Lessons in Art

by Sam Eden

  ‘Tell him you thought only of him while you posed,’ Carlo suggested. No doubt he had plenty of experience in advising young wives on how to deceive their husbands.

  Rebecca, who knew that she needed no advice in how to handle James, simply said, ‘That’s a good idea, Carlo, I will.’

  She went on, ‘Actually, you’ve done a very good job.’

  ‘More than good I think,’ came his reply, and Rebecca smiled at the youthful mix of arrogance and honesty.

  ‘Anyway, I think you deserve a bonus,’ she said, moving closer to him and letting the towel fall to the floor. ‘You know, I really did fancy the artist.’

  ‘You should be faithful to your future husband.’ For a moment she thought he was serious, but his actions spoke otherwise. He pulled her to him.

  ‘I will be, once we’re married.’ Rebecca turned and rubbed her bottom into the erection beneath his trousers. ‘But like Venus I can have affairs before then, can’t I?’

  ‘I don’t think Sir James would agree. Like Vulcan he would be angry.’

  ‘You’re right. He’d probably demand to discipline me in some way. How do you think he would do it, Carlo?’

  She led him over to the bed and kissed him. Then she knelt on top of it, leaning forward to rest her head on her hands. She watched him in the mirror as she waggled her bottom at him. She saw him pull the leather belt from his trousers and curl the buckle end round his hand. Still she watched as the belt was raised high in the air, time and again, and brought down with loud cracks across her buttocks.

  Even though it felt good she knew she had to be careful. ‘No bruises, Carlo,’ she begged between strokes.

  Carlo paused to take off his clothes, then in spite of her plea he took up his belt again. Soon she knew small welts and bruises would appear on her bottom, and began to flinch away from the strokes.

  ‘Enough for the moment,’ he crooned. ‘Lie on the bed and I will soothe you.’

  As he massaged the cold cream into her bottom it was not as soothing as he had suggested. He pinched and slapped the cheeks with strong hands. Now and then his fingers would probe between her legs, over the silky curls and between the sticky lips of her vagina. It was bliss, and Rebecca’s moans must have told him she that could wait no longer. Without warning Carlo put his arm around her waist and raised her into a kneeling position. He entered her from behind and, gripping her thighs, pushed her forward and back along his penis. After a short while he withdrew.

  She gasped in amazement. ‘Wait! Not yet! Where are you going?’

  He was over at the cupboard again and she begged in frustration. ‘Beat me again later. Just fuck me now!’

  ‘Oh, Rebecca, that does not sound like a well-bred English lady,’ he mocked. ‘I think you need to be taught a lesson right now. Vieni, amore.’

  How can he hold back? she thought, but she obeyed, joining him at the tall stool by the easel. The items he had taken from the cupboard were lying on his paint table.

  ‘Have you got a whole sex shop in that cupboard?’ she asked in exasperation.

  He smiled and bent her over the stool. He fastened her wrists in a pair of handcuffs, first looping the link around a crosspiece between the stool’s legs so she could not get up.

  ‘Vulcan’s metal net,’ he said.

  For God’s sake let’s drop the mythological metaphors, thought Rebecca.

  Carlo tied her ankles to a leg of the stool with a short leather strap. ‘I have a slipper to punish the rude English schoolgirl,’ he said.

  Rebecca had already seen the slipper on the table and knew it was going to hurt like hell, especially after the belt. It was more like an espadrille, with a suede top and a thin rubber sole.

  Well, you started this, she thought resignedly. You’ve only yourself to blame.

  Carlo didn’t show any compassion because it was her second beating in so short a time. He methodically slippered each buttock in turn, covering their whole surface but avoiding her legs. Rebecca gasped or yelped with each blow, depending on its strength. It did hurt, but she loved it; a paradox she had never tried to explain.

