Lessons in Art

by Sam Eden

  The centurion faced the audience and told them that the girl had asked him to make her strokes as light as possible. He asked them what they thought he should do about it.

  ‘Make them harder!’ urged several people.

  ‘Give her more lashes!’ shouted others.

  ‘I’ll do both,’ said the centurion, and turned back to the girl, who hearing her fate had begun to sob.

  His first lashes bit across the girl’s back, presented to him on the block. As Gaia’s sobs died down, so Lucia’s agonised cries replaced them. With each vicious stroke her head jerked up, before sinking back down beyond the block. The centurion proceeded to whip the backs of her thighs. Her body yanked against its restraints. He left her lovely bottom for the last, but not least, score of lashes.

  By then her wails and shrieks had become a perpetual undulation, punctuated by deep gulps of breath. Her legs and buttocks were red raw. The club had never before witnessed such a spectacular whipping.

  One by one the slaves were untied and led away, supported by the two maidservants. Lucia could barely walk, so the centurion hoisted her onto his back and the group left the stage.

  The curtain fell and the members clapped enthusiastically until it rose five minutes later for the curtain call. Once more the naked women stood facing the audience and, on their master’s command, turned to present their backs for inspection. Cowed and shivering, the white girls were weeping still. Their flayed buttocks and backs made a compelling sight for the members. Finally they put their arms on each others’ shoulders and circled again as the Three Graces, before leaving the stage to ecstatic applause.

  A little before his name was mentioned at the club, Bianchi stumbled out of his local watering hole. His progress along the badly lit street was far from straight, but over the years he had perfected a sine curve stagger which served him effectively enough in his cups. Ahead he could blearily make out a thin dark figure stopped at a shop window lighting a cigarette.

  Bianchi crossed the road. He was a man for whom safety was ever the best policy. The easiest way to avoid trouble at night was to steer clear of men under forty. Further along the street he looked over his shoulder. The man was still looking in the window.

  Suddenly the cold of the night hit Bianchi. He shivered, but decided to take a slightly longer route back; one on wider, well lit roads.

  Ten minutes later he stepped from the Via Battaglia into his own small street. His tiny flat was just a few metres away. There was some sauce to heat up and some kind of dried pasta in the cupboard, he was sure. So far today he had eaten only a sandwich at lunchtime, but he wasn’t hungry. It was mostly out of habit that he took in solids.

  The window shopper was waiting in the shadow of his doorway, holding a silenced pistol. When Bianchi saw him he stopped. He was afraid, but it would have been pointless to run, even if he had been young and sober.

  ‘At least,’ he consoled himself, ‘it isn’t a painful death.’

  No one in the La Pera audience would have begrudged the black girl her gentle treatment had they later been present in the elder brother’s pied-à-terre in central Milan. Like Carlo, he too had a cathedral view, but there the similarities between the two apartments ended. This was a spacious penthouse, and although the building was old and faded, the fittings and furniture were modern and luxurious. The brothers lived for the future, not for the past. Their only interest in antiquity was the money which could be made from it.

  Once again her inspection started with her luscious bottom over his lap. When his pats turned to slaps she knew her night had begun in earnest. Dressed as a maid, with apron but no skirt, high heels and stay up white stockings, the girl served him Vin Santo. He popped dark chocolates into his mouth and sipped the wine, watching her pretend to clean the room with a feather duster. When he was unhappy with her work she would be called over to touch her toes, and with the stick of the feather duster he would give her six of the best.

  The fat man enjoyed this game for perhaps an hour, after which the girl was stripped naked and made to lie facedown on his splendid glass dining table. Her head rested on a pillow. Cuffs were secured round her wrists and ankles and tied to the four legs of the table. Then using a whip identical to the centurion’s he lashed every inch of her body from the backs of her thighs to her shoulders. He showed no mercy in revisiting the part of her back that had already suffered in the show, and the girl sobbed into the pillow and soaked it with her tears. In between groups of lashes he used the whip’s handle to toy with her anus. She had not signed up for such treatment, but she knew with this man that meek submission meant survival.

  After the fat man had whipped her he led her into his bedroom. Lying on his enormous bed he grasped her hair and moved her face to the erect penis peeking up from below his large gut. He found the extra moistness of the lips and mouth of a sniffling woman an exquisite refinement to the pleasure of fellatio. Her tears, dripping into his pubic hair, were little drops of joy, and to ensure they continued he would reach out from time to time to clip her flank with a crop.

  Chapter 14

  Waiting, fastened to the post, Rebecca remembered the last time she had been in these stables. It had been a defining moment in her life. One weekend they had driven over to the riding school where James usually kept his horses. The idea was to ride them to his house, leave them in his stables overnight and ride them back on the Sunday.

  By this time they had been dating for few weeks, but only once had he shown himself willing to discipline her. Apart from that skirmish over breast implants, which had produced such promising results, Rebecca had been treading carefully. With the relationship still in its early stages she did not want to frighten James away. Yet, when she remembered how other boyfriends had crumbled in the face of her temper, she hoped for some early reassurance that he could handle her at her most headstrong. As it turned out, she got rather more reassurance than she bargained for.

