Lessons in Art

by Sam Eden

  ‘I suppose he was, compared to the caning he gave you,’ said Nicola. ‘Carlo wasn’t soft on me, though.’

  ‘No, that’s true,’ admitted Rebecca.

  Suddenly they both jumped at the crack of the terrible sixth stroke. On screen Nicola swore and danced in pain.

  ‘That one was a beauty, I’ll give you that,’ laughed Rebecca, and Nicola had to smile ruefully too.

  ‘Actually I was so relieved he hadn’t sacked me I would have taken sixty let alone six. It’s not only the job; knowing James means having a little connection to Edward still.’

  Nicola seemed about to cry again, so Rebecca gave her arm a squeeze. ‘You’re part of the family now.’

  The answer to another riddle dawned on Nicola. ‘Is this how you knew I’d watched you and James, that night?’

  Rebecca smiled. ‘Of course. It was a spectacular caning and I thought I’d see how I looked. I was being vain, I suppose. The camera caught you peering through the crack in the door.’

  ‘What would James do if he knew we were here?’ asked Nicola, out of the blue.

  Rebecca gave her a withering look. ‘I think we both know the answer to that.’

  Nicola’s question was oddly timed, because at that moment they turned to see James glaring at them from the door. He looked at the screen, where the closing stages of Monday’s session were playing out.

  ‘I noticed your car parked down the drive,’ he said coldly to Rebecca, who was blushing.

  Nicola tried to defuse the situation. ‘James, I want to thank you for what you’re doing, and for treating me like a... friend.’ She hugged him warmly.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said distantly, locked in eye contact with Rebecca.

  ‘I need to talk something over with Rebecca, Nick,’ he continued, ‘if you would excuse us. Call on Carlo. I think he has something to tell you.’

  Alone with James Rebecca felt her temperature rise once more.

  ‘I hoped Carlo would have been and gone before you returned,’ he said at last.

  ‘Evidently,’ she replied, refusing to be apologetic.

  ‘What I did with Nicola was wrong, so I’ll not punish you for eavesdropping,’ he said sternly.

  ‘That’s big of you,’ she mocked. Her face was still hot with embarrassment at being caught. That was the way with men, she thought; they do something wrong but they make you feel guilty about it.

  ‘I hope the portrait will go some way to making amends,’ he said coolly.

  They stared at each other in silence for a while. Really Rebecca would have liked him to bend her over the desk and lay into her with his belt. But all the passion was on her side; James seemed cold, almost offended.

  ‘You know more of this business between Carlo and Nicola than you’re letting on,’ he said.

  Stubbornly she refused to speak, but her blush deepened.

  ‘It seems you’re not prepared to be honest with me, even though you’re soon to be my wife.’

  His words stung her more than his cane ever had. She felt like following Nicola’s example and crying, but instead she pushed past him. ‘I have to go back to work,’ she said.

  Carlo spent most of his time now at Nicola’s flat and Rebecca was alone at the cottage. She decided to watch some television and have an early night. Normally she would go to James’, but his cold words had hurt her deeply. She brooded on the afternoon’s events: the crisis with Nicola had been resolved, but somehow her engagement was still in jeopardy. Was this how married life would be? Would it always be her that had to apologise; he would always be right even when he’d done something wrong? She liked a strong hand, but she wanted it to be fair.

  In bed she found solace in a favourite fantasy. It took place in a medieval castle, although the period was contemporary. In the banqueting hall four men sat around a long oak table. They all wore evening dress, but were of different ages and appearance.

  Wearing only a PVC spanking skirt and high black stilettos, Rebecca waited on them. She had to keep her head lowered and never make eye contact with them. The tightness of the skirt and the height of the heels made her unsteady. She was conscious of her naked bottom exposed by the skirt. She ladled soup into a dish for the fat middle-aged man, but when he grabbed at her breast some spilled on the table. He pulled her across his lap and spanked her. Next she had to go round the table, being put across each man’s lap in turn. Each spanking felt different. The hands of one were rough, those of a young labourer. Another’s were strong but smooth, with long delicate fingers, like those of a pianist. The final man looked similar to James, but his hands were much larger; it was like being hit with a table tennis bat.

  After dinner the men stayed at the table drinking brandy and smoking cigars. Rebecca had to stand on the table and sing to them. A small band accompanied her from the musician’s gallery above. For this part of the fantasy she varied what she was wearing. Tonight she wore a figure-hugging evening dress in burgundy chiffon.

  Each of the men had an implement next to him on the table: cane, flogger, tawse and paddle. The man with the cane rapped it against her calves. If her voice faltered she was made to get down and bend over each side of the table in turn, while the man from that side gave her twelve strokes with his implement. Each would choose whether or not to roll up her dress and pull down her knickers. The band would stop playing and the thwacks would reverberate around the hall. After the four beatings she had to climb back onto the table and sing again.

  When the men had had enough of the singing they called for a footman, who roughly tore her dress from her. Then she had to dance on the table in her underwear. Since her heels were so high she danced mainly by swaying to the rhythm of the music, writhing her arms and hips as seductively as possible. When she stumbled she had to climb down again and take her beating on each side of the table. At the end of his twelve strokes each man would fuck her doggy style. Their hands were never gentle or caressing; they gripped and slapped her as though tenderising a piece of meat.

