Thursday, 28 June 2012

DAVID HOCKNEY’S ART SCHOOL DAZE Part 13

FIFTY SHADES OF PINK WITH THE TICKLE FETISHIST

At nine o'clock on a Saturday evening David Hockney was at the door of Kitaj's room. He just stopped for one moment outside, with his hand on the lock, looking a little puzzled, but withal pleased, and then opened the door and entered. Kitaj had thrown himself into their BDSM encounters so thoroughly, that he had not only regained all his hold on Hockney, but had warmed most of the boys and nearly all the department girls in his favour. It was he who had managed the rope knots in every bondage session, and his voice from wherever he stood had come to be looked upon as a safe guide as to how to have fun regardless of whether his slaves could see or had been blindfolded.

So Hockney had recovered his old footing in the dominatrix's room; and when he entered on the night in question did so with the bearing of an intimate friend. Kitaj's supper was on one end of the table as usual, and he was sitting at the other poring over a book. Hockney marched straight up to him, and leant over his shoulder.

"What, here you are at the perpetual grind," he said. "Come; shut up, and give me some tea; I want to talk to you."

Kitaj looked up with a grim smile.

"Are you up to a cup of tea?" he said; "look here, I was just reminded of you fellows. Shall I construe for you?"

He pointed with his finger to the open page of the book he was reading. It was Venus In Furs by Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, and Hockney, leaning over his shoulder, read:

A Russian prince made his first appearance today on the promenade. He aroused general interest on account of his athletic figure, magnificent face, and splendid bearing. The women particularly gaped at him as though he were a wild animal, but he went his way gloomily without paying attention to any one. He was accompanied by two servants, one a negro, completely dressed in red satin, and the other a Circassian in his full gleaming uniform. Suddenly he saw Wanda, and fixed his cold piercing look upon her; he even turned his head after her, and when she had passed, he stood still and followed her with his eyes.

And she—she veritably devoured him with her radiant green eyes—and did everything possible to meet him again.

The cunning coquetry with which she walked, moved, and looked at him, almost stifled me. On the way home I remarked about it. She knit her brows.

"What do you want," she said, "the prince is a man whom I might like, who even dazzles me, and I am free. I can do what I please—"

"Don't you love me any longer—" I stammered, frightened.

"I love only you," she replied, "but I shall have the prince pay court to me."

"Wanda!"

"Aren't you my slave?" she said calmly. "Am I not Venus, the cruel northern Venus in Furs?"

I was silent. I felt literally crushed by her words; her cold look entered my heart like a dagger.

"You will find out immediately the prince's name, residence, and circumstances," she continued. "Do you understand?"

"But—"

"No argument, obey!" exclaimed Wanda, more sternly than I would have thought possible for her, "and don't dare to enter my sight until you can answer my questions."

It was not till afternoon that I could obtain the desired information for Wanda. She let me stand before her like a servant, while she leaned back in her armchair and listened to me, smiling. Then she nodded; she seemed to be satisfied.

"Bring me my footstool," she commanded shortly.

I obeyed, and after having put it before her and having put her feet on it, I remained kneeling.

"How will this end?" I asked sadly after a short pause.

She broke into playful laughter. "Why things haven't even begun yet."

"You are more heartless than I imagined," I replied, hurt.

"Severin," Wanda began earnestly. "I haven't done anything yet, not the slightest thing, and you are already calling me heartless. What will happen when I begin to carry your dreams to their realization, when I shall lead a gay, free life and have a circle of admirers about me, when I shall actually fulfil your ideal, tread you underfoot and apply the lash?"

"You take my dreams too seriously."

"Too seriously? I can't stop at make-believe, when once I begin," she replied. "You know I hate all play-acting and comedy. You have wished it. Was it my idea or yours? Did I persuade you or did you inflame my imagination? I am taking things seriously now."

"Wanda," I replied, caressingly, "listen quietly to me. We love each other infinitely, we are very happy, will you sacrifice our entire future to a whim?"

"It is no longer a whim," she exclaimed.

"What is it?" I asked frightened.

