as strict as he had promised. He therefore said, ‘I’m afraid you broke the rules on the last stroke, Nicola.’ She waited in silence.

  ‘I’ll deliver just two extra strokes, one for swearing and one for standing up before I allowed you to. Resume your position.’

  She obeyed, again resting her head on tightly clasped hands. Even now she bent over well, legs together and perfectly straight, offering her red buttocks for the further chastisement.

  ‘Ready? Let’s try to make these the last for today.’

  Nevertheless he made them hard strokes, whipping across welts from earlier strokes and making her whole body shudder with pain. She kept steady and muffled her yelps into the desktop, but each time she had to wait to recover before counting the stroke.

  At the end he surveyed his work for a minute or two before allowing her to rise. Faint blue bruises were appearing on some of the cane marks. When he told her to stand she stretched in relief from the stiffness of holding her position for so long.

  Seated again at his desk, to hide his erection, he watched while she gingerly dressed herself. Then she stood before him, apparently waiting for permission to leave. James’ own emotions were becoming complex. He wondered what, apart from the after-effects of her painful session, she was feeling.

  ‘Now you know what it’s like do you wish to continue with our arrangement?’

  There was a pause and he worried this might be the last time he saw her. He thought she sensed his concern and tried to muster a weak smile.

  ‘Yes. I deserve it, don’t I?’

  As she was about to leave he realised there was something he had not thought of until now.

  ‘What will your boyfriend say when he sees the marks on your bottom?’

  ‘I’ve split up with him,’ she said simply, and left the room.

  Chapter 2

  Any guilty unease James felt at the conclusion of the morning’s interview with Nicola would have been replaced by rage had he been able to see Rebecca at that moment. She was reclining on the bed in a tiny attic flat in Milan, divested of all items of clothing, skiing or otherwise, in the classic pose of Velázquez’s famous Venus. A young artist stood at his easel painting her. He worked quickly with intense concentration, making the most of the thin sunlight.

  Lying with her back to him Rebecca could admire his reflection in a mirror, of the type held by Cupid in the Rokeby masterpiece. With his dark good looks and suppressed virility Carlo was undoubtedly more overtly attractive than James. But Rebecca had no taste for long term relationships with penniless young artists - even those as talented as Carlo. James adored her and, most conveniently, he was wealthier than even a highly successful artist was ever likely to be.

  The young painter was proving himself to be a perfectionist. Although dispensing with Cupid, he had insisted on the remaining scene being as close to Velázquez’s original as possible: white and grey silk sheets on the bed; a rich red curtain in the background. Rebecca’s deep chestnut hair was a close enough match, but Carlo had brought in an expensive stylist who had expertly replicated Venus’s untidy bun.

  After a period of silence Carlo paused and looked across at her. ‘You have seen the Venus in your National Gallery?’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied, a little irritably. It should have been obvious to him that Rebecca, an executive in a firm of art galleries, would be familiar with all major works, especially those in Britain. As usual though, his question was not naïve; it was leading somewhere.

  ‘You are very close in figure to her. But did you notice the little redness on the legs and buttocks of the original, Rebecca?’ She had indeed, but she said nothing. Carlo went on, ‘It is only a faint flush in contrast to the white of the back, but we must replicate this I think. You agree, signorina?’

  She tried to sound noncommittal. ‘I suppose so, if you insist on absolute veracity. I have some blusher in my bag.’

  Carlo was deferential to Rebecca and not just because of her purchase of this portrait; her job meant that she could be very influential for his emerging reputation. Even so, it appeared he would not be diverted from his attention to detail.

  ‘Yes I insist. But cosmetics will not create the true effect.’

  Rebecca waited for him to continue. ‘Come over to me, Rebecca. I think we can do this very naturally.’ Adopting a languor she did not feel, Rebecca rose from the bed and
came across to him, glancing at the easel as she did so. The unfinished portrait was brilliant; he had caught the graceful curve of her back and the folds and texture of the rich drapery beneath. So far her face, the lower half of her body and much of the background were only in outline. Even so, at this rate of progress she should be able to fit in another couple of days skiing before she returned to England.

