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The Art Of Pain (Argus)


The Art Of Pain by Argus

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She slept fitfully, and when she woke to find herself naked and caged, felt an instant excitement which drove off all other concerns. Pamela is an art critic for a little known art mag, and barely hanging onto her job. She finds herself both repulsed and fascinated by an up and coming young artist whose work portrays women in pain and degradation Intending to expose him, she finds herself helplessly drawn to his work. Shocked and yet mesmerized by the pain he inflicts on his beautiful nude models, she cannot repress the fantasies she feels growing within herself to feel that same torment, to become a victim of his cruel art, immortalized on canvas for all the world to see.

Product type: EBook    Published by: author - self-published    Published: 9 / 2010

We do not recommend this book for readers under 18 years of age

No. words: 32640

Style: BDSM/Bondage - Content: Moderate -    Male Dom - M/F

Available Formats: Palm  MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  Sony Reader (LRF)  PDF  MS Reader  MS Word  Text  RTF  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle

Current all-time sales ranking: #1279


Excerpt..

The next morning she showed up at Simmons' loft down by the Thames. It was in an old warehouse, a dull, gray, chunky block of concrete, quite ugly on the outside. The door was steel, and she pressed the small buzzer next to it without hearing a thing through it.
She had dressed carefully in a black silk T-shirt, gray linen blazer and black trousers with small black boots. Her red hair, always difficult to control with its mass of ringlets and curls, was bound loosely behind her.
The door opened, and she took a pace back, unprepared for the sight which confronted her.
Simmons was an enormous man. There was simply no other apt description. She was almost six feet, but she had to cock her head back, for he was a good eight inches or so taller. He was completely bald, shaved nicely, she thought, and had broad shoulders and a thick, powerful chest.
He was nude to the waist, wearing tight jeans, and her eyes widened at the beautiful musculature which rippled down his chest and belly. He was no bulging behemoth like the professional weight lifters, but he was only a few shades removed from them.
He was also quite black, and her liberal feminist awareness took a powerful jolt at her instinctive reaction to him as both a powerful male, and a black man. She ought to have paid no real attention to either, but was finding her insides squirming in decidedly improper ways.
"Ah, Mr. Simmons?" she said warily.
"Yes," he said in a tight, careful voice.
"I'm Pamela Grosvener? I ahm, called you the other day?"
He looked at her wordlessly, then nodded slightly.
"I uhm, hope I'm not intruding or..."
"Come in then," he said abruptly.
He backed up slightly and she had to squeeze past him to get into the stairwell. He was making her nervous, and she berated herself for that. There was absolutely nothing to be nervous about. He was a respected artist, not a street criminal. Her nervousness was sexist and stupid and even racist, she thought to herself angrily.
The door closed heavily, and he threw the bolt before passing her, brushing against her again in the narrow stairwell, then leading her upwards. She determinedly kept her eyes off his behind - after one brief, appreciative stare.
Then they were at the top of the stairs, in an equally narrow corridor, and then out to the right and into a broad open area with light streaming through broad windows and - .
She halted with a gasp, jaw dropping. He ignored her, continuing on to his easel, leaving her to stand there in the doorway like a stupidly bourgeois middle-class white girl seeing a naked body for the first time.
Yes, he was working, painting, and she clasped her hands together behind her back to hide the trembling in them as she finally forced herself deeper into the room.
The woman there was almost... it was hard to think of an appropriate description. She wasn't a person at all. A flesh coloured mask covered her face, while leaving her brown hair free. The mask was almost flat across her face, with no eye sockets, no mouth, no nose. The girl's nose must be squashed down somewhat, she thought as she moved forward.