"Something that was probably latent in me," she said quietly and thoughtfully. "Perhaps it would never have come to light, if you had not called it to life, and made it grow. Now that it has become a powerful impulse, fills my whole being, now that I enjoy it, now that I cannot and do not want to do otherwise, now you want to back out— you—are you a man?"

"Dear, sweet Wanda!" I began to caress her, kiss her.

"Don't—you are not a man—"

"And you," I flared up.

"I am stubborn," she said, "you know that. I haven't a strong imagination, and like you I am weak in execution. But when I make up my mind to do something, I carry it through, and the more certainly, the more opposition I meet. Leave me alone!"

She pushed me away, and got up.

"Wanda!" I likewise rose, and stood facing her.

"Now you know what I am," she continued. "Once more I warn you. You still have the choice. I am not compelling you to be my slave."

"Wanda," I replied with emotion and tears filling my eyes, "don't you know how I love you?"

Her lips quivered contemptuously.

"You are mistaken, you make yourself out worse than you are; you are good and noble by nature—"

"What do you know about my nature," she interrupted vehemently, "you will get to know me as I am."

"Wanda!"

"Decide, will you submit, unconditionally?"

"And if I say no."

"Then—"

She stepped close up to me, cold and contemptuous. As she stood before me now, the arms folded across her breast, with an evil smile about her lips, she was in fact the despotic woman of my dreams. Her expression seemed hard, and nothing lay in her eyes that promised kindness or mercy.

"Well—" she said at last.

"You are angry," I cried, "you will punish me."

"Oh no!" she replied, "I shall let you go. You are free. I am not holding you."

"Wanda—I, who love you so—"

"Yes, you, my dear sir, you who adore me," she exclaimed contemptuously, "but who are a coward, a liar, and a breaker of promises. Leave me instantly—"

"Wanda I—"

"Wretch!"

My blood rose in my heart. I threw myself down at her feet and began to cry.

"Tears, too!" She began to laugh. Oh, this laughter was frightful. "Leave me—I don't want to see you again."

"Oh my God!" I cried, beside myself. "I will do whatever you command, be your slave, a mere object with which you can do what you will—only don't send me away—I can't bear it—I cannot live without you." I embraced her knees, and covered her hand with kisses.

"Yes, you must be a slave, and feel the lash, for you are not a man," she said calmly. She said this to me with perfect composure, not angrily, not even excitedly, and it was what hurt most. "Now I know you, your dog-like nature, that adores where it is kicked, and the more, the more it is maltreated. Now I know you, and now you shall come to know me."

She walked up and down with long strides, while I remained crushed on my knees; my head was hanging supine, tears flowed from my eyes.

"Come here," Wanda commanded harshly, sitting down on the ottoman. I obeyed her command, and sat down beside her. She looked at me sombrely, and then a light suddenly seemed to illuminate the interior of her eye. Smiling, she drew me toward her breast, and began to kiss the tears out of my eyes.

Hockney knew roughly what Kitaj was thinking so it came as no surprise when he was instructed to go out and pick up a girl and then bring her back for his master to fuck. Hockney took a cab to the other side of Hyde Park, found a prostitute and had her stepping out of the taxi in front of Kitaj’s South Kensington digs within 15 minutes. There wasn't much to the fucking Kitaj did with the girl – a few thrusts and it was all over. The real shock for Hockney came when Kitaj offered the girl – who said her name was Lara - a couple more pounds to mistreat his slave.

Back when he was an RCA student, Hockney had the slim dream body of a fashion model, and it was only partly veiled by a semi-transparent negligee Kitaj made him don. At that time Hockney wore his dark blond hair fairly short, in a well-arranged disarray, and his face was most attractive. Hockney's smile seemed to bewitch the prostitute, and his voice possessed that certain erotic something that makes girls go crazy: low volume, unobtrusive, with a deep vibrating overtone, but without seeming smoky.

Once Hockney and Lara were completely naked, the streetwalker tied the john to a standing X-cross Kitaj had in his room. This gave her he best position from which to explore his upper body. She started by stroking Hockney’s silky skin softly to discover the most ticklish spots. This produced joyful shivers, and goose bumps appeared everywhere. But only when Lara increase her fingertip pressure did Hockney start giggling and laughing. It wasn't really torturing at this stage, it was mere play.

