Lessons in Art

by Sam Eden

  All of which was why, ten days later, Nicola was sitting in her car outside Rebecca’s cottage, reluctant to get out and knock on the door. It had been a sunny afternoon, but the light was already fading, giving the bare trees a sombre feel. Rebecca’s place was set in a quarter acre of its own, a hundred yards or so from the village green; all thatched roof and old grey stone. Rebecca opened the door and ushered her into an oak-beamed living room. Lamps were on and the curtains already drawn.

  Little concession had been made to Christmas decorations; apart from a host of festive cards arranged on strings along one wall, there was only a small tinsel tree covered with a few baubles.

  Even at the best of times Nicola found the older woman a little intimidating, with her executive wardrobe and her short fuse, and today her greeting had been polite but ominously cool. It didn’t help that the sight of Rebecca made Nicola feel guilty about James. All in all, this little soiree was not looking promising.

  ‘Uomo from the Duomo’ had been out sketching the English countryside and was now upstairs finishing off. Apparently an artist at work couldn’t be interrupted, even if his absence seemed rather rude when Nicola had driven thirty miles to meet him.

  ‘He’ll be down soon,’ said Rebecca. ‘Let’s have some wine while we wait.’

  Naturally Nicola asked about the holiday, and received a rundown of the international talent available on the pistes and in the bars of Bergamo. It all sounded a little outside Nicola’s league and she wondered if it were meant to. In return Rebecca asked about the recent trip to London, and whether James had given her enough time off work to see a show. This enquiry was made with such polite nonchalance that Nicola almost giggled, knowing full well the question Rebecca really wanted answered. Fortunately she bit her lip and talked in a matter of fact way about how much she had enjoyed her first visit to the National Gallery.

  ‘Yes, James can be charming when he talks about art,’ murmured Rebecca, refilling their glasses. It was a signal that the conversation was moving into deeper waters, because she continued, ‘I wanted to ask you what you thought about James’ other passion.’

  ‘I don’t understand?’ Nicola’s expression was one of innocent enquiry; she could be nonchalant too.

  There was a long pause; one that Nicola thought might be described as pregnant. It was certainly about to spawn a surprise for her.

  ‘You were watching us that night,’ said Rebecca.

  ‘What?’ gasped Nicola. ‘When do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t remember. The study door wasn’t quite closed and I saw you. You were supposed to have gone home.’

  There was no point in pretending and Nicola came clean. ‘I... I’d forgotten my gloves.’

  ‘Well it took you long enough to get them; you were glued to the spot for half an hour.’

  Watching the cane repeatedly whack across Rebecca’s shapely backside, pressed over a leather armchair, had gripped Nicola, and she’d not been able to tear herself away. She admired the way Rebecca could take such severe chastisement with no more than squeals and squirms. Whilst James had limited Nicola’s caning to six, Rebecca had not been so lucky. Welt after welt had appeared, and the white skin had turned deep red by the time he laid down the cane. And all for charging some clothes to his Amex.

  Afterwards Rebecca had remained meekly in position while he took off his trousers and forced himself against her bruised buttocks. Seeing the tempestuous Rebecca tamed in this way had awed Nicola, and her hands shook as she picked up her gloves to leave. But she still couldn’t understand how Rebecca had seen her when she had her back to her. Nicola blushed, ashamed at having stayed to watch the intimate scene and at having been found out.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said simply.

  ‘Don’t be,’ said Rebecca. ‘I didn’t mind. Did I set a good example in how to take one’s medicine?’

  ‘Absolutely. I couldn’t believe how brave you were.’ Nicola was so obviously sincere and admiring that Rebecca smiled; it was the first sign of warmth she had shown. But her next words were not so warm.

  ‘Were you as brave when he caned you?’ she asked sharply, before Nicola realised where the questions were leading.

  ‘He didn’t... we didn’t...’ she stammered, starting to deny it, but her red face gave the game away again. She really must learn to lie better.