  After twenty or so strokes he stopped and ran his hands lightly over her bottom cheeks. She could feel his erect penis bobbing against her, and a little fluid spilling from it. The large head pushed at her vagina. She had tightened up during the beating, so he held her lips apart with his thumbs and forced it in. Immediately her muscles relaxed. Holding her firmly by the hips, to keep the stool steady, Carlo thrust to and fro, gradually increasing the tempo. This time he did not back out.

  After releasing her, Rebecca examined her bottom in the mirror. It was bright red and glistened from the cream. There were a few welts and small blue bruises, but nothing too serious. She looked across at him. He was standing naked, his erection only now beginning to fade, smiling at her whilst dabbing a little sweat from his forehead with a towel.

  He was careful not to go too far, she thought. Professionally she was important to him, and James would be a dangerous man for Carlo to offend. So she had gotten off lightly. But she saw the sadism behind the smile, and she pitied any girl who fell into his clutches with no protection.

  When she returned from the bathroom Carlo had his back to her. He was putting his toys away in the cupboard. From the doorway Rebecca had a better view of the painting inside. Cimabue in style, she thought, and not a bad copy as far as she could tell from a distance. She was surprised that Carlo had been uncharacteristically modest about it earlier. When he heard her he quickly closed the cupboard door.

  ‘Fancy dinner, Carlo?’

  ‘No, amore, I have to meet a friend for a drink tonight.’

  ‘Another woman so soon? I feel used,’ she joked.

  ‘No, it is a man. I would ask you to join us but...’ He shrugged and opened his hands to show that there were reasons he could not invite her.

  ‘Never mind. My bottom’s a bit sore to be sitting on hard barstools anyway.’

  He smiled and kissed her and they left the flat together. They parted at the entrance to the building and Rebecca walked back her hotel in the Via Gesu. On the way she passed through the Piazza della Scala, glancing up at the monument to Leonardo. Across the road she saw the crowd milling at the entrance to the opera house, where the night’s performance would soon begin.

  At the Four Seasons she soothed herself in a relaxing bath, ordered room service, watched CNN and, at about ten, decided to call James.

  In an altogether dingier part of town Carlo was discussing the transportation of the painting to England.

  ‘I should prefer you not to move it until Monday,’ he said.

  ‘The sooner the better for you, my friend. Don’t worry; I’ve crated paintings many times.’

  His drinking companion was a tubby, bald man in premature middle age, whose fair complexion was beginning to show the blotches of alcohol abuse. He did not work for the shipment company whose name Carlo had mentioned to Rebecca.

  ‘Does the Englishwoman know?’ asked Bianchi, casually.

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Carlo, drawing back from the other’s pungent breath. He looked over to the bar and signalled for another coffee.

  A woman in a red coat entered, bringing with her a gust of damp, chilly air. Bianchi shivered as it blew over his unprotected head. Fortunately for him customers were scarce tonight, so the door did not often open.

  ‘My friend, sex games are one thing, but his interest in pain is more than recreational,’ he said, sardonically. ‘Neither of us wants to go there.’ Behind his watery eyes was a penetrating gaze.

  Carlo fell into thought, idly watching the woman take her coffee to the back of the room. He rested his elbows on the plain wooden table and came clean.

  ‘She saw it from a distance. She thinks it’s a copy I made at college.’

&n
bsp; ‘But she knows about art,’ persisted the other. ‘It is a risk.’

  Carlo shrugged. ‘If she opens the crate, what will she find? Her own painting.’

  His companion did not look convinced. Senor Bianchi was clearly the type who knotted his shoelaces twice.

  ‘What if she remembers it when it comes to market?’

  ‘She will never see it. It’s a damaged minor work that will go straight into a private collection. There will be no publicity, no public viewings.’ Carlo was becoming impatient with Bianchi’s negativity.

  Sighing mournfully, as one who has been given empty assurances a thousand times before, Bianchi accepted the spare key to Carlo’s flat and left.

  After the bald man had gone Carlo took his coffee to a table further back in the bar. The girl sat there, huddled in her red coat, hidden by the booth’s fretwork screen. He kissed her on both cheeks and sat down next to her.