  Sometimes her punishment would run into the next day, when she would be dragged naked into the stables. The four men, now dressed in country tweeds, would look on as the footman tied her to a post and thrashed her. Rebecca had never been properly whipped in real life and never wanted to be, but she was excited by the idea of it, knowing that four pairs of male eyes greedily devoured her plight, and that the men were aroused by her screams.

  Although her fantasies always satisfied her, she would have much preferred the reality of being with James in his bed.

  Chapter 11

  Anxious to complete her painting as soon as possible, Carlo had pressed Rebecca to sit for him both days before Christmas. She and James wanted it to be set in his drawing room, in which was some lovely furniture, so she had to spend time at his house when her bitterness at James might otherwise have kept her away.

  Carlo had made preliminary sketches on Tuesday evening. Rebecca bought sandwiches on the way from work so that she need not eat with James. He mostly kept to his study and left them in the drawing room alone. Now and again he had tried to smooth over the rift, but she’d not responded well. She sensed his new lack of trust in her, made all the more mortifying by her knowledge that it was justified.

  On Christmas Eve Rebecca could spare the whole day because her office was closed, so Carlo began the painting proper. Fortunately the light was good during the morning and the pale sun shone into the room, bringing a gleam to her long brown hair.

  Rebecca sat in a Thomas Sheraton armchair, leaning forward slightly, her hand resting over its arm. The chair was positioned side on, and her face was turned towards the painter. She was dressed in white, in a simple silk dress. She wore the pearls lent to Nicola for the ball.

  At first her face held the trace of a smile that she did not feel, and Carlo soon asked her to lose it. He worked quickly
and in deep concentration. He said very little, so Rebecca was left to her own thoughts. Having already sat for one portrait in recent weeks she was bored by it all, and her pose was beginning to give her a stiff neck.

  She thought most often about James and how fortunate she had been to land him. He had long been hunted as one of the English art world’s most eligible singles. Among the cognoscenti the whisper was that his consorts could expect a spanking now and again, but that just made him a more exciting prospect to his admirers.

  Of course Rebecca knew now that he was capable of more than a mere spanking, but that suited her down to the ground. She had disdained boyfriends who let her tantrums and extravagance go unchecked. Others had responded in the opposite way by dropping her as too much trouble.

  Only James handled her well. With him Rebecca could sometimes exercise her wild side, be punished for it and move on; their relationship strengthened. In her professional life she needed to be self-controlled and commanding of others, so it was liberating that in her personal life someone else decreed how far she could go.

  The house was particularly quiet, because James had gone to London for a meeting with Scotland Yard and the Crown Prosecution Service, who were deciding if a case could be brought against Francesco. He had given all the staff, including Nicola, a day’s holiday, so Rebecca and Carlo had the place to themselves. James had said he would not be home until late as he expected the meeting to last all afternoon, and he intended to do some shopping afterwards. It would be an opportunity to buy Rebecca’s Christmas present, he’d said, grinning, trying to lighten her mood. In response she gave him a stony look. Did he imagine, she wondered, that leaving her present to the last minute would somehow endear him to her? Men had strange ideas as to what pleased women.

  By one-thirty Carlo had been working for nearly four hours. To Rebecca’s relief he was beginning to tire. A tray of chicken sandwiches and a cold pork pie had been left for them in the kitchen, so she fetched them, together with a bottle of white wine from the cooler. Carlo opened the wine and they ate and drank in silence.

  By now he had finished all the engagements the gallery had arranged for his trip. His contract was finalised and he would already have returned to Italy had it not been for this commission, and with no more work matters to discuss Rebecca found she did not have a lot to say to him. His magic had begun to pall and she would be glad when he was gone. His presence reminded her of her indiscretion, which she had come to regret. She would prefer to be free to criticise James’ fling with Nicola without a guilty niggle of her own.

  Now that the threat from the syndicate was gone the saturnine mood which had descended on Carlo at the ball had also lifted. His easy arrogance returned, and although charmed by it when first they met, Rebecca now found it juvenile and tedious. Since James had just saved his bacon she expected him to be a little more humble.

  After lunch they carried on until three o’clock. As the light faded Carlo was attending to less important parts of the canvas, and he became more chatty. He spoke warmly of his feelings for Nicola, which Rebecca thought were genuine. This led him to reminisce about his first meeting with her at the cottage. It was something Rebecca did not want to talk about and she tried to discourage him, but to no avail. And when he began to insinuate that James would be displeased to learn who had engineered Nicola’s trap, Rebecca began to get annoyed.

  ‘It’s water under the bridge, Carlo,’ she said. ‘Let’s just forget about it.’

  ‘Sir James has been good to me,’ he persisted. ‘Maybe it is my duty to tell him, especially when he is so concerned about Nicola’s welfare.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ she asked heatedly.

  ‘Of course not,’ he said smoothly, ‘but I wonder if we should come to some arrangement.’

  ‘What arrangement?’ she asked. James had been right about Carlo; he was despicable.

