Obedience & Devotion by Miss Irene Clearmont

Book Details

Obedience & Devotion – Eric and his son Jamie. The father, a portrait artist who has dabbled in erotic art. His son, on the point of starting university. One day the sadistic Mrs Kurt walks into Eric’s gallery and suddenly everything changes.

It seems that she knows all about him. About his erotic art, about the wife that died years ago, about his son Jamie and about his fetishes and needs. She has seen something in Eric that he cannot see in himself. She can see right through him as well as another quality that she can use for herself.

She invites him to paint for her, supplying a model who is Eric’s dream of female perfection. A model who will pose for the new series of erotic sketches that Mrs Kurt has commissioned.

This novel describes the path of descent of a man who is corrupted by the women that need him for their own purposes. Purposes that are not just about teaching him their corruption and sadistic ways.

This novel is a trip into madness, a trip into a side of female domination that twists the mind as the ineffable Mrs Kurt introduces her malevolent husband and a whole creche full of helpless and not so helpless playthings.

F/m, Trans/fm, Futa, M/fm, Revenge, Caging, BDSM, Horror, Thriller, Corporal.

Strength 10/10 – 65,000 Words

Written 2021

Excerpt: Obedience & Devotion

Obedience and Devotion

Part 1 Still Life

Brush Strokes. Compose.

University beckoned.

A chance to escape, the start of a new life.

That was still a long four months away, but Jamie had already started the preparations. Despite the fact that his father, Eric, made everything easy for him, Jamie took it all very seriously indeed! The gap year in France before the Cambridge place was taken was spent in preparation. Brush technique, galleries and savouring the light that lit the scenery with a glow all of its own. Language, cuisine and friendship had fallen by the wayside as he had sat in that glorious light and painted the wonderful landscapes in awe. He had even grown a long ponytail that gave him that Montmartre-artist look.

It was his thing, trees, rocks and far away hills perched with ruins. Evocative and escapist. Jamie’s father was of another time, an era when intimate portraits beckoned, but he took a broad view of his son’s taste

Art was something that Jamie and his father lived to the full. It was life and their leisure. The tiny gallery off Bond Street, the auctions, the glory of a sale, the academy, every moment was spent living the dream. There was no way that Jamie was going to settle for second best at University, full honours was the only door he was prepared to walk through. So, he leafed through sketches and roughs, carefully selecting those that would travel with him and adding them to a portfolio that was already far too large.

Like clockwork, at five every afternoon during the week, the sound of the tyres on the driveway signalled Eric’s arrival. Jamie was expected to have the coffee ready, one of the few small chores that were his and not the housekeeper’s. As the door opened and Eric arrived, Jamie was watching the coffee pouring in an arc to swirl into the cups. His father dropped his small attaché case by the kitchen door and entered the kitchen with a broad grin that signified that a deal had been done and he was most satisfied.

Jamie raised an eyebrow. ‘The Baines, you sold the Baines?’

Eric shook his head, ‘No it’s something that you’ll never guess…’

‘OK then, tell me… if I could never guess, then there’s not much point in me even trying.’

Jamie’s father took the coffee and sipped at it before continuing. ‘It’s the Gregory Memorial triannual exposition …’

‘You have a place?’

‘Son, I have a place in the exhibition! In the erotica room, they want ‘Gillian’s Revenge’ on the wall and another. Something new… a centrepiece.’

‘It’s in two months…’

‘I know, I know, not much time to think, I have to do….’

Jamie raised an eyebrow. Portraiture was his father’s mainstay, the little that he earned from painting now was all those rather stiff compositions and commissions, but his real passion was the sensual, the amatory, the degenerate and depraved.

‘So, who’s the model,’ said Jamie. ‘Florrie is away…’

‘Oh, I’ll find one easily enough,’ laughed Eric. ‘It’s time that I did something new and original. Something daring, shocking even! To wake up the armchair critics, get reviews in the papers about how scandalous my work is. This could be the last chance…’

‘Dad, don’t be so silly! At fifty-five you are scarcely over the hill…’

‘That’s not true and you know it, Jamie,’ said his father. ‘Ever since your mother died, I have rested on my laurels. My work is accepted, lauded just a little even if I dare admit it, but I am not new and exciting anymore. I need to wake them all up and be the talk of the town. Selling other’s paintings is a living, but it’s not a passion. This is a perfect chance…’

‘If you say so, Dad, ‘but, you know that erotica does not sell at high prices, that it has to be hidden in private galleries, out of sight. It could leave you cold-shouldered by the academy as well. Anyway, where are you going to get a model?’

Eric laughed. ‘Oh, I have some ideas, boy. Don’t worry your head about it. All I need is something special for what I have in mind.’

