Читать книгу Shadow Lane Volume 9: The History of Hugo Sands and other Stories of Spanking and Love - Eve Howard - Страница 11
ОглавлениеChapter Three Garda, Bettie and Brooke
Garda returned to L.A. distracted by the pleasures she had experienced so recently in Random Point but pessimistic about ever finding the like in her city.
On arriving home at her cottage in Laurel Canyon, she was delighted to find that Hugo Sands had already emailed her about a possible playmate, a creative businessman, of the proper age, personable and possessed of sterling references. But Garda perceived a possibly snag when she accessed Augie Rose’s photo online, remembering that she had already met this gentleman, across a bargaining table several months before.
The incident occurred while Garda was helping a friend in private practice with her case overload, unbeknownst to her own employers. Garda’s client, a small bookstore owner, was suing Augie Rose for recovering and retitling the same erotic paperbacks that had been sold to the book dealer several years before.
Augie Rose claimed he had bought the books without covers from a printer after a publisher defaulted on a large order and had no idea that the books had ever been printed before. A shrewd and amiable arbiter, Rose annoyed Garda by striking a deal with the bookstore owner whereby he would pay the damages in paperbacks rather than actual money. Garda’s fee was barely enough to purchase one pair of shoes on sale at Barneys.
There was a second complication involving the ubiquitous Augie Rose, for the studio had just arranged for her, in her capacity as contract lawyer, to visit his house in Nichol’s Canyon and secure it for a location shoot. She received this dispatch from Jeffrey Jardine, the new head of her division, a singularly charmless young dynamo, to whom she privately referred as: The Barking Crewcut, but whom she had no wish to irritate with potential conflicts of interest.
She was now scheduled to go up to Rose’s house, negotiate an acceptable fee and hope that through all this he wouldn’t recognize her from the previous mediation.
But Augie Rose was not one to forget a sleek, striking redhead, even if met over the bargaining table during a dull, legal dispute. In fact, Garda was fully appreciated by Augie Rose at the time, though she had treated him with the haughty contempt she felt deserved by any bandit. (Garda didn’t believe a word of Augie’s innocence in the matter of the recovered titles.)
Garda drove her convertible up Nichol’s Canyon that brilliantly sunny, hot morning, in a new fitted suit of French grey jersey that clung elegantly to her slender form and complimented her straight, shoulder length russet hair to Technicolor perfection. Augie Rose had seemed an agreeable if unctuous fellow. No doubt the oiliness was necessary to lubricate the cogs of his business, she mused, turning up his long, winding driveway to the ivy covered, pocket mansion where he lived.
It was obvious to Garda that if she did go out with Augie Rose, she could expect only the most refined wining and dining. While ringing the bell she tried to compose herself, for her heart had begun to beat fast. Something pink and luscious in bloom around the doorway was perfuming the air exquisitely. A Latina cleaning woman opened the door and showed Garda the way to the patio garden, where Augie Rose was enjoying his morning coffee and papers.
“Hi, remember me?” Garda asked, extending her hand to shake his. Augie looked at her.
“Oh, hello. Of course, you were Manny’s mediator.”
“You have a good memory, Mr. Rose. I’m Garda Hudson.”
“You get around. Have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”
“No thanks,” Garda said, sitting opposite him in the charmingly landscaped garden overlooking the canyon. “It’s lovely up here, and so secluded. Perfect for a quick, little shoot.”
“So what’s the going rate for a shoot?” he asked innocently.
“Depending on how many rooms we use, between five and fifteen thousand a day.”
“I can make the whole house available to you,” said Augie helpfully.
“May I take a quick tour?”
“Please, come with me,” Augie said, leading her back into the house while idly wondering if she’d notice that most of the rooms weren’t big enough to shoot in.
“Mr. Rose, I have a favor to ask,” Garda began as he was conducting her though the kitchen and pantry.
“Yes, Miss. Hudson?”
“Well, I took that mediation case to help a friend. The studio doesn’t like us to do that sort of thing though. I could get in trouble if it became a matter of record. May I count on your discretion?”
“Absolutely. As long as you believe me when I tell you I had no idea that Manny had ever bought those titles previously. I had a definite feeling throughout our proceeding that you considered me a species of literary pond scum.”
