The Painter Page 2

  He didn't understand it. She was exactly the type of woman he usually painted. Exactly what he'd told the agency he wanted. Twenty-five, medium height, long legs, some muscle tone, not too thin. She had the confidence of an experienced model, and would undoubtedly be able to hold a pose as long as he needed her to. But for some odd reason, his inner muse kept picturing the bulimic little liar in his bathroom. She'd ruined the day for him. He'd have to send this one away, and do whatever it took to get Shamika out of his system.

  "I'm sorry to have wasted your time, Tamera. But it seems I won't be needing you today after all. I'll pay you for your inconvenience." He dug a couple of twenties out of his wallet and tucked them in her outstretched hand. "May I call you a cab?"

  "Yes. Do," she snipped.

  She would have made a shallow painting. Maybe that was part of his problem. His work was still selling, but he wasn't proud of it any more. Maybe the women he hired to model for him weren't revealing their inner spirit, so he couldn't paint it. Maybe he should find a model and use her over and over, although then he'd run the risk of her becoming emotionally attached, and he would hurt her when it was time to move on. Well, that wasn't his responsibility.

  "I'll wait downstairs," she said, after he hung up the phone.

  "Tamera, I'm sorry," he said again, softening his tone to make it sound like he truly was. "Thank you for coming."

  She shrugged, flashing him a brief smile. "Another time, perhaps."

  Kerrick locked the door behind her, and turned off the volume on the buzzer. He wouldn't tolerate any more interruptions. The urge to paint was fleeting, it might last only an hour or two, or a week or two, but then it would fade, and experience had taught him that any attempt to pick up a brush without his muse was only time wasted.

  The bathroom door opened, and the little liar stepped out. Her head was lowered, the ridiculous throw still wrapped around her shoulders, ending just above a nicely rounded bottom. Hm... girls with eating disorders didn't usually have any curves. He studied her thigh, noting that it was shapely as well. Her cheeks were full, a hint of baby fat about them. Perhaps the girl really was just hungry?

  That didn’t sit well with him at all. The agency hadn't sent her. Somehow she'd heard that they would be sending him a model, though, and she'd come early, hoping to get the job. Was she desperate? Perhaps she was a runaway? Hick farm girl lost in the big city?

  An image was starting to form in his mind. He was close to discovering his next painting.

  "I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Peyton," she murmured.

  "Kerrick."

  She nodded, risking a quick glance at him. Her eyes were wide and fearful. She should be afraid! She'd lied to him, and she'd tried to cheat another model out of a job. And if he guessed right, she'd lied to her parents and hurt them, as well. His hand itched to land on that rounded bottom to teach her a thing or two.

  She removed the throw and folded it carefully, then walked back to the lights. "I'm ready now, sir. Kerrick."

  He perched on the arm of the couch, his gaze focused on her bottom. She wasn't really sorry, not yet, anyway. But if he could get her to that state, that was how he would paint her. The Penitent. That might even be the title he gave this piece.

  "Just a moment, now," he said sternly.

  "Oh! Please don't send me away, Kerrick. Sir. I can do this! I just, I don't know what came over me, but I'm fine now. Really!"

  "You signed my contract at the agency?" He didn't really have a contract, but if she agreed, then he would know for certain that she wasn't who she claimed to be.

  Her lying head nodded vigorously.

  "Good. Then you read the clause permitting me to chastise you as I see fit. You've wasted valuable time, something I cannot ignore. So I am going to spank you, and stand you in the corner. And then we will see about whether I paint you or not."

  Her eyes widened and her mouth opened in a gasp. "You can't! Spank me? I'm, I'm twenty years old!"

  "Not yet you aren't. Not until next summer. And there's one thing I cannot tolerate, Shamika, and that's a lie. But I will leave you the choice. Accept your punishment as you deserve, or you may leave. But if you go, I never want to see you again."

  She gulped, her hands creeping around to cover her bottom. Her shoulders curved inward, causing her full breasts to drop. Her nipples were still tightly puckered, although she couldn't possibly be cold. Kerrick clenched his fists, wishing the damned girl would make up her mind.

