The Artist's Model (F/M)

Weird it is where inspirations for stories come from. This one, I tell no lies, follows a conversation with an artist at a studio open day. The bits about being a model in my youth is true, the rest is pure fantasy. And I did not buy one of her very abstract, male nude, paintings. Alfred Roy

The Artist's Model

The thing to do is concentrate. Close your eyes and think about days on the beach or in the garden tending flowers. Walking through fields of poppies on a warm and promising morning. Think about anything really. Anything except about where you are, what you are doing. Standing in the middle of an unwelcoming room, surrounded by ten eager pairs of studying eyes. Eyes that microscopically examine every inch of your skin. At a distance that dilutes warm breath and dulls whispered words. Thankfully. For you are naked, as naked as the day you were born. Not a stitch on, and that day you were born was a long time ago. Conscious of those eyes you finally close your own and think about those days on the beach. It is a nice feeling, standing naked and being stared at, but an hour is enough.

 

‘You did well.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And you did not move too much.’

‘I tried.’

‘Much appreciated, by me and my students.’

‘Can it be a problem?’

‘Occasionally, yes.’

‘Especially if the bits move.’

 

At my response she laughed.

 

‘Talking of bits, we all think you have a nice bottom.’

‘Really.’

‘Yes, all of us. Me and the students.’

‘I am flattered. Considering my age.’

‘You shouldn’t be. One young lady said that he may be well over fifty but his bum is definitely only fifteen.’

‘Skin tight.’

‘Small and smooth, it does not age like face and hands.’

‘Spoken like an artist, madam.’

 

She paused, and became more serious.

 

‘Is that why you agreed to do it?’

‘What?’

‘Pose nude for us?’

‘Because I think I have a nice bottom?’

‘Yes.’

‘Partly. I like being naked and having a nice bottom, as you say, is a bonus.’

‘For you or us?’

‘Both, I think.’

 

She paused again, and her face took on a very serious tone.

 

‘How do you keep it in shape?’

‘Many ways’

‘Such as?’

‘I walk a lot.’

‘Of course.’

‘And watch my diet.’

‘Don’t we all.’

‘And exercise. Mainly at home, I do not like gyms.’

‘Too crowded?’

‘Too sweaty.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Do you need to ask?’

‘Just curious.’

‘I think you know.’

‘Try me?’

‘It’s kinky’

‘I adore kinks.’

‘I have it whacked.’

‘Your bottom?’

‘Where else?’

‘Often?’

‘Frequently. At least once a month.’

‘Just to keep it in shape?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’

 

She laughed again, but this time it held a hidden promise. For the first time on that strange day my loins tingled.

 

We were sitting in a small and cosy cafe. I had met her at one of her artistic open days. Fifty, severe, but fun. And desperate to sell her strange but compelling art. Male nudes in abstract, rich and diverting, full of complex swirls and stripes creating a modernistic slant on the age old form. I did not understand but they intrigued and, after a third visit, I bought one. Pale blues and orange with just a hint of the male form. We had chatted on all my visits and there was a relaxed air between us, established well before the money changed hands. She did art classes, regularly, and finding older males willing to strip off wasn’t easy. A comment prompted by my amplified thought that posing in the nude was very pleasurable. I had done it in my youth but now, regrettably, much too old. She did not agree. Such volunteers were always welcome, just extremely rare. So I volunteered and, a month later, had stood naked in her studio for an hour thinking mainly of flowers.

 

‘You intrigue me’, she said.

You intrigue me.’ I said.

 

We both laughed.

 

I saw her again two weeks later. This meeting was different. We were in the same cafe, drinking the same weak coffee, and continuing our previous conversation. Except that this one had an alternative slant.

 

‘Well, that was unexpected.’

‘My phone call?’

‘Yes. That and the request.’

‘To see you in your professional capacity?’

‘My other professional capacity.’

 

She emphasised the word ‘other’.

 

‘I found you.’

‘On facebook?’

‘No. Another site.’

‘A specialist one?’

‘Yes.’

‘And were you surprised?’

‘No, not really. I suppose I half expected it.’