Garda colored. “I’m very sorry,” she murmured. “I’d never even heard of a case like that before and I didn’t know what to think.”
“I don’t want you to think that I’m some sort of chiseler.”
“Honestly, I don’t.”
“But, you did. Admit it.”
“Don’t tease me, Mr. Rose. I have apologized.”
“Teasing you could be fun. You blush.”
“Mr. Rose, you have no idea,” Garda said, as he led her through the lower rooms.
“No idea about what?”
“For one thing, what a small world it is.”
“You’re being very enigmatic,” said Augie.
Garda looked at him. He was tall and wiry, with dark hair, penetrating eyes, a straight nose and wide, handsome mouth. His sand colored gabardine suit and white shirt were tailored and like all of his things, showed discriminating taste. His house smelled of sandalwood and spa minerals, with hot tubs both inside and out. Suddenly Garda felt a stab of excitement pierce her tummy, as though perhaps she too belonged in this little corner of palm fronded paradise.
“Someone told me I should get in touch with you.”
“Someone?”
“Someone unrelated to the studio or the bookstore.”
“I’m terribly intrigued. Let’s go upstairs and you can see the bedroom suites.”
“Someone in The Scene!” she said dramatically, turning toward him as they mounted the winding staircase.
“The Scene?” Augie seemed mystified.
“You’re registered with Matchmakers in Random Point, aren’t you?”
“Matchmakers! Yes, I am. Don’t tell me you work for them too?”
“No. But they told me to look you up.”
“You don’t say!” They emerged onto the second floor landing and he began to lead her down the hall to view the rooms. Now Augie took a new look at Garda, from the rear.
“I never met a man here in L.A. who could give me what I wanted in a scene,” Garda bluntly admitted while touring the suite with the wet bar, pink and brown marble hearth and panoramic view of the city stretching away in the distance far below.
“Tell me what you want. I’ll give it to you!” Augie agreed cheerfully, quite willing to accept this unexpected boon without question.
“I will. But not now.”
“Know what? There’s a party at a friend of mine’s house Friday night. Why don’t you let me take you?”
“What kind of party?”
“The fun kind.”
“Well, what should I wear?” Garda asked practically as Augie Rose put her into her car a few minutes later.
“Let your mood be your guide.”
Garda was charmed enough to nearly forget why she’d come.
“Oh, Mr. Rose, what about the contracts?” She pulled them out of the portfolio on the front seat of her BMW convertible and handed them to him.
“Where do I sign?” he asked, putting his hand out for a pen.
“Why don’t you look them over and call me if you have any questions,” Garda said, handing him her card.
“I’ll do that,” he smiled.
When they met at The Ivy for dinner on Friday night it was not as strangers. Several lengthy phone calls had stimulated both their imaginations and appetites for each other. Garda was so attention deprived in this area that just talking to Augie in detail about what she might expect from him, was enough to simulate hours of foreplay.
Thus she found herself in a state of intense excitement as she consulted the exquisite menu and Augie Rose informed her that they would shortly attend a party in Beverly Glen at the home of his attorney, Crossjay Patterne, whose lover, Lucy Burke, enjoyed collecting, assorting and mating ornaments of the L.A. scene.
“Will people be playing?” Garda asked, after cocktails were served.
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised!”
Ninety minutes later, Augie was ushering her into the impressive home of a more successful attorney than Garda. Their host, Crossjay Patterne, a tall, blond, buff, country club dom, was holding court at the downstairs bar while his girlfriend, Lucy Burke, a blonde in white leather, mixed martinis enthusiastically.
The high ceilinged downstairs suites were milling with denizens of the Hollywood subculture, ranging from professionals to sophisticates, tattooed and profusely pierced streets waifs in a few pieces of good leather to female CEOs in satin evening suits. The mix was not incompatible and due to the profuse amounts of high-grade liquor and catered food, everyone seemed enormously content with their evening’s destination.
Augie walked Garda around the house, upstairs, then down again into the back gardens and pool area, running into people he knew here and there, but mostly just holding her hand tucked in his and smiling quietly at his prize while always keeping an eye out for the perfect corner.
