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)