The girl was standing on her toes, arms behind her, back arched so sharply it was a wonder she could stand. As she got closer Pamela saw there was a flat steel frame behind her, rising up from the floor and bent back near the top.
The woman's arms were behind her, tightly back, bound together from wrist to elbow so as to thrust her breasts out better. There were several small, sharp metal spikes pushing out from the flat frame behind her, requiring her to keep her lower body forward. At the same time her upper arms were bound to the top of the frame, forcing her back.
It was, Pamela thought, quite awkward for the girl, and probably quite painful as well. She was on her toes, and Pamela could see them trembling slightly. Yet if she dropped her heels her lower back would come into contact with the spikes. It was a sight to make her own legs rubbery and her stomach flutter. And yet it was also an unquestionably erotic sight. The spikes leant it a dangerous air, however.
"Why have you covered her face?" she asked softly.
"I want to concentrate on the body," he said tonelessly. "On the signs of pain. The face is too easy to read. The body is more difficult."
"Is she in pain?"
"Just cramps so far. The back, shoulders, and legs get very sore after being held in that kind of position for very long. And, of course, her toes are being strained, even if she is a dancer when she's not modelling."
Pamela could see that. The girl's legs were strong, her physique athletic. She found herself imagining what she herself would look like in the same position and flushed, jerking her mind back, turning to stare at him instead.
He picked up two small metal devices the size of rings, and walked over to the girl. Pamela licked her lips nervously, blinking her grey eyes as she saw him finger one of the girl's nipples. He tugged and pinched on it, pulling it outward, then fastened one of the devices around it. There was a click, and he drew back his hands.
The girl's body shook, and Pamela heard a soft muffled moan coming from behind the mask. She stared at the metal ring, a clamp, she saw now, pinching in hard against the nipple, crushing the small button between tight little jaws and clinging to it. She watched breathlessly as he snapped another one on the second nipple, hearing another muffled cry, and watching the girl tremble.
"Pain, you see?" he said casually. "Sexual pain."
"S-sexual pain?" she gulped, her insides twisting.
He turned his dark eyes on her. "Of course. That's the attraction, the small thin line between pleasure and pain."
She felt his closeness, his musky male scent, felt the awareness of the power in arms and chest. Something within her responded, and she crushed it desperately.
He returned to his easel, and Pamela switched her attention back and forth from him to the still-trembling girl, feeling pale and jittery.
"But they're opposites," she said, staring at the nipple clamps, imagining how much they must sting.
"No. They are just different dimensions of the same thing."
She was sweating, and she rubbed at her forehead as she pulled her eyes off the model.
"It's... hot in here," she gulped.
"The windows are designed to intensify the sunlight," he said as he painted.
The girl, right in the middle of the sun, was sweating even more, beads of sweat slowly trickling between and along her breasts, and down her taut belly. A faceless, personless female body sweating under the bright sun, sweating from pain and torment, suffering so Simmons' could record it.
"Do you pay a lot for your... models?" she asked softly.
"Higher than average."
Now there's a way to make money! she thought faintly.
There was an indefinable aura about the girl, bespeaking pain, anguish, and a terrible, dark sexual need. She moved back from it as from a hot lamp, closer to Simmons.
"Why do you suppose there is such a demand for your work?" she asked, struggling to keep her voice neutral.
"It strikes a chord in many people," he said, his hands moving quickly, expertly, the brush light across the canvas.
"Among men, no doubt," she said, mustering disapproval.
"Most of my work is sold to women," he said, his eyes flicking from the model to the canvas. "There is a submissive streak in many women, a fantasy of being dominated, used, even brutalized as a sexual animal."
He turned his eyes from his painting and they seemed to bore into her, studying, evaluating, assessing. She met them as calmly as she could, yet felt the same fear she had as a model, that somehow he would sense her arousal.
"How ah, did you get started doing ahhm, this sort of thing?"