Lara continued her game on Hockney's palms. The art student confessed that every touch there has an erotic quality for him. The girl then explained that the most ticklish parts of the body are the erogenous zones. Fingers travel downward over the forearms to the elbows. The elbow crease usually belongs to the ticklish spots, and Hockney's were no exception.

Things get even more interesting as Lara touched Hockney's freely accessible armpits. A first squealing scream escapes him. As her fingers continued to dabble there, his squeals turned into heavy guffaws. Hockney's features contorted into a tortured but still laughing expression, with some slight similarities to a climaxing one. Kitaj who was looking on surmised this was one of the main attractions for any tickle enthusiast: almost orgasmic facial expressions combined with a helplessly writhing body. The reflex to cover underarms and sides is overwhelming, but the bondage prevented Hockney from doing that. The rubber slave was forced to bear the unbearable, and by this time his only wish was that Lara would stop tickling him! But an experienced tickler knows that, and will continue to tickle unless a safety signal is given.

Lara knew from experience that a mere word for a safety signal is not sufficient when it comes to tickling. Tickle victims often laugh so heavily that they can't utter a comprehensible word. But a cough always works. This signal has got another advantage: if your ticklee swallows the wrong way during his laughter, it can be very dangerous to the breathing. But then he has to cough involuntarily, thus interrupting the tickling before the problem gets more serious.

Apart from that, Lara knew any halfway ticklish person would beg you to stop sooner or later, although like Hockney he might really be enjoying this sensuous torture. The real kick for the ticklee lies in the neural overloading. A clever safety signal allows the victim to beg and plead for mercy to his heart's delight without depriving him of this special kick. And begging is an important part in this game of power and surrender.

Therefore, Lara's fingers remained in Hockney's armpits a little longer, until real breathing troubles started. To grant him a little break, Lara tickled and caressed his nipples, which were already erect from the torture. The girl's next target was Hockney's ribs. As Hockney was still slim, his ribcage was deliciously pronounced, and Lara was able to count his ribs. Each and every touch elicited heavy guffawing. Hockney's most sensitive spots in this area turned out to be the area directly below his nipples, and the short lower ribs near the stomach. Touching the lower ribs made Hockney double over even in his bondage. The reflex point is right at the diaphragm. Anyone you care to name is almost sure to laugh at a touch there, because that's where all laughter originates, not only during a tickle session.

This area can be tickled in two different ways: Surface touch and deep kneading. Tickling the surface results in twitching and giggling, whereas the strong touch elicits a heavy guffaw coming from deep within. If you continue the latter it tortures the victim into severe breathing difficulties. This is what Lara did to Hockney, until another break was called for. The girl loved filling these interludes with other forms of erotic stimulation. Hockney's skin had become much more sensitive from the tickling, and being a skilful tickler Lara was able to thoroughly arouse her victim with constant changes between tickling and pure erotic touch.

To bring some variation to the session, Lara took two stiff feathers from a "Surprise Bag" by Kitaj’s bed. These classical tickle instruments were glided softly over Hockney's upper body. They tickled and stimulated simultaneously, as the slave confirmed.

"That's making me so hot!" Hockney cried between his moans and giggles.

Lara's feathers begin to explore Hockney's lower parts. His inner thighs and the hollows at the back of his knees proved particularly rewarding areas. The knee tickling caused Hockney to lose his balance, buckling forward in his bondage not just once but many times. However there was more: using her thumbs and middle fingers like a broad pincer, Lara squeezed Hockney's thighs just above the knees. The result was loud screaming and strong struggling; real tickle torture.

Then Lara took the feathers again to tickle Hockney's pubic area. He tried to pull his legs up as far as the straps that restrained them allowed, but it was never far enough to protect this sensitive area from the girl's touch. Hockney fell into continuous giggling, sometimes interrupted by loud laughter. His V-shaped loin creases produced the most intense sensations and he started to howl at every touch there.