  ‘How are things?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Not bad. They’ve moved me from the house to one of his clubs.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘It’s called La Pera. It’s the sort of place you would like,’ she said, knowing a little of her brother’s predilections. Carlo became agitated.

  ‘Maria, I know it. It’s not a good place for you.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m just a waitress. I’m not on stage,’ she said soothingly. She didn’t tell him that the floor manager was angling to put her into the show. For now the boss wouldn’t let him, but if the money didn’t come through that could change.

  ‘I’m impressed you know it,’ she said. ‘It’s pretty exclusive.’

  He had visited it only once, as the guest of a wealthy businessman who was overjoyed by Carlo’s painting of his wife. He had liked the entertainment well enough, but it wasn’t the sort of place any man would want his sister to work.

  ‘Do they treat you well?’

  ‘Yes. The tips are really great. Sometimes I get pinched or a smack on the bottom, but I don’t mind. It’s a lot better than the house.’

  He remembered the waitresses’ uniforms. The corsets and fishnet tights tempted many a member’s hand.

  ‘I hate that,’ he said with suppressed anger. ‘And it’s not your scene.’

  Maria knew Carlo meant that she was not sexually submissive. But so far in her short life she had been forced to accommodate a wide range of men’s tastes. ‘Oh, I don’t know. If I could find a nice guy I could take a good spanking now and then.’

  ‘You are beautiful, Maria. Don’t set your sights too low.’

  She smiled at him. Carlo, she knew, was no angel, but he had always tried to be one to her.

  Tentatively she asked, ‘Do you know when you will have it?’

  ‘I’m going to England at the weekend. Hopefully we’ll sell them soon after that.’

  She leaned across and kissed his cheek, her dark eyes bright with gratitude. The family resemblance in their faces was unmistakeable.

  ‘I need to get to work. We open at ten.’ She gave him a hug and left.

  Restlessly smoking cigarettes Carlo took the long, cold walk back to his studio. This troubled Carlo would have intrigued Rebecca, who so far had encountered only his urbane arrogance.

  Maria minded the gropes and pinches more than she had admitted to Carlo. In some ways the club was worse than the house. Few of the clients at the brothel had tried to hurt her; and if her bottom did occasionally come in for a drubbing it was in the privacy of a bedroom. Unfortunately, that night worse was to come.

  At midnight a party of six or seven businessmen dressed in Zegna and Armani arrived. They were of various ages but all were well-oiled, no doubt from a sumptuous meal somewhere. December was an awkward time because Christmas parties meant that the customers were much more likely to be drunk and unpredictable.

  Maria’s heart sank when they were shown to a table serviced by her. There was an interval in the floorshow, so there was nothing to distract the men from teasing their pretty waitress. She stepped nimbly between their seats, on her ridiculously high-heeled mules, pouring glasses of champagne. With a fixed smile she steeled herself against their playful assaults on her bottom. But when someone poked his fingers into her crotch she staggered in disgust, her shoe went over and she flopped into a young man’s lap. A good deal of the contents of a bottle of Dom Perignon flowed down his suit. He started back angrily, amid roars of laughter from his friends.

  ‘She’s in position, Filippo; you know what to do!’ goaded one of them.

  Filippo needed no further encouragement. He held Maria in place and slapped her behind. The slaps were gentle and she should have taken her mock punishment graciously; after all she had just soaked the man’s jacket. She could feel the expensive wool cloth of his trousers against her, and a stiffening in his groin. If they had been alone it might not have been an altogether unpleasant experience, but she burned with embarrassment at being spanked in public, something which had never happened to her before.

  When she scrambled to her feet Filippo released her readily enough. He smiled at her in a slightly inebriated way, while his table clapped and cheered. It could all have ended there, but Maria’s injured pride pushed her too far. She slapped Filippo across the face. There were gasps from nearby tables, evidently glued to this bonus entertainment. As she stared down at Filippo, breathing heavily, she found him staring placidly back. It infuriated her that he seemed unfazed by her slap.

