The Artist

An accident leads to an opportunity

By Kane Strokes

In the small village of Prim Lacey, Jack Birch was the main topic of village gossip, or he would be if anyone could find out any more than what everybody knew. The villagers knew he had bought the isolated cottage at the end of the village that stood in its own large grounds. No one knew if there was a Mrs Birch. They knew about the high fence that had been built around the rear of the property by Ron Black, the village handyman, and old Freddy Pierce tended the gardens. If Jack Birch had anyone come in and clean for him, it was no one from the village. They knew he had money, he always paid cash, even for the fence Ron Black had built.

Jack Birch had made it his life time hobby to avoid answering any question directly about himself, vague answers were an understatement. He bought his groceries locally, he regarded the village gossips as amateurs, he had fended off far worse than these. He shopped for his groceries in the local village stores; an out of town supermarket was only ten miles away, but despite his scorn of village gossips, he felt that villages like this deserved to survive. When he shopped, though, he had to be doubly on his guard; one, not to let anything about him slip; and two, to resist the temptation to smack a pert bottom as the owner bent over delving deep into freezer.

Jack worked from home. The village gossips had been fed a story about him being a technical graphic artist; he was sent rough sketches, from which he produced a graphic picture of close tolerance grinding procedures. Jack didn’t have a clue what that was, fortunately neither did the gossips. The truth would give the gossips a field day; the young woman just leaving his house, now gently easing herself into her car, has a sore bottom, it bears the marks of a six of the best caning.

Jack looks at the digital images on his computer screen, now he can go about creating the sketches and drawings, the sequence of her caning, and the final drawing of all six stripes across the fullness of her bottom, fulfilling another commission from the spanking magazine ‘Whacked’.

“It’s a hard life,” sighed Jack. “But someone has to do it, and I’m so very glad it’s me,” he chuckled.

The isolation of his cottage meant the girls could come and go without the knowledge of the villagers. The high fence was for the added privacy of sketching outdoor spankings, and for the spanking parties he sometimes hosted. The nearest over looking window was a quarter of a mile away, even that was too close, Jack needed his privacy. Apart from the unforeseen, Jack had his life organised to keep the gossips at bay, even the cleaning company and the models called on different days.

On the days Jack wasn’t drawing or sketching, he busied himself in the garden. If nothing else it made him appear part of village life. He was also a keen walker; Jack often walked off around the surrounding countryside, the hills weren’t too far away.

Jack was walking with friends when the accident happened, towards the end of a long fifteen miler. The cars were in sight, a simple lapse of attention, a rabbit hole obscured by long grass. Jack put his foot in it, he fell, and landed on an old piece of metal sticking out of the ground which skewered his leg. Jack’s friend stemmed much of the bleeding, his ankle was swelling badly. Helped to the cars, he was soon on his way to A&E.

Jack’s ankle was badly sprained, he wouldn’t be walking far for some weeks to come. The gash in his leg was bad, the dressing needed to be changed daily, the hospital would arrange for the district nurse to call each day and change the dressing. Jack knew the local district nurse, he also knew she was a gossip.

No, Jack wouldn’t have her call. The doctor was insistent the dressings were changed daily, and he couldn’t get to the surgery easily because of the sprain. Jack offered an alternative, he carried a private health care insurance; he’d arrange a nurse through them. It was agreed, and Jack was discharged.

Nurse Heather Scott, aged 26, usually worked on the private wards. Today was different, a house call, something she rarely did, but she wasn’t going to argue; good pay and an overly generous mileage allowance, at least it would make up for what she thought would be a doddering old fart. Who else would be living in Prim Lacey?

Heather looked at the patients name; Jack Birch. She pondered the connection between his surname and her secret interest in all things spanking. Heather found Jack’s cottage, a note on the door telling her to go straight in.

When she found Jack sitting in his living room, her assumption earlier about her patient proved to be wrong. Here was a 40 something handsome man. Heather ran through some routine paperwork, changed the dressing and left for her hospital ward.

Heather had called twice now; there was a problem arising. Heather called in the morning, and Jack had a young woman calling, also in the morning, to pose for another commission from Whacked.

Jack asked Heather whether she could call in the afternoons. Heather agreed. As no one knew how far she had to travel to Prim Lacey, or how long the house visit lasted, Heather saw it as an opportunity to leave a little earlier for a change.

Jack’s morning consisted of caning a very attractive young woman, taking digital photos, and starting his drawings. He locked his studio door and waited for Heather in the living room.

Heather had left everything she needed with Jack; scissors, bandages and ointments. He usually had it all laid out ready for her; today he forgot.

