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  The Painter

  Courage Knight

  © 2010 © 2007 by Blushing Books and Courage Knight

  The Painter

  © 2010 © 2007 Courage Knight Blushing Books

  Originally published by Blushing Books on Spanking Romance (www.spankingromance.com) on June 19, 2007.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Blushing BooksÒ, a subsidiary of

  ABCD Graphics and Design

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  Charlottesville, VA 22901

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  The Painter

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-60968-069-5

  Cover Design: ABCD Graphics Design

  Blushing Books thanks you whole-heartedly for your purchase with us!

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  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

  Chapter One

  Shannon checked her lipstick in the compact mirror, worrying that she should have gone with the Lush Red instead of Sugar Pink. Pink suited her complexion better, but made her look like jailbait. Even twirling her long whiskey colored hair into a sophisticated twist did little to make her seem like the college sophomore she was supposed to be. She smoothed a nervous hand down the satiny tank and too-short skirt, and swallowed the nausea rising in her throat. She had to convince him she was perfect! Something her fire-and-brimstone father would never see.

  The bus jerked to the curb, its doors spitting open with a rusty grind. Shannon dove through the mass of sweaty bodies with barely a second to spare before the bus lurched back into traffic. She checked the address again. It was hard to believe a world-famous artist would chose to live in such a dumpy neighborhood. Maybe those girls in the bar had known she was eavesdropping - maybe they had purposefully fed her the wrong information? Tears threatened to ruin her makeup. She dabbed carefully at her nose with a tissue.

  Just put one foot in front of the other. She would follow this cruel prank to its bitter conclusion, and if she didn't get the job - the job those two models in the bar had intended applying for - well then, maybe she'd have to swallow her pride and ask where the nearest soup kitchen was. Models were supposed to be thin, but not faint from hunger. Shannon mustered up a smile, flashing her perfect white teeth - the minor orthodontia she'd had to pay for herself because her father felt if God had wanted her teeth straight, He'd have made them that way.

  102 Breezy Way was a three-story corner building with a sports bar at ground level and apartments above. Shannon located Mr. Peyton's buzzer and pressed it firmly. The inner door clicked to let her enter. Nice security, but no elevator, which only reinforced her opinion of a less than savory neighborhood. And he would have to be on the top floor! Her stomach growled embarrassingly. She dug the last breath mint from the tight hip pocket and popped it in her mouth. She laved it with her tongue almost sensually, hoping the pitiful flavor of her saliva would quiet the hunger just a little longer. Then she scurried up the stairs before the last of her courage failed her. She reached out to knock on his door, but it opened quickly and her hand was inches away from pounding on his chest. Shannon let out a startled gasp.

  His chest was partially bared, a paint-spattered work shirt hung unbuttoned over broad shoulders and strong arms. "You're early," he barked. His voice was deep and rich, like the lead baritone back in college. She'd had a crush on the baritone her entire freshman year, until she saw that his tastes ran more for tenors than sopranos.

  Before she had a chance to apologize, he barked again. "Well, let's get started. Drop your things on the bench and stand over there."

  Could it be that easy? Did that mean she had the job? An artist's model for the next six weeks? Oh boy! Maybe she could eat three meals a day again - and find a better place to sleep than on a bus. Shannon tossed her tiny purse on the bench and concentrated on moving gracefully to the designated spot in the center of his living room. Large photographer's lamps were positioned around the spot to cast lights and shadows on her. Already she felt their heat. Her smile was genuine as she imagined feeling truly warm on the inside for the first time in weeks.

  Kerrick Peyton squirted thick blobs of paint on his palette, not even bothering to screw the caps back on the tubes. His dark hair was tied back carelessly, paint smeared his forearms where his shirt sleeves were rolled up. He placed a large blank canvas on a grubby easel, then glared at her.

  "Well?" he demanded.

  She was clueless. "What, Mr. Peyton? How would you like me to stand?"

  "Naked!" he barked. "Drop your clothes, and let’s get to work!"

  Shannon gulped, fear turning her stomach sour. Guys had often wanted to see her naked, but they'd never been so artless about it! "N-naked?" she stammered.

  Kerrick tossed a fistful of brushes on the tray next to his easel. Some rolled to the floor, splattering paint on a scrap of canvas protecting the living room carpet. Then he marched towards her, his expression as dark as a summer storm. She flinched when his hand swung out, but he didn't hit her. He caught her chin with his fingers and turned her face in the light.

  "The agency sent you?" he snapped. Didn't the guy know how to talk in a normal voice? She felt a silly giggle bubble up to cover her fear. All she managed to do was nod, hoping that the sin of nodding wasn't quite as bad as actually voicing the lie.

  "And this is their idea of someone 'older'? God, I'd hate to see what their other models look like."

  "You wanted an older model?" her voice squeaked, tears filling her vision.

  "Yes! Mature - I paint nudes, but I won't be accused of kiddie porn. What are you, seventeen?"

  The insult strengthened her, banishing her fears. He was an artist, he painted nudes. It wasn't like he was propositioning her or anything. She slipped the first button loose and started on the second.

  "I'm nineteen," she said firmly. "And a half. I'll be twenty next summer."