  Carlo had crossed to a tall cupboard against the far wall. As he closed the cupboard door Rebecca just managed to glimpse a small work in an ancient style.

  ‘Been practising on the Italian primitives, Carlo?’

  ‘It is an early exercise I did. I am ashamed for you to see it.’

  Rebecca did not persist. She knew artists often hated to show juvenilia, especially if copied from much greater works.

  Her attention was now drawn to the small leather paddle he had taken from the cupboard. Carlo handed it to her to feel and she slapped it against the palm of her hand. His smile was both cruel and irresistible. He caught her in his arms and kissed her lips, pressing her breasts against the rough wool of his sweater. How could Italian men always make you feel so horny? She suspected her skin would be flushed even without the paddle.

  Carlo whispered, ‘Lean over for me, amore.’

  Rebecca obediently bent over a small table covered with paints and brushes. The studio’s pleasant smell of linseed oil was more intense with her face so close to them. She felt the leather play over the skin of her bottom and legs. There was a pause before the paddle smacked the top of her left thigh. After another pause there was a series of light blows over the backs of her legs and the lower parts of her buttocks. They stung gently, but with each stroke she awaited the sharp pain of something harder. In frustration she urged him for more, but Carlo refused.

  ‘No, we must have only a light pink for the portrait. Return to the bed now.’

  Rebecca rose and kissed him hard; she was no longer in the mood for posing. ‘Will you not join me there?’

  Carlo took up his palette and brushes and sat on the stool by his easel. ‘Let me paint a little more and then we’ll see.’

  It was pointless arguing with him when he was painting, so Rebecca returned to her pose. She had to support her head with her right hand, but at least her left was free. She began to masturbate quietly, and although her hand was hidden it was obvious what she was doing.

  ‘I think you are a bad lady, Rebecca,’ he said. ‘What would Sir James do if he could see you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps he would spank me,’ she pouted, trying to make her voice as seductive as his.

  ‘I will finish painting your bottom tomorrow - then it no longer needs to stay in such a perfect condition.’ A rough change in his voice surprised her and she turned sharply towards him.

  ‘No, Carlo. I can’t have bruises when I go back to England.’

  He cursed as the pose was ruined and replied shortly, ‘They will be gone by the weekend. Your fiancé will not know.’ He laughed at the look of alarm on her face and his tone became reassuring. ‘Do not worry, Rebecca. I am an artist in these matters.’

  Masturbation forgotten, Rebecca turned back to her pose. She could not tell how deep Carlo’s cruelty went. Perhaps that was what made him so exciting.

  That evening they took a short walk from his flat to a chic bar behind the Galleria. In doing so they crossed the vast space of the Piazza Duomo. She gazed at the enormous church, yellowy white in its night-time illumination. It was different to any other cathedral she knew; huge and squat and topped by a plethora of small spires, like an orderly collection of stalagmites.

  As someone with a sharp head for business, Rebecca had spotted the anomaly of a poor artist living in a prime city centre location. Small though his studio flat was it had an expensive view overlooking the Duomo itself. Rebecca already knew from her friend that Carlo was from a humble background. She could not pry, of course, but his finances held a particular interest for her. It was evident that he was immensely talented, and she intended to try to contract him to her firm, so that they would handle his sales and exhibitions.

  In the romantically lit corner bar they drank Bellinis and watched the passers-by. Through its glass sides they could observe upscale examples of Milanese nightlife moving to and fro through the Galleria Victor Emmanuel. Haughty women and suave men. Shades were much in evidence, even though it was night. Rebecca’s eye followed one woman with interest. She wore a figure-hugging leather jacket and tight grey skirt. But it was her footwear that fascinated Rebecca: thigh high heel-less boots in clinging black PVC, as designed by Antonio Berardi. Someone walking without heels was a surreal sight. Although it seemed she should fall over, the girl actually walked gracefully. Fortunately she did not have far to go; a silver Ferrari pulled up by her side and the driver hopped out to open the passenger door. Carlo, too, was transfixed.

  ‘Would you like to spank a woman wearing those boots?’ she asked him playfully.