“It’s in that cupboard there,” said Jack, pointing vaguely in the right direction.

Heather opened the cupboard, the wrong cupboard. As she opened the door, out slid a pile of magazines, each boldly proclaiming it’s title, ‘WHACKED’ and a cover image of a semi naked woman thrusting her bottom towards the camera. Also in the cascade were sheets and sheets of paper, drawings and sketches of women in various uniforms to nude, bending over, their bottoms welted by a cane.

Heather quickly tried to gather up the magazines, whilst at the same time trying to see more.

“I’m so sorry,” she apologised.

“Not to worry, my fault for forgetting to get your things ready.”

Heather changed the dressing in an embarrassed silence. She looked around the room for other spanking evidence, there was nothing. As she was about to leave, Jack mentioned what she had seen.

Heather told Jack, reassuringly: “What I see and hear in a patient’s house, stays there.”

Jack felt happier that his secret was safe, but still annoyed with himself that a moments’ forgetfulness could have set the village gossiping.

Heather left in a daze, the images from the magazines and drawings were a continuous and vivid slideshow in her mind. She drove slowly along the small winding driveway, headed towards home, barely able to concentrate on driving as her mind still replayed the images of bare bottoms, criss-crossed with welts from the cane. She even started to wriggle on the driver’s seat as if it was her own bottom that had been caned.

Through the rest of the afternoon, the evening and through the night Heather was unable to shake loose the memories of what she had seen, not that she wanted to shake those memories free.

The next afternoon, when Heather arrived at Jack Birch’s cottage, Jack was taking a phone call. He gestured to Heather to go into the living room. Waiting for her patient, Heather’s inquisitiveness got the better of her, and she carefully opened the cupboard door to take another look at the drawings and magazines that flashed past her eyes the previous day. Unwittingly Heather lost herself in the drawings, some so evocative, she acknowledged a deep down desire to be one of the women sporting the welts from a cane across her bottom. She became so engrossed, she never heard Jack end his phone call. She didn’t even hear the tap tap tap on the stained wooden floor in the hall made by the crutch he was using, the only thing that Heather was suddenly aware of was a deep male voice.

“What do you think you are doing in there?”

Heather jumped, startled, still holding a drawing of a woman touching her toes for the cane, welts already across her bottom, and the cane was speeding towards its bare target again.

Jack came over to her.

“I’ll take those. I think you had better leave.”

Heather, eager to recover some self respect, answered: “I’m here to change your dressings. I will do that, then I’ll leave. My foolishness here in no way undermines my professional capabilities.”

“Very well, go ahead, change the dressing.”

As Heather worked, she asked him what he was going to do.

“I have no option but to inform your employer.”

“You know that will mean I loose my job.”

“You should have thought of that before you started prying.”

Heather continued in silence, changing the dressing, cleaning the wound. She finished the bandage and started to pack her things away, when Jack spoke.

“I hate to see good people with good skills wasted because of a stupid mistake. I’ll give you a choice; you take your punishment from me, or I phone your employer.”

Heather chewed at her bottom lip. “If I accept a punishment from you, nothing will be passed to my employer?”

“That’s right, we wipe the slate clean, here and now.”

“How?” Asked Heather, knowing full well exactly what he was intending.

“I’m going to give you a sound spanking, the like of which I doubt you’ve had in a long time, followed by six strokes of the cane. Your choice, leave here with a sore bottom, and a job, or leave here now, and no job in the morning.”

“There’s no choice really, is there? I’ll take the spanking.”

“Good girl, come with me.”

Jack started to get up from the chair he was sitting on. Heather helped him. Jack pushed down on the crutch to straighten himself up. He left the living room and crossed the hall to his studio, unlocking the door. Heather followed him in.

The studio faced south, with several large windows and a conservatory; it had the best of the light from early morning until sunset, a desk with a high spec computer, numerous drawing pads and sketch books, pencils galore littered every flat surface. In another corner were high stools, high backed chairs, and an armchair. Jack opened a drawer; in it was a selection of brushes, from smaller plastic hairbrushes to large wooden clothes brushes, and every combination of material, type and style in between. A tall cupboard housed every conceivable type of cane, from thin and swishy nursery canes to traditional senior girls school canes, also a governess dragon cane. Heather was suddenly feeling not so brave.

Jack picked out the senior girls cane, laid it on the desk, then picked out the big wooden clothes brush. He sat down on a straight backed chair and put the clothes brush on the floor.

