Chapter 51

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Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!

Copyright 1995-2009 by the Flogmaster. All Rights Reserved. Free distribution via electronic medium (i.e. the internet or electronic BBS) is permitted as long as the text is _not_ modified and this copyright is included, but _no_ other form of publication is allowed without written permission. This document _may_ contain explicit material of an ADULT nature. ***READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!*** Anything offensive is your own problem. This story is for **entertainment** purposes only, and it does _not_ necessarily represent the viewpoint of the author or the electronic source where this was obtained. All characters are *fictional* -- any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.

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Erin's Adventures
Chapter 51

(****, M/F, Severe, Caning)

Erin meets a painter. (Approximately 3,853 words. Originally published 1998-02.)

"You have a beautiful body," said the hoarse, accent-filled voice.

I looked up from my tea and _Principles of Language_ textbook to see a bizarre man staring at me. He was petite, maybe 5"3", with dark skin and stringy black hair. His nose was thick and crooked, his teeth sharp and pointed, and his eyes were black dots that burned fiercely. He could be mistaken for nothing other than Hispanic. Oddly, he was perched on the chair across from me on his hands and knees.

"Pardon?" I asked.

"I said, you have beautiful breasts," the man said.

I glanced around the cafe. It was early afternoon and few people were around. "Who are you?"

"I want to paint you."


"I want to paint your lovely body, those delicate breasts, those impertinent lips, those hot/cold eyes."

"Who the bloody hell are you!"

The man's eyebrows went up and he looked at me, flabbergasted. "You do not recognize Domingo?"

"No. Who is he?"

"Why, he's the famous Cuban painter. He specializes in the portraits of beautiful woman."

My wry smile couldn't be hidden. "And these women, they have clothes on?"

"Of course not. Everyone knows that the true _artiste_ does not paint clothing. It is the body which is beautiful. Like yours. You have modeled before, surely."

"I have not."

"Oh, but it is a marvelous thing. Imagine, yourself on a stage, naked, like the day you were born, except, obviously, ha ha, more mature. You can feel the cool air all over your body. And while you sit quietly, Domingo, he paints. He paints and he paints. He paints all night long. And in the morning, you have a beautiful, exquisite portrait."

During this speech the little man kept hopping about on the chair, fidgeting as though he couldn't bear to remain still for more than an eyeblink. It flustered me.

"If you are such a good _artiste_," I challenged, "then you should be able to paint me nude while I am still dressed."

"Or vice versa," he murmured, winking boldly. "Ah, but it is so much more interesting, ha ha, for both the model and for the artist. You do not wish it to be boring, do you? For you, it is exciting, doing this thing. It is naughty, it is _forbidden_. Ah, yes. I see in your eyes. The little shiver goes through your body when I say those things. You are a good girl, very proper. You never think of taking your clothes off for a strange man. That is good. That is what I want. Come back to my studio, right now. We do this quick, before you change your mind."

My mouth was dry, my heart throbbing so loudly it frightened me. Without thinking I took the man's stretched-out hand and found myself walking up the street with him. The whole way I stared crazily at everyone we passed, blushing pink and wondering if it was as obvious to them as it was to me how naughty I was about to be. Could they see I was walking with a strange man I'd just met, heading for his place where I would disrobe so he could make me a permanent part of history? I shuddered and tried to concentrate on performing simple things like breathing and walking.

Suddenly we were there. It was a small attic apartment in a dingy gray industrial building. Domingo, still calmly holding my hand, led me inside. He was chatting as we walked. I realized with surprise that he'd been talking since we left the cafe, but I hadn't heard a word he said.

"Then she left me, too," he was saying as he mounted the narrow, awkward stairs. I was in front of him, and twice when I hesitated he pushed encouragingly on my bum. "They all leave me eventually," he said. "You know Candy Morgan? Well, she modeled for me for four months. Yes, that's right. For four months. Then that London rag called and she was off to strip for a _photographer_. Not an _artiste_ but a bloody photographer!"

Domingo spat loudly. We'd reached a petite landing and he was pulling a large set of keys from his pocket. They jangled loudly as he fished to find the correct one. The first two he picked didn't work and he cursed and muttered until finally one opened the door.

"Why do you have so many keys?"

He shrugged. "It's a habit. I pick up all any keys I find. I have them all here."

I stared at him, bewildered, as he pushed passed me and into the room. The room was huge, much bigger than I would have thought, and seeing it sent delightful thrills of astonishment through me. It was like a child's playroom. Everywhere there was color and light and fascinating gadgets and toys.

To my left was a large skylight, propped open with a stick of wood. Fresh sweet air blew in and fluttered papers everywhere. Beneath the skylight was an open area, deserted except for a small white sofa. Behind this was a mammoth cloth drape hanging from the ceiling. It was shaped in a half-circle around the chair, which I suddenly realized was actually a small wooden stage perhaps a foot and a half off the floor.