"I've always been into bondage and the S&M scene. A wealthy friend asked me to paint his wife in bondage. The rest, as they say, is history."
She would not ask about bondage or S&M. She could not. She had to take the topic onto safer ground before she embarrassed herself.
"You studied art?"
He had an educated voice.
"No, not really. I studied economics. I fell into art as a hobby, and then investment."
He put down the brush and picked up another clamp. "You can see she's begun to adjust to the clamps," he said, moving past her.
He walked over to her and reached down, his finger spreading her labia slightly, then snapping the clamp around one.
Pamela tensed, appalled, yet fascinated, watching the girl tremble, her head jerk back and roll in pain as Simmons' hurried back behind his easel.
"They've given you permission to do all... this?"
"Naturally," he said, painting quickly.
"A difficult way to earn money," she whispered.
"Most of my models are into S&M and bondage to some degree. I have no difficulty getting women to pose. A harder job is keeping an assistant. They either quit or I fire them."
"Because they disapprove of your art?"
"Among other things."
He picked up another clamp and tossed it to her.
"Do me a favour. Place that on one of her breasts."
She stared at the clamp for a moment, then dropped it to the floor as though it would burn her. She cleared her throat, then bent and picked it up, returning it to him. "Certainly not," she said as sternly as she could manage.
"Child," he said dismissively.
She glared at his back as he moved over to the girl and snapped the clamp against the underside of one breast. The girl quivered and writhed, and Pamela felt a thrum of sympathy within her lower belly.
"I don't enjoy inflicting pain on others," she retorted.
"The girl is a work of art in herself. I paint pain across her body and then reflect it on canvas."
The clamps were trembling as the girl's body trembled, shaking, tugging at her nipples and her labia. Simmons painted quickly, then returned with another clamp for her other breast.
"I can see why you have difficulty hiring assistants," Pamela said. "I take it this is one of their duties?"
"Yes," he said in annoyance. "It's quite awkward working without one. Don't know anyone who needs a job, do you?"
She shook her head stiffly, watching his hands work, trying not to look at the girl while her mind raced. She did not understand her attraction to this. She had indulged in a little bondage before - just a little - but had no desire or interest in pain. None. None at all.
Simmons returned to the girl, kneeling before her. His large fingers carefully spread her labia, revealing her moist pink inner flesh. His index finger brushed back the hood over her clitoris, and Pamela unconsciously put a hand to her mouth in mesmerized horror as he eased another clamp around the small, wet swollen bud, and then let it snap closed.
The girl writhed and twisted as he hurried back to the painting, an Pamela stared, open mouthed.
The sweat was pouring off the model now, as her body wriggled and trembled, her breasts wobbling, head jerking. A small, muffled wail arouse from behind the mask, rising and falling in a soft undulating scream.
Simmons' face was a mask of concentration, his hand flicking back and forth along the canvas, the brushes dipping and slipping in the paint, then flying back against the canvas.
Pamela could not find the words to speak. She stared, appalled, yet enthraled.
"Do you have an ultimate ambition? Are you headed in a direction you can explain?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
"I want to make a lot of money," he said carelessly.
"Surely that's not all?"
"Do you think I'm a barbarian? A cultureless savage?"
"No, of course not," she said defensively.
She did, of course, but one could certainly not say that of a black man. Or at least, she couldn't.
"Well, let me see. I also want to make violent love to a large number of women. Many of those who buy my paintings come to see me, you know. They practically throw themselves at me."
"Why ever for?"
"Because, as I said, the desire to be used, to be owned, to be subjugated is present in many women."
He walked back to the model, and Pamela found she had crept closer. She stared, absorbed, as he gripped the clamp over her clitoris and twisted it violently back and forth.
The girl writhed and twisted, her hips rolling violently, small, muffled cries emerging from beneath the hood.