  His lips quirked in a half smile, briefly showing white teeth in a ruggedly handsome face with a boyish dimple in his left cheek. But then the expression was gone, and his intense stare returned. "Fine, then. Strip. Stand. And don't move!"

  He grabbed up his brushes, tucked two of them in his mouth and swirled the largest one in a mound of muddy brown and swashed it across the barren canvas. She'd never watched an artist work before. His passion, his intensity, it was all very exciting.

  "Now!" he shouted.

  Shannon peeled off her top and skirt before her conscience kicked into overdrive. Then her bra, shoes, and stockings. Then finally, her pink satin panties. Goosebumps popped out on her flesh, making her feel clumsy and boorish. Covering her private parts with small hands, she stepped into the circle of lights.

  Kerrick wasn't even looking at her. He slapped the muddy brown paint over the outer edges of the canvas, leaving the center blank. Shannon relaxed a little, as she studied him.

  He was older than she was, but not nearly as old as she had imagined. She'd never heard of him before yesterday, but had asked about him. She'd have looked him up on the internet - if she'd had access to a computer. The library wouldn't issue her a library card without an in-state license, and sh
e couldn't apply for one until she had twenty-five dollars and an address a little more respectable than the bus station. But word had it that he was world-famous, that his paintings were sold all over for tens of thousands of dollars. He didn't allow his work to be printed, so each painting was a one-of-a-kind original. She'd heard that he was obsessive, rude, and stubborn, but she hadn't heard that he was also the most amazingly attractive man she had ever seen before, either in real life or on television.

  His black hair had a shine that reflected blue highlights, wild with untamed curls. He had a small gold earring in his left ear lobe that conjured up images of a pirate king with an evil laugh brandishing bloodied sword. A fine sheen of perspiration dotted his forehead, which he wiped away with a paint-smeared forearm. The dollop of paint now covered his forehead, right between thick, black eyebrows. The only gentle feature about him was his eyes. They were pale blue, alarming in such a dark face, and framed with the longest, blackest eyelashes she'd ever seen on a man. She caught her lower lip with her teeth, and prayed that he wouldn't see how much he affected her. Her taut nipples were more from the cold than desire. Although, the lights had warmed her enough that the goosebumps were gone.

  Kerrick snapped something at her, but she didn't understand his words around the brushes still between his teeth. He grunted impatiently, then tugged them out and stuffed them in a jar of turpentine.

  "What do you like to do?" he repeated.

  "Um. Like now? I'm a model. I like modeling," she stammered, hoping that lying would come easier with practice.

  His half smile made another brief appearance and was accompanied by a single grunt. "No. I mean, tell me about yourself. What's your name? What do you do when you aren't modeling?"

  "Why do you want to know?" She cleared her voice, her hands once again slipping down to cover her modesty. She shook her head and clasped her hands behind her back. That motion made her breasts poke out and her nipples fairly beg to be kissed. She crossed her arms in front of her, but that wasn't much better. Finally, she dropped her arms to her side. She had thought that he would pose her the way he wanted her. She was no artist! How could she figure out an artistic pose?

  "I don't really give a damn," Kerrick snorted. "But I've found that small talk helps to relieve the model's initial reticence. I don't care if you tell me about yourself or read names from a phone book. But I want to find a natural pose, something that you can hold for hours on end, something that will tell the world who you really are. I don't just paint nudes - I paint women. Women doing what they do, just without clothes. So, talk."

  "Well, I, um," she started. His eyebrows knotted together. He was clearly displeased. She'd better get to it quick before he fired her.

  "My name is Shamika," she lied, shaking her shoulders and striking a proud stance. Shamika sounded more like a model's name than her own boring Shannon Michaels. "Shamika Picard. I've only been with the agency for a little while, but I learn fast. I'm nearly twenty-"

  "We established that already," he grunted. It wasn't quite a bark like before, but he wasn't entirely happy yet.

  "And a little while ago I had a fortune cookie warn me that when life gives me honey, beware of bee stings. Or something like that. So I figured it meant I should move away from home, where our neighbors raise swarms of bees, and try my luck in the Windy City."

  "Ah, a farm girl."

  "No! My father is NOT a farmer," she said indignantly. "He sells insurance. The animals are all my mom's idea of fun."

  "What kinds of animals?"

  "Llamas, mostly. A couple of sheep. Some dogs. A lazy cat. And a damn milk cow."

  Kerrick laughed. The sound was so startling that Shannon couldn't keep from laughing a little herself. Here she'd wanted to appear the glamorous model, and in a few short minutes, he'd wrenched the dark truth from her. Shannon was a hick.

  "Milking a cow nude. Now that's one I've never tried," he said, stroking his chin with a painted finger. Only the impish dimple belied his serious expression. He was teasing her. He couldn't be about to fire her if he could tease her. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves.

  "What else? Where is this female-run animal menagerie located?"

  He touched her shoulders, turning her slightly to the side. His fingers were warm, and the slight contact sent delightful shivers down her naked spine. Shannon bit her lip, praying he wouldn't notice the flush of desire on her cheeks. She didn't know why he did this to her. She'd never felt that way for a boy before.