Jamie shrugged as if disinterested. Florrie had been the model for all of the nudes that his father had created in the last five years. Personally, Jamie had always found her unattractive in both temperament and figure and the pictures staid and uninteresting. Shallow breasts, long neck and a figure that had almost no erotic overtones as far as Jamie was concerned. Draped like a Victorian dame on a couch while his father painted and carried on a small affair that was so easy to overlook. She would not be happy at all if Eric found another model…

‘Well, do what you want, just bear in mind that your reputation as owner of the gallery as well as a painter is what pays for the food on the table…’

‘God, Jamie!’ said Eric with a sigh. ‘Sometimes you are just like an old woman. Art is passion, art is jeopardy, art is testing the boundaries and I am going to throw caution to the winds! Your mother loved the risk!’

Jamie thought of the charcoal sketches hidden in a folio in the attic and shuddered. How old had he been when he had flicked through them? Thirteen, fourteen? Just after mother died, anyway. His heart had raced, his mind had spun and he had suddenly felt a surprising stiffness below… When Eric was gone, that folio would be hidden away or burned. He wondered if mother had ever seen them? Doubtful, he decided.

Whatever Eric imagined, she would have been so shocked… ‘Well, do what you want, Dad, you always do.’

‘Exactly, boy. I follow my own muse and I will answer for it.’

Brush Strokes. Colour

Larissa, Larissa, thought Eric as he gazed at the passing pedestrians. How you would laugh! Every son, every daughter, imagined that their parents were different from all the rest. Jamie was no different, he believed his parents to have been the perfect couple, an exemplar of middle class solidity. Toast for breakfast, a goodbye kiss off to work, weekends painting commissions, a meal ready for her husband when he returned and television before bedtime.

How could he ever know what demons lurked beneath that stolid family life? He could not, because what lay beneath the surface was hidden from a child’s gaze. Eric, the sensual artist, delighting in degeneracy while Larissa, his wife, enjoyed his debauched weaknesses as much as his strengths. Posed for his sketches, delighted in playing games that had had to be hidden deep when Jamie was born. Secrecy had become second nature, bedroom-only games the rule, the couple’s passions hidden in deep waters as the son grew up. He had so missed her strutting around the house with the cane in her hand before Jamie had been born.

Occasionally there had been moments of the old relationship, like a wreck showing at high tide, but as time went on and Jamie grew older, that substratum of erotic passion retreated to become nohting more than the folio in the attic and a suppressed need that could never be released.

Eric turned from the engraved window and looked over the art that was displayed in his gallery. Twee landscapes, a commissioned portrait that had yet to be picked up, golden frames with faces that stared out from the canvases as if bored with the view.

It is all so fucking dull, thought Eric as he sat on one of the armchairs. Boring, but a good living…

His mind turned to Florrie and he winced as he recalled the stale love-making, the bony body still under his, as he fucked her between poses. No replacement at all for the love that had slipped away when Larissa had drawn her last breath on the sterile hospital bed. Florrie just emptied him of his muse, she did not pander to his tastes…

Face waxy and pale, every breath a struggle, gone was the fire that had taunted him with desire, all that had been left at the end was the last shreds of willpower that had filled his nights with endless desire. Larissa had been his slave, his arrogant mistress, his tethered fuck-toy and his Goddess, and now she was gone. Even the memories were fading to sepia and Eric felt as though she had been nothing but a dream. A tear filled his eye and he wiped it away with a reflexive swipe of his hand. Larissa! Even her name suggested the lost sensual world that he yearned for. Inseparable love and craving, his lost muse…

Eric turned to the computer on the desk and tilted the screen a little. The face of it could not be seen from outside and he was alone, but the impulse to hide his explorations were too strong to resist. He wondered if he should use a photograph as his model? Easy enough to change the face to a stern gaze, hide the place that it had been stolen from, but somehow, the idea of not painting from the real was too much of a swindle.

He watched the results of his search slide off the top of the screen and was not inspired. Porn! That’s what they would all call it, but the rebellious streak in him led him deeper down the page. To the place where the individual words of the search twisted the result to something darker and harder.

Eric sighed. How easy it was now! How easy to find a partner, to tailor the search for the like minded to an exactitude of decimal places. How lucky he had been with Larissa. More than mere luck, destiny! He closed the browser and sat just as a customer wandered into the small gallery. Mrs

Kurt, in the bloom of her early forties. The woman for whom the commissioned painting waited. Eric glanced at the canvas on the frame and stood.

‘Eric,’ she said. ‘I think that it is time…’

Excerpt from Obedience & Devotion