Excerpt..

The next morning she showed up at Simmons' loft down by the Thames. It was in an old warehouse, a dull, gray, chunky block of concrete,
quite ugly on the outside. The door was steel, and she pressed the small buzzer next to it without hearing a thing through it.

She had dressed carefully in a black silk T-shirt, gray linen blazer and black trousers with small black boots. Her red hair, always
difficult to control with its mass of ringlets and curls, was bound loosely behind her.

The door opened, and she took a pace back, unprepared for the sight which confronted her.

Simmons was an enormous man. There was simply no other apt description. She was almost six feet, but she had to cock her head back, for he
was a good eight inches or so taller. He was completely bald, shaved nicely, she thought, and had broad shoulders and a thick, powerful
chest.

He was nude to the waist, wearing tight jeans, and her eyes widened at the beautiful musculature which rippled down his chest and belly. He
was no bulging behemoth like the professional weight lifters, but he was only a few shades removed from them.

He was also quite black, and her liberal feminist awareness took a powerful jolt at her instinctive reaction to him as both a powerful
male, and a black man. She ought to have paid no real attention to either, but was finding her insides squirming in decidedly improper
ways.

"Ah, Mr. Simmons?" she said warily.

"Yes," he said in a tight, careful voice.

"I'm Pamela Grosvener? I ahm, called you the other day?"

He looked at her wordlessly, then nodded slightly.

"I uhm, hope I'm not intruding or..."

"Come in then," he said abruptly.

He backed up slightly and she had to squeeze past him to get into the stairwell. He was making her nervous, and she berated herself for
that. There was absolutely nothing to be nervous about. He was a respected artist, not a street criminal. Her nervousness was sexist and
stupid and even racist, she thought to herself angrily.

The door closed heavily, and he threw the bolt before passing her, brushing against her again in the narrow stairwell, then leading her
upwards. She determinedly kept her eyes off his behind - after one brief, appreciative stare.

Then they were at the top of the stairs, in an equally narrow corridor, and then out to the right and into a broad open area with light
streaming through broad windows and - .

She halted with a gasp, jaw dropping. He ignored her, continuing on to his easel, leaving her to stand there in the doorway like a stupidly
bourgeois middle-class white girl seeing a naked body for the first time.

Yes, he was working, painting, and she clasped her hands together behind her back to hide the trembling in them as she finally forced
herself deeper into the room.

The woman there was almost... it was hard to think of an appropriate description. She wasn't a person at all. A flesh coloured mask covered
her face, while leaving her brown hair free. The mask was almost flat across her face, with no eye sockets, no mouth, no nose. The girl's
nose must be squashed down somewhat, she thought as she moved forward.

The girl was standing on her toes, arms behind her, back arched so sharply it was a wonder she could stand. As she got closer Pamela saw
there was a flat steel frame behind her, rising up from the floor and bent back near the top.

The woman's arms were behind her, tightly back, bound together from wrist to elbow so as to thrust her breasts out better. There were
several small, sharp metal spikes pushing out from the flat frame behind her, requiring her to keep her lower body forward. At the same time
her upper arms were bound to the top of the frame, forcing her back.

It was, Pamela thought, quite awkward for the girl, and probably quite painful as well. She was on her toes, and Pamela could see them
trembling slightly. Yet if she dropped her heels her lower back would come into contact with the spikes. It was a sight to make her own legs
rubbery and her stomach flutter. And yet it was also an unquestionably erotic sight. The spikes leant it a dangerous air, however.

"Why have you covered her face?" she asked softly.

"I want to concentrate on the body," he said tonelessly. "On the signs of pain. The face is too easy to read. The body is more
difficult."

"Is she in pain?"

"Just cramps so far. The back, shoulders, and legs get very sore after being held in that kind of position for very long. And, of course,
her toes are being strained, even if she is a dancer when she's not modelling."

Pamela could see that. The girl's legs were strong, her physique athletic. She found herself imagining what she herself would look like in
the same position and flushed, jerking her mind back, turning to stare at him instead.

He picked up two small metal devices the size of rings, and walked over to the girl. Pamela licked her lips nervously, blinking her grey
eyes as she saw him finger one of the girl's nipples. He tugged and pinched on it, pulling it outward, then fastened one of the devices
around it. There was a click, and he drew back his hands.

The girl's body shook, and Pamela heard a soft muffled moan coming from behind the mask. She stared at the metal ring, a clamp, she saw
now, pinching in hard against the nipple, crushing the small button between tight little jaws and clinging to it. She watched breathlessly
as he snapped another one on the second nipple, hearing another muffled cry, and watching the girl tremble.

"Pain, you see?" he said casually. "Sexual pain."

"S-sexual pain?" she gulped, her insides twisting.

He turned his dark eyes on her. "Of course. That's the attraction, the small thin line between pleasure and pain."

She felt his closeness, his musky male scent, felt the awareness of the power in arms and chest. Something within her responded, and she
crushed it desperately.

He returned to his easel, and Pamela switched her attention back and forth from him to the still-trembling girl, feeling pale and
jittery.

"But they're opposites," she said, staring at the nipple clamps, imagining how much they must sting.

"No. They are just different dimensions of the same thing."

She was sweating, and she rubbed at her forehead as she pulled her eyes off the model.