Beyond the stage, and surrounding everything, were paintings. The walls themselves were bizarre murals. I saw a gorgeous starscape filled with giant spaceships shaped like naked women. Another one consisted of dark, frightening colors of no discernable pattern. The one next to it was bright and friendly and the contrast was startling. Along one wall was a mural of a home's interior -- wallpaper, bookcase, table and chairs -- that incorporated a real window so seemlessly into the picture that for a moment I thought the window was painted and marveled at the realistic white puffy clouds. It was the bird flirting passed that gave it away.

There was a gory mural back in one corner, a grim figure holding the severed head of a giant woman by her long blond hair, and while initially repulsed, there were two things about it that intrigued me. One was the amazing use of blood-red paint. It dripped from the jagged neck so realistically it was eerie, and more startling, the blood flooded down the wall and oozed out across the floor. It gleamed so freshly I felt if I stepped in it my feet would come away red. Most unusual, however, was the face of the severed head. The woman was beautiful, breathtakingly so, yet she was cheerful and laughing, a bold twinkle in her eyes, the left one half-closed in a perky wink. She seemed so delighted by her decapitated state that I found the painting mesmerizing.

Somehow I tore my eyes away and took in the rest of the fantastic room. Everywhere were paints and colors and half-finished or discarded paintings. Bizarre mobiles of wood and paper and bits of wire dangled from the ceiling, swaying slightly in the breeze. The floor was littered with careless splashes of paint and crumbled sketches and broken pieces of pottery and twisted bits of metal. I was afraid to walk lest I damage something, but the room gave me such a sense of intoxicating freedom I couldn't help but wander, my eyes drinking greedily everything I could. Many things were hidden behind large canvases and wooden screens. I could spend a week in here and not see everything. There was much too much -- I couldn't begin to describe everything I saw. The room was a living work of art. There was something eclectic about its contents. It reminded me of a little boy's pockets -- when asked to empty them the most bizarre, unrelated, and potentially useless items are presented, all with the gleaming delight of a child.

Domingo stood beaming at me, his face shining, his head darting about the room with short, jerky movements like a sparrow. "You like it?" he cried eagerly, clapping and rubbing his hands. "Here, I am at home. This is my place. I am comfortable among my friends." As he said this he gently caressed and kissed a large portrait of a nude woman on all fours, a half-dozen heavy breasts dangling from her midriff. A part of me was initially offended by this sexually exaggerated picture, but then I noticed a dozen tiny naked men dancing below the women, huge purple cocks erect and pulsing. They were reaching upward eagerly for the woman's dangling nipples which were just out of reach. When I approached the painting, I saw an amazing amount of detail in the men's faces -- faces of utter despair and agony as their lust was left unsatisfied.

"Incredible," I said, shaking my head.

"Of course," he said. "It is a Domingo." He pointed proudly to the stylized "D" tattooed on the woman's thigh. (This was something of Domingo I especially liked -- his signature was never added as an afterthought, but was always incorporated as part of the art.)

"You have real talent. Why are you here? Shouldn't you be in London or Paris or New York?"

"Bah!" Domingo cried, spitting onto the floor. "I am *Domingo*. Why should I paint like other artists, live like others? I like it here. Here I can be alone, be anonymous, be still. Here I have my lovely models, so innocent and wonderous."

His hand reached out to touch my cheek and I hesitated, but he simply shifted my face to study my profile at a different angle.

"Ah, beautiful," he said. "It makes my heart ache."

"They have models in London," I said, trying to distract him. When he looked at me that way something caught in my throat and I felt a burning all over my skin.

"Ah, no. They have _bodies_ in London. Women who know how to pose, they are useless to me. I must have virgins, innocent girls who know nothing. You, you can be yourself. That is what I want. A model, a professional model, she cannot. She is a figment of her own imagination."

"You aren't Cuban, are you," I said suddenly.

Domingo laughed. "Of course not. But I look it, no? It is good, this act. Domingo, the Cuban painter. Yes, it is good. It doubles the value of my work."

"How much do these go for," I murmured, wandering and admiring.

"It depends. That one, by your hand, I have recently sold to a collector in New York. He paid me 18,000 pounds. But I like it so much I am reluctant to send it to him."

I stared at Domingo in astonishment. "Eighteen thousand! But that's amazing. You must be bloody wealthy."

"What, I don't look like I'm a millionaire?" He grinned. "I own only what you see in this room. Everything else, it is invested. My agent, he buys paintings for me. They are stored in museums, galleries, all over the world. I shall never sell them. One day I will bring them all together as my collection. It shall be one of the best in the world."

"Would your painting of me be in a museum?" I asked thoughtfully.

"Perhaps. If it is half as good as I envision it will be, I don't doubt it."