  ‘Was the sex good, too?’ That polite detachment again.

  Nicola stared unhappily at the carpet and said nothing. In three cool questions Rebecca had confirmed everything. No wonder she held such a senior job, aged only thirty. Nicola’s eyes began to fill up.

  ‘Save the tears for later,’ said Rebecca, unmoved. ‘They may work better on Carlo.’

  At that moment the door opened and the Italian entered.

  ‘Has she confessed?’ he asked, in deep, accented English.

  ‘As good as,’ replied Rebecca. ‘Nicola, since you witnessed my punishment I think it’s time for me to return the favour.’

  Nicola knew by now what was to follow. She had come here with foreboding, but she’d failed to spot the real trap. In spite of her predicament she watched the newcomer intently. He seemed to be rearranging some of the furniture. Rebecca had been right about his looks; but there was something more, a feral magnetism. Although slightly built he lifted a heavy piano stool with ease, and smoothly placed it next to a small dining table Nicola had not noticed before. At some point the cottage’s tiny living and dining rooms had evidently been knocked into this moderately sized room. When he disappeared again her eyes remained on the door through which he had passed. Fascination had overcome her rightful indignation that her Friday night date had still not spoken to her.

  Rebecca was droning on, blaming Nicola for making James cheat on her. Nicola wanted to reply that James was an intelligent, grown man; he should be able to stop himself cheating if he wanted to. But she couldn’t because she knew in her heart that she had been responsible; she suggested the caning when James wanted to sack her; she seduced him in the gym. James may have been complicit, but she had driven it along. Contrite, she admitted to herself that she probably deserved what was coming.

  Carlo re-entered carrying two implements. It was plain enough what they were and for whom they were intended. Rebecca stood up and asked her to do the same. To make sure that Carlo saw her lovely figure, Nicola had dressed in tight faded blue jeans and a clinging black sweater. Rebecca made to take off the sweater and Nicola raised her arms to let her. Carlo stood still to watch and Nicola watched him back. She was beginning to feel like a rabbit down the barrels of his dark eyes. She shook her head to straighten her hair where the jumper had rumpled it. Then the three moved together to the table. Nicola was glad they let her keep her black bra on; she knew it made her cleavage look deep and shadowy. Not that Carlo would see much of it when it was pressed against the tabletop.

  The wooden paddle lay ready on the table; an instrument of torture with which Nicola’s bottom was so far unfamiliar. She knew it was favoured in American schools, cheerleaders being the victims of choice, and it added to the international flavour of the evening.

  Carlo made her kneel on the piano stool and lean over the table. He pushed a cushion between her hips and the table edge to lift and spread her bottom. Rebecca faced her on the other side of the table, taking her hands and making her grip the far edge.

  ‘Hold tight. Carlo can be merciless if you move out of position.’

  Nicola wondered vaguely how Rebecca could know that. Even so, she did not miss the grim satisfaction in the words. ‘How many strokes?’ she asked meekly.

  ‘It’s better not to ask,’ replied Rebecca.

  There was a delay in which Nicola could hear her heart thudding. Perhaps Carlo was admiring her jean-clad behind. She hoped so, although it didn’t bring her much comfort. Suddenly it began and he was layin
g into her with the paddle, pounding each cheek in turn until Nicola’s eyes were squeezed shut with the pain. The cushion prevented her moving her bottom forward as the blows fell. Even though she gripped the table Rebecca held her wrists down strongly, so she couldn’t move much even if she tried.

  The strokes were no taps. Carlo was swinging his arm from high. After about a dozen blows he stopped and ran both his hands over her bottom. By now he would be able to feel its warmth through the denim, she thought. He patted and smacked it a few times, then she felt his hands move to the fastener and he tugged her jeans down. Nicola was wearing white shorts to avoid a panty line with the jeans.

  ‘Boy shorts, Nicola?’ laughed Rebecca. ‘An extra layer. That’s cheating.’