"It's... hot in here," she gulped.

"The windows are designed to intensify the sunlight," he said as he painted.

The girl, right in the middle of the sun, was sweating even more, beads of sweat slowly trickling between and along her breasts, and down
her taut belly. A faceless, personless female body sweating under the bright sun, sweating from pain and torment, suffering so Simmons'
could record it.

"Do you pay a lot for your... models?" she asked softly.

"Higher than average."

Now there's a way to make money! she thought faintly.

There was an indefinable aura about the girl, bespeaking pain, anguish, and a terrible, dark sexual need. She moved back from it as from a
hot lamp, closer to Simmons.

"Why do you suppose there is such a demand for your work?" she asked, struggling to keep her voice neutral.

"It strikes a chord in many people," he said, his hands moving quickly, expertly, the brush light across the canvas.

"Among men, no doubt," she said, mustering disapproval.

"Most of my work is sold to women," he said, his eyes flicking from the model to the canvas. "There is a submissive streak in many women, a
fantasy of being dominated, used, even brutalized as a sexual animal."

He turned his eyes from his painting and they seemed to bore into her, studying, evaluating, assessing. She met them as calmly as she
could, yet felt the same fear she had as a model, that somehow he would sense her arousal.

"How ah, did you get started doing ahhm, this sort of thing?"

"I've always been into bondage and the S&M scene. A wealthy friend asked me to paint his wife in bondage. The rest, as they say, is
history."

She would not ask about bondage or S&M. She could not. She had to take the topic onto safer ground before she embarrassed herself.

"You studied art?"

He had an educated voice.

"No, not really. I studied economics. I fell into art as a hobby, and then investment."

He put down the brush and picked up another clamp. "You can see she's begun to adjust to the clamps," he said, moving past her.

He walked over to her and reached down, his finger spreading her labia slightly, then snapping the clamp around one.

Pamela tensed, appalled, yet fascinated, watching the girl tremble, her head jerk back and roll in pain as Simmons' hurried back behind his
easel.

"They've given you permission to do all... this?"

"Naturally," he said, painting quickly.

"A difficult way to earn money," she whispered.

"Most of my models are into S&M and bondage to some degree. I have no difficulty getting women to pose. A harder job is keeping an
assistant. They either quit or I fire them."

"Because they disapprove of your art?"

"Among other things."

He picked up another clamp and tossed it to her.

"Do me a favour. Place that on one of her breasts."

She stared at the clamp for a moment, then dropped it to the floor as though it would burn her. She cleared her throat, then bent and
picked it up, returning it to him. "Certainly not," she said as sternly as she could manage.

"Child," he said dismissively.

She glared at his back as he moved over to the girl and snapped the clamp against the underside of one breast. The girl quivered and
writhed, and Pamela felt a thrum of sympathy within her lower belly.

"I don't enjoy inflicting pain on others," she retorted.

"The girl is a work of art in herself. I paint pain across her body and then reflect it on canvas."

The clamps were trembling as the girl's body trembled, shaking, tugging at her nipples and her labia. Simmons painted quickly, then
returned with another clamp for her other breast.

"I can see why you have difficulty hiring assistants," Pamela said. "I take it this is one of their duties?"

"Yes," he said in annoyance. "It's quite awkward working without one. Don't know anyone who needs a job, do you?"

She shook her head stiffly, watching his hands work, trying not to look at the girl while her mind raced. She did not understand her
attraction to this. She had indulged in a little bondage before - just a little - but had no desire or interest in pain. None. None at
all.

Simmons returned to the girl, kneeling before her. His large fingers carefully spread her labia, revealing her moist pink inner flesh. His
index finger brushed back the hood over her clitoris, and Pamela unconsciously put a hand to her mouth in mesmerized horror as he eased
another clamp around the small, wet swollen bud, and then let it snap closed.

The girl writhed and twisted as he hurried back to the painting, an Pamela stared, open mouthed.

The sweat was pouring off the model now, as her body wriggled and trembled, her breasts wobbling, head jerking. A small, muffled wail
arouse from behind the mask, rising and falling in a soft undulating scream.