  And that was the problem. Back in college she'd only met boys. Kerrick was raw male sensuality wrapped up in the attractive package of a wealthy bachelor. She was an idiot.

  He caught her chin again and tipped it towards the light with a slightly downward cast, and shook his head. "Well, maybe I can try to make you look older on canvas." Then he caught the pins holding her hair up and tugged them free. The forty-five minutes she'd spent in the public restroom with a two-dollar package of bobby pins was wasted, as he tugged his grubby fingers through her long hair, splaying it over a shoulder. One lock curled down over her breast, but curled just short of shielding her nipple from his scrutiny.

  "Are you cold?" he asked, reaching to turn up the thermostat. "You'll have to excuse me. I work up a sweat when I paint, so I keep it set pretty low. Still, I want to capture your innocent sensuality, not your goosebumps."

  Shannon gulped, praying the 'just cold' theory would hold. She conjured up an image of her father - guaranteed to drive all passionate thoughts away as he shouted some Bible verse at her, warning her of the dire outcomes of whatever frivolous idea had popped into her head. One time she had asked if she could get her ears pierced. Another time she'd wanted to go to see an R-rated matinee with a girlfriend. Both brought on an hour of lecturing, and being grounded to her bedroom for a week, while copying down pages and pages of Bible verses that reinforced his low opinion of her. She was a wicked daughter. And she would never make him proud.

  Heat blew from the floor vent, strong enough to flutter the drapes. The smells of turpentine, fresh paint and sweat were almost overpowering. She shook herself again, only to hear him yell at her to stand still. Tears welled up. Her nose stung, her eyes felt puffy. She was going to ruin her makeup after all. She wasn't much of a model, or an actor either. She couldn't do this. She couldn't pretend to know what she was doing. And she was so hungry, if she didn't eat something soon, she was going to throw up. Again. The last time the spasms had been painful, even though there was nothing inside her to come up.

  "Shamika, what is it?" His voice sounded very far away. The room canted awkwardly. She reached out for something to steady herself, but the flimsy light toppled to the floor. Then Shannon destroyed any hope of keeping the job as hunger, fear and exhaustion overwhelmed her and she passed out.

  "Bloody fools." Kerrick tossed his brushes in the turpentine, grabbing an oily rag to wipe his hands. Then he knelt beside the girl and felt for a pulse. It was there, if a little rapid. He patted her cheek and called to her. "Shamika, wake up. Come on, that's a girl. Let's get some food in you, then you can call a cab."

  Her eyes fluttered. She gasped, then a delightful blush colored her face. "Oh my gosh, I'm sorry. I don't know what happened," she lied.

  Yeah, right. Skinny model, rumbling stomach, and an inability to tell the truth. He didn't know why eating disorders followed models the way groupies followed rock stars, but frankly, he was sick of it. He didn't like skinny women. He liked to paint their curves and folds. He didn't mind a little muscle tone on them, but women should look like women, not Arnold Schwartzenegger

  He helped her to sit, then steadied her before letting her stand. He grabbed a throw off the back of the couch and draped it around her shoulders, which were shaking a little. He guided her to the kitchen and set her at the table, then started pulling things out of the fridge. Left-over pizza, left-over Chinese, bread, peanut butter, a zippy bag with baby carrots, and a half-gallon of milk. He sniffed the milk, then tossed it in the
sink. She'd have to drink juice.

  The girl just stared at him, tugging the crocheted throw tighter around her shoulders. It was kind of charming, as the crochets were quite large and it did little to cover her nudity. Maybe he'd paint her like that? No... he wouldn't honor her stupidity. He'd have to call the agency to send a different model, one who didn't have serious hang-ups about her weight.

  "I'm really sorry, Mr. Peyton," she blurted, fresh tears hovering at the edges of her mascara. "I don't know what happened. I am so embarrassed. But I can do this, really. Please don't fire me?"

  "Eat something, then we'll talk," he grunted. She was getting to him. Another lost waif. He wouldn't have it. Not again.

  "Well, if you insist," she murmured. Then she helped herself to the cold pizza and practically inhaled it. So maybe she was bulimic. She guzzled two glasses of juice and the rest of the moo-shoo pork before he grabbed up the left-overs and put them out of her reach.

  "You shouldn't eat too much when your stomach is queasy. You want to keep it down," he warned.

  Too late. She was looking green around the gills already. He grabbed her and half dragged her off to the bathroom, shoving her inside and slamming the door. He shook his head as he heard the unmistakable sounds of his intended dinner being dumped into the toilet.

  The door buzzed again. Kerrick wasn't expecting anyone, so he hit the intercom first. "Who is it?"

  "Tamera Bankstead, from the Modeling Agency."

  Another model? Had they known he wouldn't approve of the first girl? The girl who had come early? Or maybe they hadn't sent her at all? Kerrick felt a slow burn. He buzzed the model up.

  It took her long enough to climb the stairs, and she wasn't quite able to mask her annoyance. She tossed her tawny hair over a bony shoulder and gave him a plastic smile. "Good afternoon, Mr. Peyton. I'm honored to meet you."