#703) Her Blank Canvas

She was famous for being able to look twelve different ways, depending upon her make-up. Her pretty face, with its big eyes and full lips, was nothing more than a blank canvas to paint upon.
But today, her only make-up was the heavy application of tears on her otherwise bare eyelashes.
“Did you have to spank me so hard?”
“Yes. You needed it,” her lover answers, having no patience for her self-pity.
“That doesn’t make it hurt any less!”
“Let me have a look,” and he lifts the hem of her poncho, rubs her reddened bottom.
“Stop, someone will see!”
“I don’t care, let me have a look!” he persists, bares her, bends her, inspects his handiwork on her hind-end.
Now it is her derriere that is the blank canvas, having just been painted with punishment. It is a masterpiece by her Master, a work of art that worked her pale flesh until it burned with an inner light, a portrait in pain using all the shades of red in the palette.
“Kiss it, make it better…” she enjoins, oblivious of those around them on the Parisian street.
He kneels behind her behind, kisses each burnished cheek sweetly.
“I don’t mind kissing your ass, my love. Or having everyone see.” He stands, embraces her, kisses her mouth. “You’ve never looked lovelier!”
“I’m not made-up, I’ve been crying my eyes out!” she scoffs.
“And you’re not a prima donna, you are a human being for the moment.”
She realizes the truth when she hears it.
“I’m sorry I get… haughty…”
“It’s okay, you paid for it.”
She rubs her bottom. “Yeah.” They stroll, arm-in-arm for a block. “I think your kisses really did help the stinging in my bum. I think making love would make it feel lots better…”
“Can you wait until we get back to my flat, or should we look for an alleyway?”
“It’s up to you, my love. I’m in your hands, I belong to you…”

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