  She had chosen a particularly bad night to break the club’s code. The boss, who always treated her sympathetically, was absent. Her enemy, Bruno the floor manager, was deputising. Bruno was tall and thin, with slicked-back hair and sallow skin. He appeared at the table, gripped Maria by the arm and bundled her across the room into the boss’ office. It was a dimly-lit, windowless room with worn out furniture upholstered in faded browns. A large oak desk stood opposite the door.

  A waiter was sent to invite Filippo to join them. A few minutes later he returned with Filippo, who was now minus his jacket, which another waitress had taken to be sponged and pressed. Maria was made to stand meekly while Bruno launched into an elaborate apology.

  It seemed that Filippo was a rising star in the regional government of Lombardy, and Bruno was anxious to placate any ill-feeling towards the club that the incident might have caused. The entertainment at La Pera pushed the boundaries of legality from time to time, so through powerful connections and the judicious use of bribes they usually resolved any hiccups, but the club’s license was a sensitive issue in some quarters.

  Maria watched the young man from the corner of her eye as he listened patiently to Bruno’s profuse flattery. At last Bruno turned to her, and ordered her to give her humblest apology.

  Her cheeks were still hot with the injustice of it all and she made the mistake of protesting.

  ‘But it was not my fault. It was the other man...’ she paused, unwilling to say precisely what he had done, ‘...who pushed me.’

  On hearing this Filippo was inclined to be magnanimous. ‘Oh, I didn’t know that,’ he said, smiling at her. She sensed he was attracted to her. ‘Well let’s say no more about it,’ he said briskly. He seemed not to want to waste any more of his night listening to tedious grovelling. Maria was beginning to warm to him. He was good looking in a studious way.

  Needless to say, Bruno had other ideas.

  ‘Waitresses here are expected to cope with friendly pats,’ he rasped at her.

  ‘Then I’m very sorry, sir,’ she said, with such bad grace that Filippo was forced to laugh.

  ‘Well you don’t look it!’ he said, grinning at her.

  Maria blushed, a little ashamed at her sullenness when he had been so friendly about it all. She smiled at him and had just opened her mouth to apologise more sweetly when Bruno intervened.

  ‘Perhaps y
ou would care to give her something to be sorry about,’ he said ominously. He took a long leather tawse from the desk drawer. Maria gulped. She suspected that Bruno had probably had this planned from the start.

  ‘Shall we say twelve things?’ added Bruno.

  Filippo appeared to be stunned. He stared at the tawse and at Maria. The opportunity to whip her beautiful bum clearly appealed to him; she noticed the movement at his groin. She looked glumly at the floor, knowing her fate to be sealed. She wished she had been more pleasant to the young man after all.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary,’ protested Filippo, and she looked up gratefully, liking him more and more.

  But Bruno, as ever, was the killjoy. ‘I’m afraid if you do not I shall have to discipline the girl myself.’ His voice was heavy with sham regret. ‘But I’m sure she would prefer it from you,’ he added shrewdly.

  Maria watched in horror as the young man’s face brightened and he agreed. Bruno nodded to the waiter, who grabbed her hands roughly behind her back and held her down over the desk. It was completely unnecessary; by now Maria had accepted the inevitable and did not struggle. Before Filippo began Bruno straightened the seams of her tights, which had become twisted over the young man’s knee. His bony hands brushed her bottom for a few moments and Maria felt sick with indignation and impotence.

  Filippo gave her twelve swats with the tawse. Bruno made her count them and say thank you after each one. Although the blows were not harsh her humiliation reached new heights as she realised they would be heard at nearby tables in the club. Finally she was made to stand up and apologise again to Filippo, who nodded and told her she was forgiven.

  Bruno asked the waiter to have two bottles of Dom Perignon sent to Filippo’s table, with his complements. Filippo beamed and shook him warmly by the hand.

  ‘You have been most accommodating over this matter, Bruno,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Signor Frapelli will certainly hear of it.’