‘It’s an old site. Forgotten it was still there.’

‘But you must get feedback. Requests.’

‘Occasionally. I ignore them. Long time ago.’

 

I paused. Thinking. Drinking my weak coffee.

 

‘But you didn’t ignore mine.’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘You were my model, remember?’

‘Is that the only reason?’

‘No. We seemed to get on well.’

‘And we are only having a coffee.’

‘Very weak.’

‘Madame Kahlo?’

‘A daft name.’

‘It suits. Conjures up visions of a wielded paintbrush.’

‘Or other wooden implements.’

 

She laughed and I joined in. I liked this woman and I reckon she liked me. But when she spoke again my mood changed.

 

‘But after?’

‘After what?’

‘The coffee.’

 

I froze. Registered that strange gleam in her eyes. The slight increase in her breathing. The stiffening of her body. Intermingled signals I could neither deny nor ignore.

 

‘After?’

‘After the coffee, what then?’

‘I don’t know. I go home, I suppose.’

‘Oh Nigel.’

 

She used my name, for the first time I think.

 

‘Oh Nigel. You disappoint me. Why would you go home?’

‘Because we met for coffee. You said so, on the phone. You made that clear.’

‘That we meet for coffee.’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing else. Or so I assumed.’

‘But you hoped. Admit it Nigel, you hoped.’

‘It crossed my mind.’

 

She laughed, a little loud and disturbing in such a public place.

 

‘Of course it crossed your mind. It did more than that. I would be surprised if it didn’t, having found my old website. I do remember our last conversation.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘For what? You like having your bottom spanked, don’t apologise for that.’

‘Caned.’

‘Same thing.’

‘Except harder.’

‘Of course.’

‘And you discovered I used to do it.’

‘A bonus.’

 

She gave me that very serious look again, the one first seen when I told her of my kink.

 

‘And I have decided I will do it again. As a one off. For you.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘And no fee.’

‘Even more foolish.’

‘You amuse me. And I like you. Modelling for me was fun. My students thought so. And, as we all said, you have a delightful bottom.’

‘And you haven’t caned one recently?’

‘No. I am retired from that. But you seem to have rekindled the interest. I think it’s the naughty boy in you.’

‘I am a perennial fifteen year old. So my friends say.’

‘Then you deserve to be whacked. By me.’

‘Or Madame Kahlo.’

 

She laughed again, quieter this time, and more breathless. I think she was getting turned on. I know I was. The room was beginning to spin and my face was getting flushed. And the stirring in my loins was unmistakeable. The promise of discipline across my bottom was a heady prospect I could never deny. Whatever the circumstances. And I liked this woman, had done ever since we first met. Spiralling artistic male nudes in hues of orange and blue was one thing, but being beaten by her eclipsed all. I relished the idea and the reality.

 

‘I will. Willingly. But there is one thing.’

‘Which is?’

‘I insist on paying. There has to be a fee.’

‘Why?’

‘It will not work otherwise.’

‘Too personal.’

‘Yes. Sorry.’

‘I think I understand.’

‘There has to be that barrier. I hope I am not offending you.’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘Good.’

‘And if you have, I know the remedy.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Oh, do not worry, I used to be very good.’

 

She rose, ready to leave.

 

‘Pay for the coffee Nigel, and I will see you in an hour. Give you time to compose yourself. Here’s my card. I think I shall enjoy this.’

 

And with that she left.

 

The thing to do is concentrate. Close your eyes and think about days on the beach or in the garden tending flowers. Walking through fields of poppies on a warm and promising morning. Think about anything really. Anything except about where you are, what you are doing. Standing in the middle of an unwelcoming room, surrounded by eager studying eyes. Eyes that microscopically examine every inch of your skin. At a distance that dilutes warm breath and dulls whispered words. Thankfully. For you are naked, as naked as the day you were born. Not a stitch on, and that day you were born was a long time ago. Conscious of those eyes you finally close your own and think about those days on the beach. And then you bend over the bench, laid out conveniently in the centre of the room. It was not there last time, the day you posed naked for aspirant artists of varied ability. But it is there now. And now some of those same students watch, not paint. Watch as you are bent over and tied down. Watch as you are beaten, with a cane.