Until then, Lara had carefully avoided touching Hockney's cock directly, but now she draws her feather full-length along his pork sword. As Kitaj watched the scene with curiosity, Lara grabbed Hockney's cock with her hand and started to jerk him off. Hockney squeaked and threw his body back and forth; he seemed to ride the length of the girl's hand. After continuing with this for a few strokes, Lara stopped before Hockney shot his load. She then tickled his genitals with her the tip of the feathers tip, and this produced new fits of giggling and squealing – especially when she worked the feathers around Hockney's balls.

Standing up to apply her fingers to Hockney's upper body once more, Lara saw the art student's eyes: they are "tickle-drunk", a special gleam produced by laughter and arousal. When Lara resumed the kneading on Hockney's ribs, eliciting jubilating screams, the slave repeatedly pressed his lower body against the prostitute and attempted to get his erect manhood into her creamy slit. The victim's reactions, his facial expressions, the tortured but still cathartic laughter, the severe struggling and wriggling in his bondage, they all had the effect of an aphrodisiac on the girl, and Hockney's abdominal movements added greatly to her excitement.

Not to make the game too boring, Kitaj hands Lara various gadgets from his special bag: a small, pointed paintbrush, Q-tips, and a small dildo. Lara’s put the dildo in Hockney’s mouth while promising to shove it up his arse if he behaved himself. She tickled Hockney's nipples with the paintbrush and he couldn't help laughing. The dildo fell from his mouth and clattered to the floor.

As interesting as these gadgets proved to be, the best tools for tickling Hockney were Lara's skilful fingers. She found using them a most satisfying experience. With them, she could feel the involuntary twitches beneath Hockney's silky skin, a thoroughly sensuous vibration. She particularly enjoyed it as her fingers tickled Hockney's stomach and hips.

Hockney always got breaks at the right moments, filled with soft kissing on his ears and nipples. During this, he would bend down his head to breathe his excitement into Lara's ears, renewing her arousal. As she started to tickle his armpits again, Hockney screamed for mercy. Lara desisted.

"Why do you stop? I didn't use the danger signal, did I?” Hockney spat cheekily. “I really enjoy this torture, although it gets unbearable sometimes."

Hockney got his punishment for this from the heaviest possible tickle attack. He was forced into loud, continuous guffawing, and during inhaling, a small "grunt" escaped him.

"Coughing is the danger signal, not grunting!" Lara admonished him.

This elicited a new fit of laughter, although Hockney wasn't being touched, and then he grunted again, resulting in more involuntary mirth.

Lara then took Hockney down from his upright position and tied him face down on the bed. Once he was secured she tickled his feet. The very first touch on his arches made him scream, and Lara was glad she'd tied each of the slave’s limbs to a corner of the bed. The restraints prevented her being hit as he writhed.

Hockney's laughter took on a different quality. It really sounded tortured, bordering on hysterical. His feet were incredibly ticklish, and Lara extracted the maximum of erotic stimulation from this weakness. She licked and nibbled at Hockney's toes. Her tongue between them left him a half-crazy wreck, his voice repeatedly failing. And the feathers drawn across Hockney's toe balls made him scream. The tickle slave was visibly exhausted by this point, his face and neck flushed, but still he had an aroused gleam in his eyes when Lara pulled his head back and looked into them.

“There are fifty shades of pink in my pussy!” Lara told Hockney as she untied him. “I want you to turn over so that I can sit on your face while you lick out every one of them!”

“And Hockney thinks he is gay not straight.” Kitaj laughed as his slave gave the prostitute a good tongue job. “There is no gay or straight in BDSM!”

Saturday, 2 June 2012

DAVID HOCKNEY’S ART SCHOOL DAZE Part 11

FLOGGED AND BRANDED IN HYDE PARK


R. B. Kitaj, David Hockney and Derek Boshier ate an early dinner together on what was to be a very special night. Boshier ordered his steak medium, and Hockney his medium rare, but Kitaj told the waiter with polite domination that he’d have his very rare: “Cook it just long enough to warm it, but make sure it's left good and bloody". The waiter looked surprised by this command but scribbled it down on his order pad.