  ‘No matter,’ said Carlo. ‘We begin again.’

  He smoothed out the briefs where the jeans had shifted them, then resumed the paddling. So far Nicola had made no sounds other than heavier breathing, but now the stinging blows began to get to her and she gasped with each blow. Not knowing how many strokes she would receive made it much harder to bear.

  Rebecca might have guessed what she felt, because she rubbed it home. ‘There’s still a long, long way to go, Nicola.’

  Carlo stopped again to warm his hands on the soft cotton of her briefs. Being Italian he pinched her bottom until she yelped. Then he continued, bringing the flat of the wide wooden bat down across both cheeks. It seemed to be much worse than being paddled over the denim. At last he stopped. He took down her briefs and kneaded her naked buttocks for a minute or so. Any rest was welcome to her and she breathed more easily. At least the faint marks remaining from the severe gym caning would by now be hidden in an angry flush.

  ‘And now we begin again,’ he said, but Nicola had guessed that would happen. So the paddle smacked against her unprotected bottom and the blows cracked even louder than before. She just hoped twelve on her bare bum would be the end of it; he seemed to be grouping the spanking in dozens. She screwed up her face but she could feel tears run down her cheeks and drop on the polished oak table. Between her squeals she choked out an apology to Rebecca for wetting her table.

  Rebecca seemed touched by this. She released Nicola’s wrists and leaned forward to cradle the girl’s head, stroking her hair. She whispered in her ear. ‘There won’t be much more of this. Then you can rest a while before the whipping.’ Nicola groaned to hear confirmed what she knew earlier, when she saw the leather flogger.

  No matter what Rebecca said it seemed Carlo didn’t think the paddling was over yet. He was fiddling with her clothes once more. He had taken off her shoes and was now removing her jeans and briefs completely. She shifted her legs to help him. Then he tapped the inside of her legs with the paddle, indicating that he wanted her to spread her knees wide to the edges of the stool.

  ‘I want your cheeks apart,’ he told her.

  So far her knees and thighs had been together, a pose which made her bum look its peachy best; or at least so she thought whenever she examined it in a mirror. But much more of her was on display now as Carlo confirmed by brushing his fingers over her pubic hair and the lips of her vagina, and in spite of her suffering Nicola was immediately aroused.

  Carlo picked up the paddle once more and directed heavy blows relentlessly at her right bottom cheek. It was excruciating and she whimpered continuously. Rebecca held Nicola’s head firmly against her, letting the tears run into her expensive blouse. He switched to the left buttock, inflicting the same stinging strokes. Nicola prayed that the left cheek would be the last, but when she felt a stinging crack on the top of her right leg her heart sank and she wailed in protest. Not another dozen on each leg, surely! The next smacked into the back of her left thigh, but then to her relief she heard the paddle being put on the table.

  Rebecca let go and Carlo helped her up, holding her shaking body. Nicola was still crying fitfully and wouldn’t look at him.

  ‘Brava, Nicola,’ he said. It was the first time he had used her name. He held her to him and she continued to cry on his shoulder. Rebecca brought her a glass of wine.

  ‘I can’t drink any more; I’m driving,’ she said between sobs.

  Rebecca smiled at her. ‘Not tonight, you’re not. You must stay here.’

  As she sipped the wine Nicola thought about the whipping to come. She didn’t see how she would be able to withstand it. Her buttocks already felt bruised and swollen. They must have had sixty strokes of the paddle. She wondered if they were the same dark cherry-red that Rebecca’s were after James had dealt with them.

  Carlo was still supporting her, then he carried her upstairs, where she could lie facedown on his bed while he rubbed some soothing lotion into her bottom. Nicola wondered what else he might have in mind, but she was too weak to resist any offer of rest. Sitting beside her on the bed he applied the cream with surprising gentleness. While he did so he praised her beauty and courage, speaking quietly, hypnotically.