 

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Content.’

‘Good.’

‘Content and sore.’

‘Not annoyed?’

‘Should I be?’

‘Possibly. Some folks do not like an audience.’

‘It was only three. And I don’t mind. Adds something.’

‘The perennial exhibitionist.’

‘Is that why you invited them?’

‘Partly.’

‘Thinking it would add something.’

‘Did it?’

‘Yes. But you should have told me.’

‘A breach of trust?’

‘Could be. And knowing, knowing others would be watching, would have added to the anticipation.’

‘It might have put you off.’

‘It might.’

‘But once in the room, seeing them, I knew you would be hooked.’

‘You did say you were good.’

‘Very good, Nigel. Very good’

‘And you paint the most interesting pictures.’

 

She laughed, quite loud again, but as were in her flat, alone, it did not matter. I suppose I could have been angry. Turning up at her flat, studio, and finding three eager young students waiting. Waiting and eager to see what the afternoon entailed. They had been well selected, as I later learnt, young and intrigued embracers of all the senses. Well chosen, well versed, and alive with fascination. They were to see a man being beaten. That is how she had put it to them. To see a man release all those mesmerising endorphins as a cane smacked into his naked bottom. To witness a sensation that defies explanation and is beyond understanding. Until you have seen it, heard it, smelt it. They would leave shaking their heads but they would leave richer in knowledge of the human condition. Or that was her rationale. Mine was more basic. Power surged through me as, with watching eyes, she told me to strip to my underpants and calmly explained to the trio what was to happen. I was to be tied down on her bench, Nigel is a willing participant she said, and I shall cane him thirty six times. Observe all, marks, movement, distress. Observe all; it may be the only chance you get. I listened to it all, covered only in my underpants and conscious of a growing erection. A woman, a cane, three observers, a bench, and me. Almost naked. Humiliation, anticipation, and fear combined in heady levels. When she walked towards me, fully immersed as Madame Kahlo, and slowly peeled off my underpants I was eternally grateful that none giggled at my stiffened state. They were all enthralled and that made what was to come almost heavenly.

 

‘Did they say anything as they left?’

‘Only that you took it well.’

‘I am experienced.’

‘So I saw.’

‘But it still hurt.’

‘As it should.’

‘I hope they appreciated it.’

‘They were enthralled. Transfixed. Caning a bottom, a naked bottom, plays havoc with the emotions of the watchers.’

‘Is that why you did it?’

‘Partly. Caning you appealed and my students just added an extra frisson.’

I supped the wine I had been offered, a gentle well rounded merlot, and considered my next response.

 

‘I am sorry about my erection. I hope they weren’t embarrassed.’

‘Were you?’

‘No. It added to my humiliation.’

‘I think they were amused. Amused and intrigued. It added to their understanding.’

‘And quickly lost.’

‘Of course. I am, or was, Madame Kahlo.’

‘And you caned me well. My bottom is well striped and well sore.’

‘Then a very useful afternoon. For all of us.’

‘Living art?’

‘In a way. In a manner of speaking.’

‘Your health.’

 

I raised my glass.

 

‘And yours, Nigel.’

 

She raised hers and we both laughed.

 

It was art. In a way. She had peeled off my underpants and led me to the bench. Watching eager eyes saw me bound and naked across her bench. A soft backside upturned and ready and with a hardness in front that signalled agreement. As those eyes watched and absorbed, her cane lashed into my upturned cheeks. I gasped at each strike on my buttocks but as I drank in the fire and pain I blessed the presence of witnesses. Witnesses to the painting of the hues of her blues and orange across my nether cheeks. Living art. Living pain. Living submission. Observed by some of those who had, on another day, drawn my nakedness. Now they could draw my pain. Thirty six strokes. All lovingly created on my bottom as carefully and as cleverly as any painter’s brush. They, I, and Madame Kahlo were well pleased.

 

Or I hoped so. Next time, if there is a next time, no students will be present.

 

Alfred Roy (2018)