January’s story writing contest, ‘What the Camera Saw’ turned out many really impressive pieces of spanking fiction. ‘Art is in the Eye of the Beholder’ finds a sneaky cameraman getting his comeuppance for peeping. Enjoy!
– Dana
Art is in the Eye of the Beholder
I didn’t come to Vegas to gamble, or for the shows or any other kind of entertainment. I came to the Nevada desert to meet a pop star. He wanted a music video to compliment his show and he knew my reputation for the innovative. “Real people” he called it “I want a video showing real people in Vegas”. I liked the idea. I liked a challenge. That is why I came. I certainly didn’t come to Las Vegas to discover the lure of spanking.
I found the phone just after I left that meeting. It was in the window of a second rate pawn shop just a block or two off the strip. I think it was the oddness of its placement in the window that caught my attention. The eye artist will pick up on things like that. And an artist I was. An artist in need of a phone such as the one lost in that wave antiques and Hollywood memorabilia.
The owner gave me great deal on it. In honesty I don’t even think he knew it was there. The phone’s shell was sun faded and scratched and somewhere along its life, someone had painted the initials D.K., with what might have been red nail polish, in the bottom corner of the face plate. Yet when I pushed the power button the phone came to life. The shop owner sold it to me for ten bucks, no money back, no guarantee it would make calls. No problem on my side. I wasn’t buying a phone. I was buying a camera. My plan to make the video seem more “real people” was to shoot sequences with a low tech camera. This one would suit the bill just fine.
That was on a Saturday night. For the next five days I wandered Fremont and the Strip with my little camera inconspicuously aimed at the variety of lifestyles that come to drop cash into the slot machines of sin city. Professionals, college kids, seniors, you name it, all kinds of folks from all corners of the country found their way inside the lens of my beat up little phone/camera. I would shoot by day and edit footage into my laptop by night and all was going according to plan. On day six the best laid plans of men and mice, and artists, went astray.
They were a qualified looking couple, I remember that. Him in a designer suit, her wearing a skirt long enough to remain professional but snug enough to accentuate her curves. I had figured them to be accountants, perhaps sales people, something of that sort. They were one of dozens of couples I had managed to film that Saturday. One of dozens of videos shot, yet somehow the only one left on the camera’s memory when I downloaded that night. That in its self defied logic, but what the camera had seen was even more beyond belief.
My thirty second video clip of the couple had somehow transformed into a twenty minute production. And what a production it was. The video began with what I assumed was the footage I had taken earlier in the day, the couple walking the Vegas Street. Only it didn’t stop where I had stopped taping. I watched in amazement as the couple on the screen turned the corner and then with the camera still behind them entered into the doorway of what was obviously an office building. And then they were in an office. Her office. And now she was all business.
As the camera rolled, she opened her desk drawer and removed the credit card bill. She walked to where the man was sitting; now looking more than nervous, in a sturdy wooden chair in the center of the room. She waved the bill in front of his face and chided his about his overspending for a few moments, before walking back to her side of the desk and pulling another item from the open drawer. It was a hairbrush. With the hairbrush and the bill in her hands she walked back to the man in the chair. She instructed him to stand, and she herself took a seat on the chair. The man began to sputter words that, with a wave of her hand, were cut off as quickly as they had begun. With the same authority she ordered him to lower his pants and briefs and bend himself across her lap. It was clear to me it was an action he was familiar with.
She was going to spank him. My mind and my eyes watched in disbelief. She was going to spank him! Before she did, she laid the credit card bill on the floor in front to his face to “remind him to be more responsible in the future”. And then she did it. With one hand holding him in place and that wicked looking brush in the other, she paddled his wriggling and reddening behind for a good ten minutes. It was clear that she too was no stranger to this situation. She was firm and she was thorough and when she was done there was little doubt that a certain gentleman would remember this encounter for a long time to come. Maybe two men.
And then the screen went blank and it was over. When I went to play it again the screen remained blank. Whatever had been there was gone. Only it would never be gone from my mind. It wasn’t just the spanking I remember…it was the art of it. Art is not just paint on canvas or music in the voice, art transcends any perceived boundaries. Art can be found in any place, in any action. That spanking, the grace of her movements as she painted his backside with her brush as good as any art I had ever seen. She was an artist.
I was both astonished and intrigued. I went on taping every day the next week, all the while questioning my sanity. Each night eagerly downloading footage, wanting not to see anything, yet desperately wanting to see it, all in the same breath. I taped only couples and I continually searched the crowd for the couple from the spanking scene that now replayed over and over in my head.
The following Saturday night she was back again. This time they were farmers. In this scenario she led her victim into a dusty barn, a thin switch flicking in her hand as she walked. Inside she spoke little as she motioned the farmer to lower his coveralls and bend himself over a stack of straw bales. From a nail on the wall she retrieved a thick leather strap and with knowing and experienced hands she proceeded to administer a severe strapping. The man held fast to the bale beneath him and kicked his legs as the welts were skillfully applied. When the switch replaced the strap it was all he could do to remain atop the bale. He yelped and twisted in rhythm with the rod. Again what she delivered was art to my senses, an erotic ballet of sight and sound. And again it was gone.
I started shooting again bright and early the next morning. I didn’t need to. I had much more footage than I needed for my project. But still I shot. From Sunday morning till Saturday afternoon I walked the streets with that camera bonded to my hand. No I didn’t need to. I had to. I had to see her again. I longed to see the swing of the strap in her hand, hear the paddle send it message of discipline to the deserving bottom across her lap. The music video had become secondary in my life. Her, and her spankings, were what now consumed my thoughts.
And when she didn’t appear in my downloads the next Saturday night I was devastated. Again and again I watched, and again and again all that crossed my screen was the footage I had taken. Not even so much as a glimpse of the woman. I sat distraught in my hotel room. It was quiet in my room. It was just as quiet in my heart. She was gone. I picked up the cell phone, held it in my hand and mindlessly paced the floor. She was gone.
The ringing of the phone pulled me out of my trance. It took a few seconds for my mind to realize it was the phone in my hand making the sound..and a few more for my mind to believe it. It couldn’t be ringing, it wasn’t a phone anymore, it was a camera, nothing else. And yet it was ringing. Even more I was answering it. It was her voice I heard on the other end.
“It’s time for you to come and see me. Be here in twenty minutes. I’m sure you know what happens boys who are late”. She didn’t ask me, she told me. She gave me an address and she hung up.
I spent almost an hour with her that first night as she made me a part of her living art. She lectured me about spying on people, on my invasion of their privacy and lack of respect. And then she spoke to me with her hands.. and her hands spoke volumes. When our time was up I understood the meaning of respect. And I was happy.
I took the bus back to the hotel that night. It was almost empty but I stood up anyway. Sitting was not an option for the next few hours. At the first stop light I gazed out the side windows. We had stopped in front of a thrift shop. My phone, her phone, was sitting on a shelf in the big glass window….
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