A thrill ran through me. Imagine, me, being admired and, well, lusted after, by thousands, no millions, of people. I turned and looked at the stage expectantly. "Is that--"

"Yes. You may get undressed now."

"You mean, here? Isn't there, uh, a changing room or something."

Domingo laughed, a bold, free laugh of delight. "Of course not. That is a foolish thing. I see many painters use silly screens to protect the 'modesty' of their models. And people say I am crazy." He bent his head and looked at me sharply with the tops of his eyes. "You have no modesty, I can tell."

Once again a shiver passed through me. I licked my lips and wondered what I was getting in to. Perhaps I should run away. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was nearly three o'clock. I had a class in a few minutes. Missing it would earn me stiff punishment from Heidi. My bottom tingled. It knew before I did that the temptation of naughtiness had already won.

I began to remove my shoes.

"Wait!" commanded Domingo. "I must be ready. Go onto the stage. I must watch you undress."

Stepping onto the little stage, I waited while Domingo gathered his paints and a fresh canvas. He rummaged like a madman, darting about and pulling up a brush here, a piece of cloth there, a stand here. Finally ready, he nodded to me. "Go ahead," he said.

Nervously, I kicked off my shoes. Then, turning away from him, I pulled my thick sweater over my head. I wore no bra and was naked underneath. As my hair settled back in place I glanced shyly back over my shoulder at Domingo. My eyes went wide. He was naked, his wiry, dark body perched impatiently on the edge of a wooden stool. In one hand he held a charcoal pencil, ready to sketch me. In the other was his cock, limp but slowly rising. I stared at him in disbelief.

"Go on," he murmured, his voice soft and soothing. For some reason I obeyed, tossing aside my sweater.

My jeans slid to the floor, my white cotton knickers and knee socks my only adornment.

"Lovely," said Domingo. "Keep the socks. Lose the shorts. But _slowly_."

Turning half away from him, I began to lower my panties. It was one of the most erotic moments of my life. I could see Domingo openly masturbating to my tease and it thrilled me. His lack of shame confused me utterly. My own face was hot with guilt and as I wiggled out of my panties, my bare bum cheeks facing the crazy painter, I felt a surge of incredible power pass through me. I was flushed and my body seemed on fire. My nipples were so erect and stiff they ached. My bottom longed for the sweet caress of a stinging cane. It had been two days since my last strapping, and nearly a week since Heidi and Steve had thrashed me. The sticky crotch of my panties was damp and I had to work to get it free from my body. I knew Domingo would not fail to notice such a detail and blushed furiously.

Boldly turning to face him, I let my panties drop to my ankles. I stood for a few seconds, open and exposed. He was excited, his face flushed and his cock huge, especially on such a little man. His hand pumped wildly, eagerly, and he gripped the pencil so tightly his fingers went white.

Then I carefully stepped out of my panties, catching them with the toe of my right foot, and I flicked them at Domingo. He was watching, entranced. He released his cock for a few seconds to catch the gift, promptly wrapping his cock around the moistened center and spewing mightily.

Amused and horrified, I stretched myself out on the small sofa. It was soft and comfortable and I wondered how many naked women had lain across it. I felt a sense of comraderie with them, those strangers I'd never even met or seen. We were together in this. I was part of them. We were all bad girls who deserved to be soundly spanked and sent to bed without supper.

"How do you want me," I whispered.

"I want you," answered Domingo, "anyway you want to be wanted. Just relax and be yourself."

He was now drawing as furiously as he had been pumping on his cock a few seconds earlier.

Sighing, I rolled around on the couch trying to find a comfortable position. My favorite, naturally, was lying on my belly, propped up my elbows, my breasts shyly hidden by my arms, but my bum naked and vulnerable. I bent my legs at the knees and kicked a little, loving the gyrations of my bottom this action caused.

"Beautiful," breathed Domingo. "That's it! Don't move an inch!"

Forty-five long minutes later my body ached. My neck hurt, my elbows throbbed, and legs were tired. I shifted slightly, but Domingo snapped at me. "Don't move!"

My sex, initially wet and horny, was now desert dry. Even my nipples were no longer pert. This was boring, exhausting, work. Domingo was a dynamo, scratching away at his canvas non-stop, nearly frantic in his violent energy.

"I'm tired, Domingo," I said. "Can't I get up, just for a few minutes?"

"No!" he shouted. "It will ruin the mood. Now shut up and be still."

I frowned, grumpily, and swore at him. "It's not bloody fair," I mumbled. "You said this would be sexy."

"Shut up, you fucking bitch!" growled the artist. He said this in such a casual, off-hand way it nearly felt like it wasn't directed at me. He was concentrating on his work, ignoring me entirely. I was not even there.