  "Alright, Mr. Peyton. You may... do that. If you must."

  Chapter Two

  Kerrick moved to the center of the couch, then motioned her to approach. She took tiny steps, her head still lowered. She glanced at him once, her lower lip caught in her teeth in a charming, childlike expression. He was glad that he'd checked her out-of-state drivers license while she was still in the bathroom to confirm that she really wasn't a minor. She hadn't lied about that, at least, although even her name was a lie.

  "Please don't spank me," she whispered.

  "Wrong. If you want this job, you will rephrase that. You will ask me to spank you. Hard. You are responsible for your actions, and until you accept the consequences, I'm not sure we can work together."

  "But I need this job!"

  He kept his gaze hard, although part of him wanted to pull her into his arms and hug her. He didn't understand his attraction to her. He'd been painting nudes since high school, hiding in his uncle's garage and paying cheerleaders to pose for him. He seldom slept with his models, and he never allowed himself to care for them. But this little sub-adult was dangerously close to making him break all the rules.

  She gulped, clasping her hands in front of her. "I'm sorry, Mr. Peyton."

  "Kerrick."

  "I'm sorry, Kerrick. I'm sorry I wasted your time. Please spank me. Hard. Just please don't fire me."

  He took her hand and guided her over his knee. She was a petite little thing, barely over five feet tall. How had he not noticed that before? He brushed her long hair off her back, exposing the delicate indent that ran down her spine and ended in two dimples just above her rump. He laid his hand over her bottom.

  "I demand professionalism from my models," he said. "This is difficult work. If an occasional spanking now and then can help me to get the results I need, then it is well worth the fee I pay you. I won't tolerate lying, either. I'm going to spank you long and hard. You might cry, you might kick, or try to wiggle free. But this spanking is not over until I say it is. Then you will stand in the corner while I consider your future here. Do you understand?"

  She nodded.

  "I need to hear you say it."

  "Yes, Kerrick. I understand. Please spank me. Hard." Her voice broke, and she sniffed. Was she crying already? That could make it difficult to tell when she'd had enough. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. If she found out there was no contract, well, she could press charges. But then, she was here under false pretenses. Kerrick had as much right as she did.

  Her back arched, presenting her full, rounded bottom. He felt something stir inside, which angered him. The first swat landed with more force than he'd intended.

  "Oh!" she gasped, her hand reaching around to cover her bottom.

  He caught her hand and held it out of the way, then landed three quick swats. . "You asked for this, remember," he growled.

  "Oh! Ow!"

  "Save it, sweetheart. We're just getting started."

  The next twenty minutes were the longest he could ever remember. He spanked her left cheek, the right cheek, the center area, and then the backs of her thighs, over and over and over. His hand was starting to sting, but still he spanked her. She arched her back and wiggled, sobbing her apology, but she never once admitted that she had lied to him about signing the fictitious contract.

  And then something in her broke. She went limp, all the spirit drained from her. She stopped kicking and squirming, but was like potter's clay on his lap. The perfect model. He gave her six more solid whacks, then let her up
. He helped her to the corner, turning her face at a slight angle so he could see it from his easel. He moved the lights to shine on her back, letting her face be part in shadow. He turned her hips slightly, so that one bottom cheek was not directly in the light, but would be the focal point of the painting, all red and blotchy, a hint of a hand print yet visible. Her shoulders were rounded, her breasts heavy, and her chin trembled with each intake of breath. She was the epitome of a repentant young woman.

  "Now, don't move! Not a muscle!"

  She started to nod, so he landed a hard swat to her punished bottom.

  "Yes, sir," she wailed.

  Kerrick grabbed up his brushes, then rinsed the large one in turpentine and wiped it across his denim thigh. Burnt sienna was too dark for this painting. He needed to warm it up with a yellow ochre wash. He liked the dark tones of the renaissance era, a time when fleshy nudes were very popular, but burnt sienna was autumn or winter, and this young thing was springtime. His breath caught as his pulse quickened. His hands shook with excitement. The image of the finished painting was clear to him, he had to get it down quickly before it faded.