The pool was lit by Japanese lanterns and looked glamorous in the star spangled moonlight. Augie had taken Garda to sit beside him in a big, wooden swing and was on the point of kissing her for the first time when the moment’s dreamlike quality was firmly shattered by the completely unexpected salutation, “Garda Hudson, what are you doing here?” bellowed disagreeably from above.
“Jeffrey!” Garda jumped away from Augie and to her feet. “I could ask you the same thing! Jeffrey Jardine, Augie Rose,” said Garda. The men casually shook hands.
“Did you bring her?” Jeffrey demanded of Augie Rose.
“I did!” Augie replied, smiling at Garda.
“So, were you aware of what kind of party this was going to be, Garda?” Jeffrey demanded, in the hoarse, husky voice that grated so on her nerves.
“Why? What kind of party is it, Jeffrey?” Garda replied carelessly, still somewhat intoxicated from the wine at The Ivy and sipping a fresh champagne.
“Excuse me, Garda,” said Augie tactfully. “I have to go say hello to someone.” He slipped away and left Garda confronting her boss with some hostility.
“Who’s that man you’re with? Where did you meet him? How do you know he isn’t one of these freaks?’
“What do you mean, freaks? Or rather, aren’t you one of them, I mean, us, too?”
“I’ll tell you one thing, I don’t have a padlock through my penis!” Jeffrey revealed indignantly, as though he’d just confronted a half dozen men who did. In reality there was only one, securely bound to a whipping post in the attic and annoying no one. Which was more than Garda could say for Jeffrey.
“Jeffrey, what are you doing here?” Garda asked, suddenly convinced he’d arrived at the party either by mistake or as a gatecrasher.
“The hostess is my ex-girlfriend,” Jeffrey growled, glaring in the general direction of the ground floor rotunda where Miss Lucy Burke was dancing with a cat suited lesbian, herself in a sweetheart cut dress with long sleeves that hugged her slender curves like the skin on hot milk.
“That firebrand Lucy Burke is your ex-girlfriend?” Garda nearly reeled. “And why pray did she dump wonderful you?”
“For not being rich enough to keep her like this,” Jeffrey rancorously admitted.
“Does that mean that you are truly in The Scene?” Garda asked. Jeffrey’s chin came up and he looked at her.
“That depends on what you mean by that statement.”
“Well if you’re going to be coy about it, forget I ever asked,” said Garda, tossing back the rest of her champagne and grabbing another glass off a passing tray.
“What about you? That’s what I want to know!”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Who is this Augie Rose? The name rings a bell.”
“Oh hell,” thought Garda. “I’m not supposed to fraternize with property lessors either!”
“Well, it’s been all too real. I’ll see you at the office,” Garda said, attempting to walk away. He caught her by the arm and pulled her back down into the swing to sit beside him.
“Wait a minute. Let’s finish our conversation.”
“I have to go find my friend.”
“He’ll amuse himself. I just remembered who he is too! He’s the owner of the house you got the contracts signed on this week. Right? The one you let over bill us by ten grand a day?”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Garda cried, her heart jumping.
“That property was assessed as a five thousand dollar day rental site by the production manager’s assistant. You let Mr. Rose sign off the contract with the fifteen thousand dollar per day figure. Didn’t you, Garda?”
“Well, that’s what the property looked like being worth to me,” she replied, though faint of heart.
“I’m not surprised, since you seem to be dating him!” Jeffrey snapped. “I have a good mind to report you for this.”
“So report me!” Garda snapped, feeling her face redden and her heart begin to pound.
“If I did you’d be fined, you know. And reprimanded.”
“So report me,” she repeated, though a bit less enthusiastically now. “Fined how much?”
“Obviously, the extra $30,000.”
“Great! Thanks a lot,” she replied, getting up to flee her persecutor. He pulled her back down.
“Not so fast, young lady.”
“Why not?”
“Why don’t you try to persuade me to be nice?”
“And how might I do that?”
“Why don’t you offer to take the reprimand from me personally. It would go a long way to wiping out the debt. In my mind, anyway.”
“What in the world are you suggesting, Jeffrey?”
“Take the reprimand from me.”
“Okay, what would that entail?”
“Allow me to spank you. Right now. Right here!” Jeffrey enclosed both of Garda’s hands in his own large ones. She looked up at him.
“What?” she stammered.