“Heather, once I start, I decide when it ends. If you think you’ve had enough and leave, I phone your employers, and your bottom will have suffered needlessly. You are clear on this?”

“Yes sir,” replied Heather.

“Good, trousers and knickers off!”

Heather blushed as she undid the clasp on her trousers, pushed them to the floor, and stepped out of them. She put her thumbs in the waistband of her knickers, hesitated , then looking upwards slightly, avoiding Jack’s eyes, she pushed her knickers down to her ankles, and stepped out of them.

A brusque command: “Come here,” and Heather walked to where Jack was sitting.

“You’ve no doubt heard the old cliche, that this will hurt me? Well it will hurt my bad leg. I want your backside high over the top of my thigh.”

Heather placed herself on Jack’s thigh as he asked. He winced a couple of times, but the pain he was feeling was zero compared to what Heather would feel in her bottom. Heather lay across Jack’s thigh in the position he’d instructed her.

“No, right over, get your palms on the floor.”

Heather obeyed, her bottom rose like a hunter’s moon above the horizon in the autumn, her cleft part offering Jack glimpses of her hidden charms. Jack told Heather to spread her legs; now all her charms were displayed.

Heather, deeply embarrassed by the position she was in, felt there was something right in her position. She had pried into Jack’s private life, it was only fair he should see into hers.

The soft sensitive flesh of Heather’s cleft and upper thigh exposed, Jack picked up the brush ready to start. Fortunately for Heather, she couldn’t see Jack lift the hairbrush above head height. He brought the brush down hard and fast, smacking hard across both cheeks at their roundest, most sensitive point.

The studio walls were filled with drawings and sketches, the studio furniture was hard with very few soft furnishings. The first smack across Heather’s cheeks, with the clothes brushes, echoed and reverberated around the studio; the crack of the wooden brush on her bare bottom becomes a pistol shot.

Heather yelled at the intensity of the sting. A short wait, and the next punishing wide band of burning pain was inflicted on her bottom. Jack continued the spanking, slowly, like the tick-tocking of a grandfather clock, the next smack arriving when the previous smack reaches its burning peak of pain. Each smack of the hairbrush landed directly below the previous smack, each band of intense heat and pain worked its way down from the fullness of Heather’s bottom, to her sensitive fold, onward to the tops of her thighs. The brush travels from above head height, speeding towards its ever deepening red target, to deliver it’s next punishing kiss.

Heather was surprised by the intensity of the first smack of the wood brush. She yelled, she would have kicked her legs, but they were trapped. She pushed her feet against the floor, to try to relieve the sting. It pushed her bottom higher, in time to meet the next wide band of pain that coursed across

her cheeks. The fire in her bottom spread to her thighs, each smack of the brush, turning up the heat; her bottom felt as if she was sat on the hot coals of a steel works. Still the smacks rained down, her bottom getting hotter with each one.

Jack continued, the brush still raining down from head high, the cheeks of her bottom compacting and bouncing as the brush struck and left, each smack delivering it’s own payload of painful chastisement. Her fight was gone, no more stretching of legs, she lay there, taking each smack of the brush, crying uncontrollably at the pain in her bottom.

The white hunters moon that rose on Jack’s leg is now the setting sun of Hawaii, but Jack wanted her attention; six rapid fire smacks land on the same spot.

Heather screamed, she tried to kick, she was crying hard as Jack lay down the brush and let her up.

Slowly, carefully, Heather rose, her bottom on fire, a mass of unseen flames burning deeply within. As she stands, the soreness turned in on itself, creating more soreness. Her hands were confused, she wanted to rub her bottom, but she also wanted to dry her eyes. Oblivious and not caring about her semi nakedness, she stood, crying, rubbing and pulling at her bottom, and trying to dry her eyes.

“Corner time, young lady, over there.” Jack pointed the way. “Hands on your head.”

The studio is quiet except for the sound of Heather’s crying. She knew Jack was sat looking at her. She couldn’t hear the pencil as Jack sketched her; he took his time, adding detail upon detail, her hair, her fingers intertwined through her hair on the top of her head. He expertly captured the shape of her bottom, heavy pencil shading replicating the deep, deep red of her bottom, lighter shading on the tops of her thighs where the hairbrush left its present of sting.

He looked and studied her some more, the final detail of her shape, the way her clothes hang. He was in no hurry; the longer he waited the better her bottom will recover to feel the full effect of the cane.

Jack put down the drawing and moved to the desk, picking up the cane.

“Turn around and come here.”