Simmons' face was a mask of concentration, his hand flicking back and forth along the canvas, the brushes dipping and slipping in the
paint, then flying back against the canvas.

Pamela could not find the words to speak. She stared, appalled, yet enthraled.

"Do you have an ultimate ambition? Are you headed in a direction you can explain?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

"I want to make a lot of money," he said carelessly.

"Surely that's not all?"

"Do you think I'm a barbarian? A cultureless savage?"

"No, of course not," she said defensively.

She did, of course, but one could certainly not say that of a black man. Or at least, she couldn't.

"Well, let me see. I also want to make violent love to a large number of women. Many of those who buy my paintings come to see me, you
know. They practically throw themselves at me."

"Why ever for?"

"Because, as I said, the desire to be used, to be owned, to be subjugated is present in many women."

He walked back to the model, and Pamela found she had crept closer. She stared, absorbed, as he gripped the clamp over her clitoris and
twisted it violently back and forth.

The girl writhed and twisted, her hips rolling violently, small, muffled cries emerging from beneath the hood.


Excerpt..

The next morning she showed up at Simmons' loft down by the Thames. It was in an old warehouse, a dull, gray, chunky block of concrete,

quite ugly on the outside. The door was steel, and she pressed the small buzzer next to it without hearing a thing through it.


She had dressed carefully in a black silk T-shirt, gray linen blazer and black trousers with small black boots. Her red hair, always

difficult to control with its mass of ringlets and curls, was bound loosely behind her.


The door opened, and she took a pace back, unprepared for the sight which confronted her.


Simmons was an enormous man. There was simply no other apt description. She was almost six feet, but she had to cock her head back, for he

was a good eight inches or so taller. He was completely bald, shaved nicely, she thought, and had broad shoulders and a thick, powerful

chest.


He was nude to the waist, wearing tight jeans, and her eyes widened at the beautiful musculature which rippled down his chest and belly. He

was no bulging behemoth like the professional weight lifters, but he was only a few shades removed from them.


He was also quite black, and her liberal feminist awareness took a powerful jolt at her instinctive reaction to him as both a powerful

male, and a black man. She ought to have paid no real attention to either, but was finding her insides squirming in decidedly improper

ways.


"Ah, Mr. Simmons?" she said warily.


"Yes," he said in a tight, careful voice.


"I'm Pamela Grosvener? I ahm, called you the other day?"


He looked at her wordlessly, then nodded slightly.


"I uhm, hope I'm not intruding or..."


"Come in then," he said abruptly.


He backed up slightly and she had to squeeze past him to get into the stairwell. He was making her nervous, and she berated herself for

that. There was absolutely nothing to be nervous about. He was a respected artist, not a street criminal. Her nervousness was sexist and

stupid and even racist, she thought to herself angrily.


The door closed heavily, and he threw the bolt before passing her, brushing against her again in the narrow stairwell, then leading her

upwards. She determinedly kept her eyes off his behind - after one brief, appreciative stare.


Then they were at the top of the stairs, in an equally narrow corridor, and then out to the right and into a broad open area with light

streaming through broad windows and - .


She halted with a gasp, jaw dropping. He ignored her, continuing on to his easel, leaving her to stand there in the doorway like a stupidly

bourgeois middle-class white girl seeing a naked body for the first time.


Yes, he was working, painting, and she clasped her hands together behind her back to hide the trembling in them as she finally forced

herself deeper into the room.


The woman there was almost... it was hard to think of an appropriate description. She wasn't a person at all. A flesh coloured mask covered

her face, while leaving her brown hair free. The mask was almost flat across her face, with no eye sockets, no mouth, no nose. The girl's

nose must be squashed down somewhat, she thought as she moved forward.


The girl was standing on her toes, arms behind her, back arched so sharply it was a wonder she could stand. As she got closer Pamela saw

there was a flat steel frame behind her, rising up from the floor and bent back near the top.


The woman's arms were behind her, tightly back, bound together from wrist to elbow so as to thrust her breasts out better. There were

several small, sharp metal spikes pushing out from the flat frame behind her, requiring her to keep her lower body forward. At the same time

her upper arms were bound to the top of the frame, forcing her back.