  ‘We were too severe with her. I think we should make amends... or rather, you should.’

  ‘What arrangement?’ repeated Rebecca, through gritted teeth.

  ‘I will punish you. For Nicola’s sake, you understand.’

  ‘For your sake you mean, you sadistic bastard!’

  Carlo did not lose his temper. ‘That wasn’t what you called me in Milan,’ he sneered.

  ‘That was just holiday sex,’ she said derisively, ‘and I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.’

  ‘It seems now you have the contract you wish to discard me. Did you sleep with me to make me come to your gallery?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Carlo. In any case, you’re with Nicola now.’

  Carlo carefully carried the portrait out to the car. When he returned he began to pack up his easel and paints. Rebecca watched him bitterly, unable to understand how she once thought his slick movements graceful.

  ‘James is the only person who should punish me,’ she said at last.

  ‘Perhaps, but he cannot punish you for sins he does not know,’ he said, continuing to clear up. ‘If you prefer that I told him, then of course he would be able to.’

  The little shit had twisted her words back on her. ‘No, I won’t do it,’ she declared.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I might also mention to Sir James about our little games in Milan.’

  He had her in a corner and they both knew it. Rebecca’s face was red with frustration. She couldn’t see how to avoid consenting to Carlo’s demands. Perhaps if she came clean to James before Carlo got to him, she thought. There was too much at stake. James might well feel so affronted that he would call off the engagement. Some of his views were rather old-fashioned. Although he thought it wrong for married men to have affairs, he thought it much worse for married women to do so. It came from his upbringing and she just had to accept it.

  The sun had set and the room was becoming dark. Carlo was watching her patiently in the growing dusk without saying a word. He knew when to keep quiet.

  ‘Very well,’ she sighed. ‘On one condition: if you try to have sex with me I’ll tell Nicola.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  He took more kit out to the car, and when he returned he brought the wooden paddle and leather flogger.

  ‘Without your dress, I think,’ he told her. ‘I wouldn’t like to spoil its elegant lines.’

  While Rebecca took off her dress Carlo dragged the Sheraton armchair into the centre of the room, and switched on the wall lights. With them the lights of the tall Christmas tree came on. She had decorated it for James in happier circumstances, taking far more care over it than she had with her own.

  ‘What about my underwear?’ she asked.

  ‘Leave it on,’ he replied, admiring her white stockings and suspenders, ‘for the time being.’

  He made her kneel on the leather seat of the chair and grip its arms for support.

  ‘Hold on tightly, Rebecca,’ he advised, and simultaneously delivering a whack of the paddle to her panty-clad behind.

  As Carlo settled into his task his blows became crueller and Rebecca’s gasps became squeals. Periodically he stopped to examine the pink skin beneath the white panties. He patted and prodded her rump and adjusted her position to his satisfaction, making sure knees and thighs were pressed together.

  ‘Your bottom is a little larger than Nicola’s,’ he said gloatingly. ‘It gives me a wider target.’

  The paddling continued. On reaching twelve he lowered her panties to her knees. ‘From now on you must count the strokes,’ he ordered.

  After the next punishing blow Rebecca gasped, ‘Thirteen.’

  Carlo was varying his aim; sometimes up and down each cheek and sometimes across both. He then delivered twelve hard strokes to the same spot on her right buttock, and a similar dozen to the left. It was agony, but Rebecca remembered how he had done the same to Nicola. At least some of Rebecca’s guilt was ass
uaged by the beating being just as severe as the girl’s had been. By now she was in so much pain that her position was slipping. Her knuckles were white gripping the arms of the chair, and she had just rested her forehead on its back when he told her to stand up and face him. Her panties fell to the floor, and he picked them up and used them to mop his brow.

  ‘I have had to do all the work today, while you have been lounging in this chair,’ he chuckled.

  She said nothing but looked at him with disdain. Her jaw was set tight against the lingering pain in her rear. His smile was replaced by a determined look.

  He ordered her to take off her bra. She let it fall to the floor. Carlo held the flat of the paddle under each breast in turn, lifting them gently. Skilfully he flicked her nipples without hurting them, and Rebecca was annoyed when they stiffened. He tried to cajole her into changing her mind about sex.

  ‘In return I will make your punishment more bearable,’ he goaded, but when she refused he made her bend over the chair again, this time with her legs spread wide, and she braced herself for more suffering.

  The blows started at the top of each cheek and worked down to her stocking tops. Her breasts quivered with the impact of each stroke, and then he stopped again. She felt his fingers brushing her pubic hair.

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ she snapped, and his response was to slap her buttocks and pinch their hot flesh until she cried out. Then he continued the paddling even harder than before.

  At last the end came. ‘Sixty!’ she cried with relief. She was shaking but she refused Carlo’s offer of support. Nor did she allow him to rub any lotion into her. She took the bottle from him and lay prone on the chaise longue, waiting for the stinging to subside. Then she reached behind and massaged some of the cream into the damaged areas.

  A few minutes later the heat of the pain had eased, although her bottom felt bruised and tender. When she glanced up she saw Carlo stripped to the waist, smiling down at her.