Heather turned around to see him flexing the cane across his chest. Her eyes glued to the cane, Jack let go of the end. It flew back, and then returned to its natural resting position. Jack flicked his wrist so Heather could see and is menaced by the cane’s swishiness, a swishiness that Jack knew how to use to full stinging effect.

Using the cane to point to the armchair: “Bend right over the back of the armchair, and grasp the front edge.”

Approaching the armchair, Heather discovers the back was level with her pubic mound, a perfect height. Her bottom had stiffened whilst stood in the corner. Now bending over, she stretched that stiffness, uttering a low moan as the soreness redoubles. Stretching forward, an awareness that her bottom is pointing up and thrusting out, every nerve ending opened to the kiss of the cane, she was vulnerable, her bottom the perfect target.

Jack hobbled to the front of the armchair, bent and stooped as best he could, then placed his finger beneath Heather’s chin and lifted her head so as to look into her eyes.

“I call this the thrashing position. SIX!”, Pulling his finger away, Heather’s head drops back down, her nerves frayed, and scared of the pain the cane is about to inflict.

Jack stood behind Heather flexing the cane, his eyes taking in the sight of a well spanked bottom, now properly placed for a hard caning. Visually and mentally, Jack set the place where his first stroke would land, no warning taps, no aiming taps on her bottom, Jack knew, Jack was accurate.

A swish, the unseen and silent flick of his wrist, the cane’s velocity increased. The crack of the cane from the impact on her bottom echoed around the walls, followed quickly by Heather’s scream as the fiery kiss was delivered in the sensitive fold. She stamped her feet, marking time, she couldn’t bend her knees, there’s no other way to try to stamp out the sting.

Another swish, another crack to echo around, her bottom kissed again with a fiery sting, right across the fullness of her bottom, Heather didn’t scream so loud, her feet still drummed and marked time. The next stroke landed slightly above the first, Heather screamed again; she wanted to bend her knees, but couldn’t, her position dictating her bottom will stay in place, taking the caning without being able to try and relieve the sting.

The fourth stroke striped her sit spots once again. Again she screamed. As Jack watched the drumming of her feet, he stood back, surveying the damage to her bottom. Two strokes to go, two very special strokes; she would scream and cry harder than she ever believed possible. Four angry red welts had risen on her bottom, each making themselves an appealing target.

The cane lashed down, he flicked his wrist, the cane snapped and cracked against her bottom, the rising welt traversing her bottom diagonally, crossing the previous welts. She screamed again, stamping her feet, but nothing would shake out the burning throbbing pain left behind by the cane. Crying hard, and now crying harder, Heather didn’t hear the warning swish of the cane, so tied up in her own pain and tears she didn’t realise Jack had moved slightly. She didn’t know the next kiss of the cane would be backhanded, until it struck her bottom, crossing previous welts and painting a bright sore red ‘X’ on her bottom.

Fresh floods of tears came, tears Heather didn’t know she could cry, crying and uncontrollably sobbing. Jack left her there to recover, as he returned the cane to the cupboard.

Beside her, Jack helped Heather to stand. As she slowly stood, the pain in her bottom doubled, the welts from the cane pulling at each other, yelping and still crying she stood. Jack felt something stir inside him he’d never felt before, he took her in his arms, cuddling her, he told her it was over, and to get dressed. As she did so, Jack left her to her privacy, and left the studio.

Heather slowly dressed, each movement painful, her knickers and trousers increasing the heat in her bottom. She left the studio and walked slowly, stiffly, to meet Jack in the living room. She gathered her things and said her goodbyes. Jack watched as she hesitated getting in the car, first one way, then another, each way as painful as the other. Heather slid herself into the driving seat, slowly, inch by tear jerkingly painful inch, she started her car and pulled away. Jack turned back from the window, certain he’d not see her again.

The next afternoon, to Jack’s surprise, he saw Heather’s car turn into his drive. Slowly she got out and walked to the house. Jack greeted her, unsure of what to say. A strange silence hung between them, which was broken by Heather.

“My ass still hurts like hell, working on those wards today has been murder. It was deserved though.”

“No hard feelings?” Offered Jack.

“None on my part, but I’m certain I felt one in your pants when I was across your knee,” Heather grinned.

“Here,” said Jack. “I have something for you.”

Jack went to the cupboard containing the magazines and drawings and removed the drawing he had made of Heather during her corner time.

“For you, if you’d like it.”

Heather looked at the drawing and admired Jack’s work.

“I can’t hang it on my wall,” she stated. “But I can keep this in my secret diary.”

Putting the drawing to one side, Heather started to change the dressing on Jack’s leg.

The End

© Kane Strokes 2016


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