It was, Pamela thought, quite awkward for the girl, and probably quite painful as well. She was on her toes, and Pamela could see them

trembling slightly. Yet if she dropped her heels her lower back would come into contact with the spikes. It was a sight to make her own legs

rubbery and her stomach flutter. And yet it was also an unquestionably erotic sight. The spikes leant it a dangerous air, however.


"Why have you covered her face?" she asked softly.


"I want to concentrate on the body," he said tonelessly. "On the signs of pain. The face is too easy to read. The body is more

difficult."


"Is she in pain?"


"Just cramps so far. The back, shoulders, and legs get very sore after being held in that kind of position for very long. And, of course,

her toes are being strained, even if she is a dancer when she's not modelling."


Pamela could see that. The girl's legs were strong, her physique athletic. She found herself imagining what she herself would look like in

the same position and flushed, jerking her mind back, turning to stare at him instead.


He picked up two small metal devices the size of rings, and walked over to the girl. Pamela licked her lips nervously, blinking her grey

eyes as she saw him finger one of the girl's nipples. He tugged and pinched on it, pulling it outward, then fastened one of the devices

around it. There was a click, and he drew back his hands.


The girl's body shook, and Pamela heard a soft muffled moan coming from behind the mask. She stared at the metal ring, a clamp, she saw

now, pinching in hard against the nipple, crushing the small button between tight little jaws and clinging to it. She watched breathlessly

as he snapped another one on the second nipple, hearing another muffled cry, and watching the girl tremble.


"Pain, you see?" he said casually. "Sexual pain."


"S-sexual pain?" she gulped, her insides twisting.


He turned his dark eyes on her. "Of course. That's the attraction, the small thin line between pleasure and pain."


She felt his closeness, his musky male scent, felt the awareness of the power in arms and chest. Something within her responded, and she

crushed it desperately.


He returned to his easel, and Pamela switched her attention back and forth from him to the still-trembling girl, feeling pale and

jittery.


"But they're opposites," she said, staring at the nipple clamps, imagining how much they must sting.


"No. They are just different dimensions of the same thing."


She was sweating, and she rubbed at her forehead as she pulled her eyes off the model.


"It's... hot in here," she gulped.


"The windows are designed to intensify the sunlight," he said as he painted.


The girl, right in the middle of the sun, was sweating even more, beads of sweat slowly trickling between and along her breasts, and down

her taut belly. A faceless, personless female body sweating under the bright sun, sweating from pain and torment, suffering so Simmons'

could record it.


"Do you pay a lot for your... models?" she asked softly.


"Higher than average."


Now there's a way to make money! she thought faintly.


There was an indefinable aura about the girl, bespeaking pain, anguish, and a terrible, dark sexual need. She moved back from it as from a

hot lamp, closer to Simmons.


"Why do you suppose there is such a demand for your work?" she asked, struggling to keep her voice neutral.


"It strikes a chord in many people," he said, his hands moving quickly, expertly, the brush light across the canvas.


"Among men, no doubt," she said, mustering disapproval.


"Most of my work is sold to women," he said, his eyes flicking from the model to the canvas. "There is a submissive streak in many women, a

fantasy of being dominated, used, even brutalized as a sexual animal."


He turned his eyes from his painting and they seemed to bore into her, studying, evaluating, assessing. She met them as calmly as she

could, yet felt the same fear she had as a model, that somehow he would sense her arousal.


"How ah, did you get started doing ahhm, this sort of thing?"


"I've always been into bondage and the S&M scene. A wealthy friend asked me to paint his wife in bondage. The rest, as they say, is

history."


She would not ask about bondage or S&M. She could not. She had to take the topic onto safer ground before she embarrassed herself.


"You studied art?"


He had an educated voice.


"No, not really. I studied economics. I fell into art as a hobby, and then investment."


He put down the brush and picked up another clamp. "You can see she's begun to adjust to the clamps," he said, moving past her.


He walked over to her and reached down, his finger spreading her labia slightly, then snapping the clamp around one.


Pamela tensed, appalled, yet fascinated, watching the girl tremble, her head jerk back and roll in pain as Simmons' hurried back behind his

easel.


"They've given you permission to do all... this?"