  He painted in a fury. Each brush stroke was perfect. Her youthful figure was easy to paint, as if he'd painted it a thousand times. He got her shoulders right the first time - not too broad, not to narrow. He got her little waist and the concave of her still empty belly, and the soft swell below the navel that dipped down to the mound of gold curls over her feminine folds. He got the remorseful tip of her chin, the slight look of guilt and misery on her tearstained face. Then he created the impression of a corner with a few quick strokes, letting it blur into the background. In just one sitting, it was finished!

  He dropped his brushes into the turpentine and stared at it. This painting was the best thing he'd done all year. Maybe longer. But it wasn't over. Not yet! His muse conjured up another image - an entire series of paintings - all on the same theme. The punished young woman. She had the most luscious bottom! He wanted to paint it striped from the cane. Or bent over a cushion, just waiting to be spanked. Or kissed.

  Kerrick jumped to his feet. Enough of that. Maybe he'd better get some clothes on the girl, before another part of his anatomy started to think for him. He glanced at the wall clock, startled at how much time had passed. The poor girl had stood there for three and a half hours, and hadn't moved an inch. Her eyes were closed, but he knew she wasn't sleeping.

  "Okay, Shamika. You can take a rest."

  She blinked, still afraid to move. "Are you done?"

  "For now."

  She put her hands to her bottom then and rubbed, wincing. "I'll just, um. Be going then. It was... it was... meeting you."

  His hands felt sweaty and a strange emotion swept over him. What if she disappeared, and never came back? How could he finish the next painting without her? He tried to imagine Tamera accepting a spanking and then posing with a scarlet bottom, but it just wouldn't work. No, he had to keep this girl with him, at least until he'd finished the series. Besides, she obviously had no place to go.

  "Nonsense," he grumbled. "You'll go nowhere. You stay here, until I've finished with you."

  Her eyes widened, and she looked truly afraid. Kerrick hurried to explain himself.

  "I don't sleep with models," he said, as though it were law. "But I never know when the urge to paint will come over me. It's just easier for you to stay here. You have to be willing to pose for me anytime, anywhere. Always nude. But for that, I will pay you well. Three thousand dollars for six weeks, minimum. And I'll pay your living expenses."

  There, that ought to get her. With that much money saved, maybe she'd go back home when their time was up. At least he'd have six weeks to convince her she should.

  "Are you going to spank me again?"

  He almost laughed. Here she should be afraid of her virtue, and all she could think about was a little chastisement? Something she obviously deserved? "Absolutely," he said, surprising himself. He cleared his throat. "Anytime you ask me to, either by your words or actions."

  She wandered toward the easel and took her first look at his work. He wondered if she would see it, that this painting was by far the best thing he'd ever done. Or maybe she'd never seen his work before. It wasn't something one could find hanging in the local bank or library. Some people were still offended by the naked human body, although he felt that it was the only true thing in the world. People could hide behind pretty clothes, fast cars, and false statements, but when the body was bared, so was the soul.

  "Is that me?" Her voice sounded small.

  "Don't you think it looks like you?"

  "Well, maybe. I mean, is that how you see me? I look so childish."

  "Not childish. But youthful. Impetuous. And in that moment, repentant. Beautiful. A promise of a new day, a new beginning. It is more a painting of hope than penance."

  "Is that how you see it? Punishment as a sign of hope?"

  "Don't you?"

  She shook her head. "Maybe you can teach me."

  He chuckled, needing to lighten the intimacy of the moment. Right now all he wanted was to kiss her swollen bottom, to suckle her full breast, to claim her as his own. Kerrick needed a cold shower.

  "How about some dinner? Think you could keep it down this time?"

  She blushed prettily. "I'm sorry—"

  "No! No more apologies. You said you were sorry. You took your punishment and I forgave you. It is over. Do you prefer Mexican or Italian?"

  "Tacos or spaghetti. Both. I like food. I mean, I like just about everything. Except liver and onions. I'll forever cherish the day Dad's cardiologist told him never to eat liver and onions again. Ew!"