An hour slowly passed, then another. Every fidget drew a scolding from Domingo, every wiggle a harsh reprimand. I was growing angry and annoyed, and very tired of the whole mess. Domingo still worked tirelessly, mixing paints and whirling away behind his large canvas. He hummed and clicked his tongue as he worked.

"I'm thirsty," I moaned. "We've been at this forever."

"Be quiet."

"I need to go to the bathroom, too. If you don't let me I shall go on this couch."

"Shut up!" Domingo screamed, furious. "I cannot concentrate if you babble so."

I snapped my mouth shut, glaring at him. I wanted to slap him, the little arrogant bastard. How dare he talk to me that way! Instead I relaxed and tried to look sullen.

"Your face -- you have changed your expression again. You cannot do that. It changes everything. The body relects the face, you know. If the face is sad the body is sad. Your body is sad."

"That's because I'm fucking pissed off!" I roared, deliberately turning my head away from him.

"That's it!" cried Domingo. "If you will not behave I shall thrash you until you do!"

I turned back, my heart thumping crazily in my chest. Domingo reached up and snatched a white cane off a hook on the cement column behind him. The end of the cane was painted red, like blood. At least I thought it was paint. My belly flipflopped. My sex steamed and came back to life with a vengeance.

Lying naked on a sofa facing a man with a cane should have made me less stupid, but I can never resist taunting a man with a cane.

"Perhaps I shan't behave until you do," I retorted, regretting it the instant I said it.

Lust gleaming in his eyes, Domingo approached. The cane was high, very high, and he gripped it with two hands. It whistled down. There was a terrific CRACK! and I felt pressure against my backside.

Suddenly it flooded through me: pure, raw pain. It was fire, burning agony across the sensitive summits of my buttocks. I closed my eyes as the sharp tears stung them and sighed deeply, wiggling to let the pain seep down to my crotch.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! came the cane. The force was astonishing, terrifying. I gasped and gritted my teeth. Moisture leaked from my eyes. Between my legs my sex was going crazy, spurting and drying up and then growing hotter than ever.

"Will you be still?" asked Domingo.

"Never," I answered, and suffered the inevitable result.

As the painful red haze faded, the room still echoing with the cracks, I heard him repeat the question. "Not much," I mumbled.

More pain. Followed by more pain, this across the backs of my legs. He was striping me good, this one. "Please!" I howled. "I need to pee!"

My answer was another sharp cut to the top of my arse, the intense bite overwhelming me. I lost all control then, whimpering and releasing urine onto the sofa. Domingo watched me silently, the hot liquid coursing down my thighs. I wet in shame and embarrassment. He laughed.

"I shall punish you for that," he whispered softly, leaning close to my face. "But now, we shall continue your painting, no?"

His lips brushed mine briefly and then he kissed my forehead. I moaned, wincing as I wiggled. "Please," I gasped, my sex aching with desire.

"When I am done," he whispered, his eyes telling me he understood exactly what I wanted. "When I am done, if you are a good girl."

Oh, I'd be a good girl, a very good girl. I wouldn't move a muscle! I lay quietly while he painted, humming and clicking and occassionally stepping from behind the canvas to masturbate, his eyes drinking me in as his hand fondled his thick cock. I wanted that cock. I wanted it more than anything I'd ever wanted in my life. I wanted in my mouth, in my pussy, in my butt. I didn't care where, as long as it was inside, thick, heavy, and hard, painfully hard. I ached and longed and lusted, and finally, with a burst of white semen, Domingo sighed. He wiped off his cock with my discarded panties and told me to get up. "It is finished."

Stiffly, I rose. My body hurt all over. I eyed Domingo's still slippery cock as I approached him. My buttocks throbbed as I walked. He had thrashed me well, but I felt a sharp quiver of desire thinking of his promise to punish me further for peeing on his sofa.

Then I saw the painting. It was magnificent. It was me, no question of that, but a much more beautiful version of me than I see in the mirror. Domingo had enhanced me, captured an elusive expression of wonder and fear on my face, and a pose of extreme comfort combined with lustful eroticism. I was a naughty virgin, naked, with one hand between my legs, my face bursting with secrets. Most astonishing of all, however, were the bloody stripes across my arse. My hand went to my backside, feeling the thick welts, and I imagined I must look much like painting. The weals looked so lifelike it was almost as if they throbbed while you looked at them. Perhaps I was confusing my own feelings with what I saw on the canvas, but I was deeply moved.

"My God, Domingo, you can't seriously expect to sell this!"

"Why not?"

"It's -- it's indecent," I said. "You've got me fucking myself after I've obviously been beaten!"

"Yes," said Domingo, licking his lips impassionately. "I think this will sell for much more than eighteen thousand pounds."

"You're a monster."

"Of course."

"A greedy bastard."

"A _lustful_ bastard," he corrected gently. "Now, don't you think it's time I fucked you properly?"

"Why not?" I answered. "You've already screwed me once."

More to come next week!

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