  He flashed a winning grin at her. ‘If the boots led up to your bottom I don’t think I could resist.’

  ‘You resisted me today.’

  He shrugged. ‘I must paint when the spirit is in me, amore.’

  Rebecca saw that a woman would always be runner up in the race for Carlo’s love.

  After a while he disappeared, claiming a need to call his sister on a personal matter. Rebecca didn’t have any reason to doubt him, but somehow she did. Underneath his dark charm, she was sure, lay an even darker nature. That they had grown so close so quickly was due to one incident, which had occurred almost as soon as they’d met.

  A couple of Rebecca’s skiing friends were also in the art trade. Carlo was an acquaintance of one of them and she had invited him over one night to hit the town with them. It was a forty mile drive to Bergamo, but he hadn’t seemed to mind. Doubtless he was tempted more by the thought of loose English women than by developing his art world contacts. To the chagrin of the other girls Carlo had gravitated to Rebecca and they soon established a mutual attraction. Mid-evening, Carlo returned to his hotel room to fetch some photos of his work to show to her. After thirty minutes he still had not returned and the girls were restless to leave the hotel bar and find a nightclub. Rebecca needed to fetch her coat, so she said she would knock on his door in passing.

  When she got to his door, however, she did not knock. From within the room she heard the sound of slapping, together with a woman’s muffled yelps. Rebecca was familiar enough with these noises to know that some poor girl was getting her comeuppance. She was drawn irresistibly to enter the room, where she found Carlo sitting on the bed. A bare-bottomed maid lay across his lap, being firmly spanked. The girl was making quite a din in a restrained sort of way, but from long experience Rebecca knew she loved it. As soon as she saw Rebecca the maid tumbled off his lap, pulled up her panties and dashed red-faced from the room. Rebecca was left staring dumbfounded at Carlo.

  ‘She came to turn down the bed, but I caught her prying amongst my things,’ he said smoothly, a little flushed from his labours.

  Rebecca did not believe him. She said nothing, but it didn’t matter. It must have been easy to see the bright excitement in her eyes. He remained seated on the bed, looking up at her.

  ‘Would you like to take her place, Rebecca?’ he asked with a wicked smile.

  ‘Not just now,’ she replied. Not exactly an unambiguous refusal, she thought. She might as well have added, ‘I’ll take a rain check, thanks,’ because the handsome devil knew she wanted to.

  Rebecca liked what she saw in the photographs, and next day she allowed Carlo to take her back to Milan to show her the originals. He painted nudes with a classical beauty. As she examined them she formed the idea of sitting for him. The result would be a gift for James, for his eyes only. That was how she had come to spend much of her skiing holiday in Milan. She wasn’t an expert skier by any m
eans, so she didn’t really mind.

  Carlo returned from making his call, bringing her back to the present.

  ‘Is your sister well?’ she asked politely.

  ‘Very well, thank you,’ he replied, but his abstracted air suggested otherwise.

  By the end of the following day Carlo had nearly finished Rebecca’s face and body and no longer needed her to sit for him. He had taken a few charcoal sketches for reference and he would complete the portrait while she rejoined her skiing friends. At the weekend she would return and they’d fly to London together. Carlo had made arrangements to transport the painting as fragile cargo, once the paint had dried sufficiently for it to travel safely.

  After the final sitting she stood before the easel, wrapped in a bath towel. Although she was not especially vain she gazed at the nearly finished portrait in admiration. Of course this work was much smaller than the original, but James would be delighted with his surprise wedding present. In a modern mirror the detail of the face had to be far more precise than the original, and Carlo had not failed her. Instead of being lost in complacent self-admiration like Venus, Rebecca looked out invitingly from the mirror towards the viewer. The woman in the picture might be aware of her own beauty, but the mischievous gleam in her eyes showed that she was more interested in its effect on an unseen man behind her. Her lips were parted in a slight but enticing smile. Carlo had perfectly captured a moment of feminine seduction.

  He really is a genius, she thought. Like many young artists Carlo thought well enough of himself already, so Rebecca avoided praising him too fully to his face. Instead she said, ‘I’m worried that James will think the look is too overtly sexual. He might even think I fancied the artist.’