  Kerrick laughed. Shamika made him laugh. She was as fresh as the first breath of spring, and in the art world, those breaths came few and far between. Art was a cut-throat business, as dangerous as drug trafficking and as fickle as a five-year-old's whims. A man had to be insane to try to make a living on canvas. Yet, a true artist would go insane if he didn't. Maybe that was why artists had a reputation for being a little eccentric?

  "How about tacos then? And Margaritas? Oh, wait. You won't be twenty-one for a year and a half. We'd better stick with colas."

  That pretty blush colored her cheeks again. "I'm sure we're the only nation in the world where thirteen year olds can be tried as adults when they commit a crime, sixteen is adult enough to drive a car, eighteen is adult enough to carry a loaded weapon into battle, but God forbid you drink before you're twenty-one!"

  "You have a point. But the law is as the law is. Write to your congressman. And while we're out, let's pick up the rest of your things."

  She grabbed her clothes from the bench and hurried into the bathroom to dress. Kerrick couldn't stop laughing. She'd just stood naked in front of him for nearly four hours, but didn't want to dress with him watching? Women. They fascinated him. They scared him, excited him, and intrigued him. Nothing in the world was more worthy of being immortalized on canvas. He stared at the wet painting long and hard, until Shamika reappeared, in the satin tank and mini skirt, her makeup carefully reapplied. He'd have to let her know that he didn't want her to wear makeup again as long as she lived with him. He wanted to paint the real her, whatever lay buried beneath the foundation and rouge. But for this one night perhaps it gave her confidence.

  Shannon grimaced as she slid into the vinyl booth at the Tex-Mex café. And the oaf had the gall to grin stupidly at her discomfort. Oh! If she didn't need the job so badly, she'd dump his entire cola on his gorgeous hair. With her luck, his hair probably liked cola, and would only shine all the more for it. He ordered nachos and tacos for both of them, then settled back to make small talk. She didn't really learn anything about him that she didn't already know, but somehow she felt less awkward around him.

  He smiled a lot. When they'd first met, she'd thought he was stern, but now she suspected that was just the intensity his work demanded from him. Now he laughed and smiled as naturally as though he hadn't a care in the w
orld. He probably didn't. Not if he made even a fraction as much money as he was rumored to make. If she had money, she'd have no worries either. Well, in six weeks she would have enough to get a fresh start. Three thousand dollars wouldn't pay back the money she took from her dad, but it would pay first and last month's rent on an apartment and buy some groceries. Then maybe she could find a steady job.

  Kerrick didn't own a car, which still seemed odd to her. Everybody she knew drove a car. Jenny's dad gave her a car for her sixteenth birthday. Barb and Diane both got cars for graduation. Shannon's dad said they were just spoiled and she didn't need a car to go to college, but almost every kid on campus had a car. It was a right of passage in the Midwest. The symbol that marked the end of childhood. How could anyone live without a car? Of course, Kerrick lived in big cities, while there were only fifty-two kids in her entire graduation class - and two of those were exchange students from Japan.

  They'd walked to the restaurant, and then they walked a little more afterwards. He wanted her to get the rest of her things, but how could she do that with him watching? How could she let him see that everything she owned was stuffed into a locker in the bus station? Successful models would have penthouse apartments, chauffeurs, and a bank roll.

  "So, where do we go?" he prompted, as though he'd already asked her once and she hadn't been listening.

  "Oh, um. Why don't I just get it later? You must be tired. I don't need anything now."

  "That's okay. I'd like to get you settled. Tomorrow we have a lot of work to do."

  "But—"

  "But, stop stalling. We'll get your things now, or you can have another spanking and then we will get your things. The choice is yours."

  "You won't fire me?" She hated how her voice squeaked. But now that she'd seen the carrot dangling at the end of his stick, she'd do anything to get it.

  "No. Do you need me to put it on paper? I want to paint you again. I love how this lock curls here, just short of offering you any modesty." His finger traced a circle on her breast just above the nipple, right where her hair ended. "I love the little dimples at the base of your spine, and each soft curve of your flesh. I don't want to let you out of my sight, and risk losing the opportunity to paint you again. So, take me to your place now. We'll grab what we can - if you have a lot, I'll pay to have it put in storage. And then let's get back. I want to get an early start in the morning."