The conversation at The Kensington Steak House was lively but not forced on any topic except the one that had brought them together that night, Hockney's initiation into new depths of BDSM pain and humiliation. Boshier interjected an observation from time to time, but kept his conversation low key despite sitting next to Hockney in the high backed booth, with Kitaj sitting across from them. Kitaj spoke more than the other two men.

After steak the three men went round to a pad owned by a friend of Kitaj’s. Kitaj tied Hockney and Boshier up and whipped them a little, but did nothing particularly wild or extravagant. This indoor sex session was just a little tease, a warm up for something far kinkier outdoors afterwards. Kitaj took a devilish delight in nipple clipping Boshier and Hockney together as they knelt across from each other with their wrists tied behind their backs. The dom used little birch rod love brushes across his slave's backs to make them pull back from each other - stretching their nipples out as they did so.

"Don't worry, Hockney," Kitaj spat at his fellow art student as he took deep pleasure in lightly caning the man bent over his lap "your punishment will get way more intense than this once we're in Hyde Park."

Kitaj then made Hockney lie prone on rough cotton fabric sheets as he blindfolded him. The sub's face was buried in a pillow and Kitaj pushed the scarf he was using as a gag deeper into Hockney’s mouth, to restrict his air supply. Hockney’s wrists and ankles were stretched taut to the four posts of the bed.

Boshier was ordered to switch roles to that of a dom. He was told twist and stretch Hockney’s cock while Kitaj roughly shoved his own love pole deep inside the sub’s arse. Simultaneously Kitaj worked Hockney’s heaving shoulder blades with a taming touch from his birch rod bundle.

Then Boshier reverted to a sub role once again and was tied into a pea pod sixty-nine with Hockney. Kitaj worked first one man's arsehole and then the other - while his leathered riding crop popped and stung whatever piece of exposed flesh caught his eye. When the two subs were untied, Boshier was told that from now on he would do no more than watch. The three men dressed and carrying various piece of kit in bags they took with them, walked to Hyde Park. They climbed over the railings since this public space was locked up at night.

Before getting far, Hockney’s foot dropped into a hole in the ground he’d not seen in the dark. His fantasies and desires snapped with the same sound as what he took to be his bones breaking. The sub screamed: “I think I've broken my ankle...damn it to hell!”

"Let me take a look." Kitaj said dropping his bag on the ground.

Kitaj pulled down Hockney’s sock and examined his ankle: “No visible bruising and it's not swelling much, no bones sticking through, you probably just sprained it a little. Here, this is the noise you heard!" The dom chuckled as an old but thick freshly broken twig was fished out of the hole that Hockney had stumbled into. “You'll be alright!” The master reassured his slave.

Supported by Kitaj on one side and Boshier on the other, Hockney walked on. The men stopped when they came to two lone oak trees about six feet apart. The oaks were about two feet thick at the bottom. Six feet in front of them was a fire ring on the ground made from loosely assembled rocks with a dark pile of old ashes in the middle. Hockney was immediately convinced the site had been recently used for ritual purposes. Wild ideas about what kind of ritual raced through the sub’s mind. Surely Kitaj wasn't involved in devil worship and human sacrifice!

"It's time, Hockney!" Kitaj barked. "Drop your bag and be very, very still".

Having ordered Boshier to sit by himself and observe, Kitaj pulled the gear he needed from his bag. Next he organised a bit of firewood. Hockney started to feel cold as he stood still, but he didn't dare move around to keep warm as he’d been told to remain motionless. An involuntary shiver from the cold and of anticipation ran through Hockney as Kitaj built a fire.

The heat from the fire warmed Hockney and so he felt comfortable about the next instruction he received – which was to strip naked. Hockney’s ankle was still a little sore but he now realised he’d suffered no more than a mild sprain.

“Are you ready, Hockney,” Kitaj spat, “for the last step of your first beginning, your life as my total and complete slave?”