  ‘You deserve a whipping,’ he said reflectively, ‘but not tonight. I think your poor bottom needs time to heal.’

  ‘It wasn’t all my fault,’ she protested. ‘Why am I being punished so severely?’ Carlo said nothing. ‘I don’t know whether I can take it,’ she whispered into the wet pillow.

  ‘You can. Follow Rebecca’s example, how strong she was when you saw Sir James thrash her.’

  He seemed to know a lot about all this, she thought. She was surprised how close Rebecca and Carlo were, considering they had only recently met. Perhaps their friendship had been consummated with an intimate spanking; not that they were likely to confide in her.

  Carlo unhooked her bra and began to massage her back. It was sensual and relaxing. The ache in her bottom was subsiding, replaced by that sense of wellbeing she always felt in the aftermath of corporal punishment.

  ‘When?’ she sighed.

  ‘Wednesday evening at seven,’ he replied. They must have agreed this already. Perhaps Rebecca had just been trying to scare her by telling her it would be tonight.

  Two weeks to the day since my sin in the gym, she thought.

  After Edward’s death she had longed for over a year to feel the discipline he gave her. Then came the opportunity with James. Now it seemed as if that one incident had opened the floodgates and she was to have a year’s worth of beatings in less than a month.

  Carlo didn’t leave her that night. He made love to her in his marvellous Latin way in the single bed, careful not to press her tender arse. Then he slept on the floor next to the bed, to give her room to rest properly, and as she again walked up the path to the cottage she wondered how people who could be sexually sadistic could also be so gentle.

  Nicola was not really sure why she had come back. It was true that she felt penitent, but Saturday’s paddling could easily have been chastisement enough. A morbid curiosity nagged at her to know what the dreadful punishment of whipping would feel like. Most of all, however, she suspected it was the charismatic Carlo who drew her, and the gnawing intensity of incipient love.

  Rebecca’s greeting was friendly, but Nicola did not assume that all was forgiven. Carlo was in the sitting room and rose to kiss her on the cheek. The hostess excused herself to get drinks.

  Nicola noticed a difference in the lamp-lit room: a chunky hook had been screwed into the central ceiling beam. Carlo shepherded her to the sofa, where he sat down. Nicola hesitated. He had indicated the seat next to him on the sofa, but the flogger lay there and he made no attempt to move it. When she picked it up and sat he asked her if the Italian leather felt good in her hands. His voice held the same hypnotic quality as before, and she ran her fingers through the three flat tails, each about eighteen inches long. They seemed so light and innocuous, but no doubt were less so when whirled through the air by a strong arm.

  As she studied the whip closely Rebecca’s lingering perfume was supplanted by the strong smell of n
ew leather. Carlo took it from her and, holding the tails about halfway down, gently slapped her thigh with them.

  ‘See, it does not hurt,’ he said playfully.

  ‘Will you promise to do it like that?’ she asked with a weak smile, and in reply he just shook his head.

  From time to time Nicola read spanking stories, in which the luckless heroines always told themselves to be strong, and on Saturday Carlo too had told her to be strong, like Rebecca. So, consoling herself that flogging would be preferable to another paddling, she told herself to be brave. Some faded bruises still troubled her after four days, and while the whip might be more stinging, she thought it would be less heavy than the paddle.

  Rebecca reappeared with the wine, a deep red Barolo brought by Carlo. Nicola grimaced a little at its strength, but forced herself to drink more. The comfortable way in which Rebecca chatted to her seemed incongruous, knowing that Carlo was about to give her the beating of her life. No one hurried her and Nicola waited for the warmth of the wine to course through her body before finishing her glass.

  Once she had done so Rebecca rose and collected something from the other side of the room. Carlo passed the whip to Nicola again and told her to kiss it, as it was about to kiss her. It was amazing, thought Nicola, how even such twaddle could sound sexy in an Italian accent. To humour him she pressed the tails of the implement to her lips.