  The day had started out well. Rebecca was wearing pristine white breeches, which she had bought especially for this first ride with James, and which left nothing to the imagination about her shapely curves. They were more expensive than she usually wore for everyday riding, but it was a good investment because James had barely taken his eyes off her hips and bottom until she mounted the horse.

  She was an excellent rider, but she and the horse did not establish a good rapport. Perhaps Rebecca had been too concerned with James to give the young chestnut mare her proper attention. Perhaps the mare herself was disappointed not to be ridden by James. Although he rode both horses from time to time, his favourite was the chestnut, Brownie. Brownie was younger and fitter than the grey mare, so he’d offered her to Rebecca.

  At first the mare was restless and frisky, but Rebecca managed to control her and they set off at a steady walk across the fields, chatting happily. After riding briskly for half an hour they had a race across an open hillside to a small copse at the top. In a closely run contest James was careful to lose. He was being polite; he was still learning about Rebecca and had not yet understood her highly competitive nature. From childhood she had resented not being taken seriously as an opponent. Because the challenges to which she responded most enthusiastically were against men, her resentment was all the greater when a man let her win.

  Although it rankled with her she realised he had not meant to patronise her, so she kept her cool. They dismounted to admire the views over South Oxfordshire and Berkshire and to give the horses a rest. He flopped to the ground, but reluctant to let the damp grass stain her breeches, she leaned against a tree. She listened while he recounted some tale from local history, then when he called her over she admitted why she wouldn’t sit down. So in response James stretched out his legs and invited her sit on them.

  ‘I’ll keep you off the ground,’ he promised.

  She lowered herself onto his lap and stretched her legs in front of
her, resting them on his. James pulled her to him and kissed her neck. His erection pushed into her bottom. He ran his hands over her hips. She felt helpless in this position, but she let him caress her to his heart’s content.

  ‘Brownie is looking at us disapprovingly,’ she laughed, and hearing her name the horse gave a brief blow and turned away in disdain.

  He laughed too, but his caresses were becoming more amorous. She heard his breathing quicken. He kissed her ears and hair, and squeezed her breasts through the fleece she wore. His hands roamed over her hips and thighs.

  ‘You’re not wearing panties beneath your breeches, are you?’ he said, faking shock, as though he’d caught her red-handed in some peccadillo.

  ‘No,’ she admitted. Rebecca had thought it best to avoid the panty-line problem today, and she never found thongs comfortable for riding.

  James began to probe between her legs. ‘Stop it,’ she laughed.

  He did so, but whispered, ‘We could make love like this. You could stay on top to keep dry.’

  ‘No, it’s too open,’ she said, ‘and anyway it would distress the horses.’

  He groaned in acquiescence. ‘If only there were a cold shower handy,’ he muttered.

  As they were getting up James found that his left leg had gone to sleep and he stumbled against her. Rebecca was still finding her balance and fell forward onto the ground on all fours. When she rose her knees were green and wet.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ she said angrily.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  The sound of genuine apology in his voice placated her, until he continued, ‘For a keen rider you seem very fussy about your clothes.’

  Rebecca flushed hotly at this remark. She was an adventurous rider who could cope with the odd tumble and normally she didn’t mind if her clothes were snagged or mud-splashed, but today she wanted to look her best for him. But being a man he was too stupid to see that.

  She mounted, still in a huff, unsettling Brownie again. Resentful of his remark Rebecca decided to show James what she could do on a horse. As soon as he was up she galloped off down the hill. She could hear James’ astonished cries disappearing on the wind behind her. After a few minutes he caught her up.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter?’ he panted. ‘This can’t be about my stumble can it?’

  She ignored the question, but slowed to a walk. ‘Let’s have a proper race, to the pond on your land,’ she said, ‘and this time you don’t have to let me win.’

  She tapped her heels firmly into Brownie, leaned forward and urged the horse into a gallop. James responded to her challenge and galloped after her. Soon he was just in the lead. Rebecca smacked the whip on her boot to stir her horse. She regained the lead but it was tight. Normally she never hit a horse but she was determined to win. She gave Brownie several sharp swats on her rump. It made little difference to poor Brownie’s speed; the horse was already running as fast as she could. If anything the rough treatment caused her to slow. In the end she won by a length, but by rights it should have been more since Brownie was a faster horse than the grey.

  While they rubbed down the horses in the stable yard James said nothing, but Rebecca knew he was livid, and she had to admit he had good cause. Any host would be annoyed at a guest who mistreated his favourite animal. After they had carried the tack into the stables she was about to go out to bring Brownie into her stall, but James held her back.

  ‘They’re safely tethered,’ he said. ‘They can wait for a few minutes.’

  He closed the stable door and picked up a thick wooden block, probably used to wedge it open sometimes. Rebecca sensed the gathering storm and decided to take the offensive. She complained vehemently about his condescending manner. When he said nothing but led her to the end of the stalls she pretended to be outraged by the lecherous way he had held her on the hillside. All in all she must have lambasted him for five minutes, during which time James said nothing. Eventually she shouted herself silent.