"Yes, Kitaj I am ready!" Hockney replied

“Kneel and kiss!” Kitaj instructed

Hockney knelt naked in the dirt and kissed Kitaj’s boots as the dom bent over him and slapped his arse as hard as he could manage from that angle. Using ropes and cuffs, Kitaj soon had Hockney war-eagled between the two oak trees: wrists bound and arms pulled taut upwards, ankles bound and legs spread open wide horizontally towards the trunks of the trees. The yellow and orange flames of the fire whimpered down to red-hot embers, waves of heat shimmering and shattering the cold of the night. Hockney’s eyes were wide open and his mouth was partially closed with a shaped leather gag with air holes punched in it. Kitaj used his hands to roughly slap Hockney’s chest and genitals, hitting them hard, before moving around to the sub’s arse and back and abusing them with an equally untamed force.

Then thheeewwwhacckkk!!! A cat o'nine tails found Hockney’s exposed shoulders. The art student hadn't seen the whip come out of any of the bags before feeling it. Kitaj moved the whipping around to the sub’s front and took great delight as Hockney’s eyes widened and screams of very real pain hiccupped forth from the deepest part of his lungs - the sounds impeded by his gag!

Kitaj didn't hold back. Hockney didn't want him to although his body convulsed and thrashed from the continuing rain of blows to all parts of his naked flesh. Trickles of blood were already oozing from dermal abrasions on Hockney’s chest, stomach and back, as Kitaj switched from cat to cane.

Rockets of pain shot through Hockney as Kitaj canned his chest and butt and back. The dom was sideways flicking the sub’s nipples with short punchy swipes, hitting softly enough not peel them off but hard enough to send pure bolts of pain to the centre of Hockney’s brain. Eventually Hockney passed out and a look of concern passed over Kitaj’s face as he went over to a bag and rummaged through it.

Once an ammonia cap had been broken under Hockney’s nose, the sub regained consciousness. Kitaj was then able to continue his sadistic work over of the art student with a large studded paddle. When Hockney was hit square on the genitals with this torture implement, he couldn't help but piss himself. Kitaj just smiled and laughed at Hockney’s temporary incontinence as he threw a new instrument of torture atop the burning embers of the fire, with its handle hanging over the perimeter rocks that contained it. Then he removed the gag that had muffled Hockney's screams so effectively.

Kitaj snatched up a scalpel and it's blade glinted in the moonlight. "Are you ready, Hockney, to become my property, my slave for life, once and for all, for all eternity?"

"Yes, Kitaj, yes!" Hockney shouted. “Do it, do it now! Make me your Slave, mark me, brand me, do it now!"

“Kiss and suck the blood of your master first, slave!" Kitaj commanded as in one motion he pricked a finger with his scalpel and shoved the bleeding digit into Hockney's mouth. The blood tasted so sweet that the sub sucked at it like he was a kid with a lollipop. After a minute or so, Kitaj removed his finger from Hockney's gob, wiped it's bloodied end with a handkerchief and placed a plaster over the cut.

Kitaj proceeded to use the scalpel to knife-play all over the sub’s body; expertly slicing Hockney just enough to leave traces and ever so slightly open the top layer of his skin, but not doing this so often or so deep for it to leave permanent scars.

Kitaj’s mouth found Hockney’s gob and they kissed. In the flaming embers of the fire, the shaft of a branding iron was turning from black to grey as its design head became white atop the yellow-orange of the glowing ashes.

“It is time, Hockney!’ Kitaj announced.

On Hockney’s reddened and nicked and knife-worked chest, Kitaj’s practised hand drew a design with a razor-pointed pen, the emblem of Kitaj's ownership of Hockney. The sub was hypnotised by the cobra charm of the red-dotted scalpel being waved before his eyes. Kitaj was breaking Hockney’s skin and muscle as he simultaneously broke whatever remained of the sub’s free will. The slipstream edge of the blade carved into Hockney’s flesh like a metal jet stream parting the art student's past life from the new submissive arising like a phoenix from the ashes of sexual compromise. Miscellaneous torrents of blood poured from the emblematic wound.

Going over to the fire, Kitaj scooped some damp cold ashes out from one side. These were shoved under Hockney’s nose for him to smell. They stank to high heaven. Hockney didn't react until Kitaj smeared the ancient darkening substance into the open wound of his slave emblem. When this happened the sub screamed until he was out of breath.

