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.

4 comments:

  1. I did not realize that being an artist involved so much BDSM, torture and ass play. I must have missed those classes in school.

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    1. That's what you get for playing hooky. Conformism is the new non-conformism!

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  2. Replies
    1. And I'm still waiting for an invitation from Hockney to take a look at his etchings in private, although I understand the novelist Tom McCarthy spent a pleasant afternoon doing just this with Hockney a year or three back....

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