"Naturally," he said, painting quickly.


"A difficult way to earn money," she whispered.


"Most of my models are into S&M and bondage to some degree. I have no difficulty getting women to pose. A harder job is keeping an

assistant. They either quit or I fire them."


"Because they disapprove of your art?"


"Among other things."


He picked up another clamp and tossed it to her.


"Do me a favour. Place that on one of her breasts."


She stared at the clamp for a moment, then dropped it to the floor as though it would burn her. She cleared her throat, then bent and

picked it up, returning it to him. "Certainly not," she said as sternly as she could manage.


"Child," he said dismissively.


She glared at his back as he moved over to the girl and snapped the clamp against the underside of one breast. The girl quivered and

writhed, and Pamela felt a thrum of sympathy within her lower belly.


"I don't enjoy inflicting pain on others," she retorted.


"The girl is a work of art in herself. I paint pain across her body and then reflect it on canvas."


The clamps were trembling as the girl's body trembled, shaking, tugging at her nipples and her labia. Simmons painted quickly, then

returned with another clamp for her other breast.


"I can see why you have difficulty hiring assistants," Pamela said. "I take it this is one of their duties?"


"Yes," he said in annoyance. "It's quite awkward working without one. Don't know anyone who needs a job, do you?"


She shook her head stiffly, watching his hands work, trying not to look at the girl while her mind raced. She did not understand her

attraction to this. She had indulged in a little bondage before - just a little - but had no desire or interest in pain. None. None at

all.


Simmons returned to the girl, kneeling before her. His large fingers carefully spread her labia, revealing her moist pink inner flesh. His

index finger brushed back the hood over her clitoris, and Pamela unconsciously put a hand to her mouth in mesmerized horror as he eased

another clamp around the small, wet swollen bud, and then let it snap closed.


The girl writhed and twisted as he hurried back to the painting, an Pamela stared, open mouthed.


The sweat was pouring off the model now, as her body wriggled and trembled, her breasts wobbling, head jerking. A small, muffled wail

arouse from behind the mask, rising and falling in a soft undulating scream.


Simmons' face was a mask of concentration, his hand flicking back and forth along the canvas, the brushes dipping and slipping in the

paint, then flying back against the canvas.


Pamela could not find the words to speak. She stared, appalled, yet enthraled.


"Do you have an ultimate ambition? Are you headed in a direction you can explain?" she asked, her voice barely audible.


"I want to make a lot of money," he said carelessly.


"Surely that's not all?"


"Do you think I'm a barbarian? A cultureless savage?"


"No, of course not," she said defensively.


She did, of course, but one could certainly not say that of a black man. Or at least, she couldn't.


"Well, let me see. I also want to make violent love to a large number of women. Many of those who buy my paintings come to see me, you

know. They practically throw themselves at me."


"Why ever for?"


"Because, as I said, the desire to be used, to be owned, to be subjugated is present in many women."


He walked back to the model, and Pamela found she had crept closer. She stared, absorbed, as he gripped the clamp over her clitoris and

twisted it violently back and forth.


The girl writhed and twisted, her hips rolling violently, small, muffled cries emerging from beneath the hood.


Reviews

I couldn't stop reading, once I had started. It kept getting better and better all the way to the end. This masterpiece is D/s and BDSM from beginning to end and the action is constant all the way through. 5 out of 5 (Sir Kaiser)

The book kind of died in the middle 3 out of 5 (scooby)

Best Selling Books This Year By Argus

The Art Of Pain

The Art Of Pain

The Art Of Pain

The Art Of Pain

The Art Of Pain

Best Selling Books This Year By Argus

The Art Of Pain

The Art Of Pain

The Art Of Pain

The Art Of Pain

The Art Of Pain

Author Information

Argus is a man with long experience and credits in the publishing world. He has had almost two hundred novels published in the United Kingdom and The United States, by such publishers as Beeline, Star, Nexus, Chimera, Silver Moon, and Olympia. He has also been published in dozens of magazines.

 


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 Publishers and Independent Authors   

Affiliate Program

Contact Us

Terms and Conditions

Privacy Policy

Refund Policy

This Site Owned By Fiction4Adults - Copyright 2015