Before Hockney could recover fully, Kiraj darted over to the fire and came back with the white-hot brand. Kitaj knew that the hotter the brand was at the time of placement the better it would be for Hockney, since the quicker the brand was on and off the sub's flesh the less pain there would be. Nonetheless, Hockney wasn’t ready for how much the branding hurt. He soon lost consciousness.

Kitaj beckoned Boshier over to help him. They untied Hockney and dressed him. Then Kitaj opened up a few cuts on the sub's face – so that Hockney was covered in enough blood to give him a serious fright when he came to, but not enough to endanger him in any way. By the time Hockney regained consciousness Kitaj was gone, but Boshier was still there to help him out of the park and to the sanctuary of a nearby pub called The Choughs. When the pair entered the bar, the old lady who ran it dropped her work, the barmaid turned round with a start and little female ejaculation, and one of the caretakers from the RCA - who was drinking in this establishment - stared with all his eyes for a moment, and then, jumping up, exclaimed:

“Bless us, if it isn't Master Boshier and Master Hockney, of the Republican College of Art. Why what's the matter, sir? Master Hockney, you be all covered wi' blood, sir.”

“Oh dear me! poor young gentlemen!” cried the hostess. “Here, Patty, run and tell Dick to go for the doctor, and get the best room.”

“No, please don't. It's nothing at all,” interrupted Hockney, laughing. “A basin of cold water and a towel, if you please, Miss Patty, and I shall be quite presentable in a minute. I'm very sorry to have frightened you all.”

Boshier joined in the assurances that it was nothing but a little of his friend's claret, which he would be all the better for losing, and watched with an envious eye the interest depicted in Patty's pretty face, as she hurried in with a basin of fresh pumped water, and held the towel. Hockney bathed his face, and very soon was as respectable a member of society as usual, save for a slight swelling on one side of his nose where he’d been caught hard from a crack of a whip.

Boshier meantime - seated on a table - had been explaining the circumstances of the BDSM initiation to the landlady and the caretaker who listened with rapt fascination. “And now, ma'am,” said he as Hockney joined them, and seated himself on a vacant chair, “I'm sure you must draw famous ale.”

“Indeed, sir, I think Dick - that's my ostler, sir - is as good a brewer as is in the whole of London. We always brew at home, sir, and I hope always shall.”

“Quite right, ma'am, quite right,” said Boshier; “and I don't think we can do better than follow the old caretaker here. Let us have a jug of the same ale as he is drinking. And you'll take a glass with us, Jem? Or will you have spirits?”

Jem the RCA caretaker was for another glass of ale, and bore witness to it being the best in London, and Patty drew the ale, and supplied two more long glasses. Boshier, with apologies, produced his cigar case; and Jem, under the influence of the ale and a first-rate Havana (for which he deserted his pipe, though he did not enjoy it half as much), volunteered to go and rouse the yard and conduct them safely back to their digs. This offer was politely declined and then, Jem's hour for bed having come, he being a methodical man, as became his position, departed, and left our two young friends in sole possession of the bar. Nothing could have suited the two young art students better, and they set to work to make themselves agreeable with further drinking.

They listened with lively interest to the landlady's statement of the difficulties of a widow woman in a house like hers, and to her praises of her factotum Dick and her niece Patty. They applauded her resolution of not bringing up her two boys in the publican line, though they could offer no very available answer to her appeals for advice as to what trade they should be put to; all trades were so full, and things were not as they used to be. The one thing, apparently, which was wanting to the happiness of Boshier in London, was the discovery of such beer as he had at last found at The Choughs.

Dick was to come up to RCA first thing in the morning with a barrel of ale to be placed in Boshier's studio. At last that worthy appeared in the bar saying they should have shut up at least an hour before, and was sent out by his mistress to see that the street was clear, for which service he received a shilling, though his offer of escort was declined. And so, after paying in a splendid manner for their entertainment, Hockney and Boshier found themselves in the street, and set off for their digs, agreeing on the way that The Choughs was a great find, the old lady was the best old soul in the world, and Patty the prettiest girl in London (although not quite as attractive as some of the men they knew). They found the streets quiet, and walking quickly along them, soon reached their separate homes.