  He lay the block flush with the outside wall of the end stall. She could read his thoughts: if she stood on the block the top of the wall would be waist high and she could bend over it.

  ‘You can’t just spank me whenever you feel like it!’ she snapped.

  ‘I’ll spank you when you deserve it,’ he replied grimly.

  ‘You’re always spanking me!’ she protested. In fact, apart from that first slap on the rear at the restaurant he had only spanked her once.

  ‘If you kept your temper in check I wouldn’t need to.’

  She tried to run for the door but he moved surprisingly quickly, caught her round the waist and wedged her against his side. He had a very strong grip. There was a moment when both of them were motionless, breathing deeply. Then he laid into her backside with his hand. She struggled, but not very convincingly as without pausing the spanking he manoeuvred her to the wall so she could support herself against it. After that she didn’t bother to struggle at all. Nor did she cry out. She just grimaced into the wall and absorbed the stinging slaps. He stopped and cupped his hand over her now flaming buttocks. The new material of her breeches was getting some early extra wear. When he started to speak she anticipated him and slid her breeches down without being asked.

  ‘God you have a beautiful behind,’ he said in appreciation, and ran his hand around it.

  ‘“Callipygian”, someone once called it,’ she said, just for the sake of a reply.

  That made him chuckle, but when the spanks resumed they were no more gentle. By the time he decided she’d been punished enough her face was screwed up with pain. It had been even harder than his first effort in the drawing room. Nor was it over, it seemed.

  As he released her she started to pull up her breeches, but he stayed her hand. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘I think today’s outburst deserves a special reward.’

  He went to the tack store and returned with a riding crop.

  ‘You must be joking!’ she gasped.

  ‘You were ready enough to use it on poor Brownie. I counted seven swats, so that’s how many you’ll have.’

  He took her by the hand and led her back to the end wall of the stall. With her pants around her knees she stumbled along, holding them up with her free hand.

  When they arrived at the block he told her to take off her boots and breeches. She could leave on her top and fleece. She mounted the block. She had to stretch on tiptoe to be able to bend over the stall.

  Rebecca’s expectation that he would flick her with the tongue of the crop was rudely shattered by the first piercing crack. The tongue had indeed hit her right cheek, but it was the shaft of the crop which cut across her left. She got off the block and danced around in front of him, gripping her buttocks in her hands and yelling profanities at him. Later in their relationship she would get several extra strokes for such a performance, but today he took pity on her, in her first true beating.

  Rebecca recovered her poise and decided to show him that she was not completely cowed. Once she resumed her tiptoe stance on the block she said, ‘One, Sir James,’ in a slightly mocking tone.

  Mocking your torturer is probably not a wise policy, she thought, and the next six strokes were to prove she was right. Outside she could hear the horses snorting restlessly at her howls, but she took her punishment well and counted the strokes, although unasked.

  He held her in his arms while the pain subsided, stroking her hair, and she was thrilled when he told her how much he admired her bravery.

  ‘You handled yourself like a lady,’ he said seriously, and she smiled at the outdated phrase, which nonetheless was welcome to her ears. James believed that how people coped with adversity was a good guide to their true character. He kissed her upturned face.

  Then he dropped his trousers and fucked her. To get better purchase he put his forearm under her bottom and drew her
onto him, her yelps of pain at this new assault on her aching bum ignored.

  Afterwards she dressed and went out to fetch the horses, and needless to say the stall over which she had been beaten belonged to Brownie.

  Examining herself in the mirror later, she found that while the whole of her bottom was red and bruised, seven neat parallel stripes of the crop showed on her left buttock alone. It was plain that James knew well how to wield a crop. At the time she remembered wondering what other weapons were in his armoury, and of course, by now she had found out.

  On Sunday her bottom was still so sore that she couldn’t ride and James had to call the stables to collect the horses. They spent a peaceful day together, free from emotional storms. Rebecca had her reassurance and James had her heart.

  Her thoughts returned to the present. Another landmark of her life was now to be played out in the same stables.

  She fretted over whether this was the best set up. Her footwear had been discussed at length with Nicola. It was far too cold for her to be barefoot. Nicola had proposed high heels, but Rebecca did not think them appropriate to the stables. Instead she had chosen her riding boots and polished them well. Even without her breeches the soft brown leather fitted snugly to her calves.

  They had mulled over, too, whether or not Rebecca’s feet should be tied to the post. In the end they decided not, thinking he might prefer to see her dance with the sting of the whip.

  Apart from the boots her only adornment was the diamond choker around her neck. She knew it was rude to wear it before James had formally given it to her, but it sent a clear message that she was ready to be his once more. And if he was that bothered about the poor etiquette he could whip her for that too; it would be fine by her.

  The sound of feet crunching in the snow-covered yard brought her out of her reverie. She hoped it was James, or else she was going to be very embarrassed indeed. There was someone at the stable door. She sensed it was him, hearing his exclamation as he entered. She said nothing, staring meekly at the post, but when he called her name in a way which showed his happiness at seeing her, she turned to him with tears in her eyes.