“Let me spank you and I’ll forget about the over billing. You’ll save thirty thousand dollars. Just like that.”
“But why do you want to?” she wondered, not believing her ears. Was it possible the Barking Crewcut had been looking at her? Thinking about her?
“Why do I want to spank you? I only think about it every time I see you totter down the hall in those tight skirts and high heels. You often run. It’s very cute. Only I’d like to see you in even higher heels. Heels so high you’d be perfectly helpless without me to carry you around in them. Are you ready?”
“I can’t take this in,” Garda protested, springing up and away from Jeffrey. “You have to give me a few minutes to - to rethink you!”
“Why? What do you mean by that?” Jeffrey barked, flipping open a black cigarette case and extracting a cigarette. He let her light it for him, holding her shaky wrist while she did, then pulled her down again beside him and after taking a drag handed her the cigarette.
“I haven’t been accustomed to thinking of you in these terms,” she unsteadily admitted.
“Oh? And how have you been accustomed to thinking of me?”
“I’m sorry Jeffrey, but to me you’ve always been just The Barking Crewcut,” Garda admitted, quite deliberately.
“Well, to me you’ve always just been The Arrogant Slut, but meeting you here, somehow I feel it all fits,” said Jeffrey, taking the cigarette out of her hand, putting it out and then swiftly and ably, pulling her over his lap. “You weigh nothing,” Jeffrey said, arranging her on his football player’s thighs. “Just relax, Garda. This will be over before you know it,” he assured her, gently but firmly capturing one of her slender wrists again and pinning it back to her waist.
Garda was bereft of speech and powerless to move, awed by the deftness of Jeffrey’s attack, how solid his lap felt and how securely he held her to it. It was beyond belief that the hateful Jeffrey Jardine, who was always so trying under the office lights, should be suddenly so enchanting in moonlight.
The spanking was as promised: brief and to the point. Or maybe Garda only perceived it that way. For in reality, it was fully sixty swats of Jeffrey’s big, hard hand.
“You should wear satin at all times,” Jeffrey told her, rubbing the sting away after each volley of spanks. “With your curves, it’s irresistible.”
“Jeffrey,” she turned her head, “this is a very different side of you than I’ve seen.”
Jeffrey continued spanking her firmly, alternating smacks on her slim, oval globes, now so glowingly encased in ivory satin for a little while longer. As she received the smacks with little pants of surprise but otherwise complete docility, he wasn’t quite sure whether Garda was in shock from the summary treatment or off in a female submissive dream world. So presently he let her up.
“Since you’re here with someone else, I won’t make a pest of myself for the rest of the night,” he promised, taking her hand and lightly kissing the back of her ivory satin glove. “But next time I have you over my knee, young lady, you won’t get off so easily!”
“But, I still don’t understand,” she murmured, setting her clothes to rights. Jeffrey knelt to straighten the elaborate gold tasseled fringes on the folds of her form fitting, late-Victorian flavored evening gown and when Augie Rose rejoined them, he assumed that Garda had merely put the impertinent lawyer in his place, at her feet.
“Augie, can we go?” Garda asked, linking arms with her date and mincing away on her high heeled, brocade evening shoes, conscious of Jeffrey’s eyes focused on her swaying, corseted form. The entire outfit was assembled in one shopping spree on Melrose. Even as she was spending the twelve hundred dollars on the dress, shoes and corset that afternoon, she had thought, this will be an investment in my wardrobe. Now she had learned that that some investments pay off immediately.
All the way home Garda was distracted. She liked Augie Rose. But she also liked what the Barking Crewcut had done to her and how he had done it. But by her calculations, Jeffrey was seven to ten years her junior! (Perhaps he’d realize that in the light of day.) Augie was the proper age for her. But now she felt she’d already been unfaithful to Augie, by letting Jeffrey spank her.
“Did you play with anyone?” she asked casually as Augie Rose pulled into her driveway. “Oh, and do come in!” Garda was never loath to entertain friends in her small but tastefully managed quarters. She had cats, trees, wine glasses from Florence, comfy poufs, in short, everything a sensualist needs to enjoy a modern, modest and slightly artistic lifestyle.
“Would you open that bottle of wine on the table, Augie? I want to change my dress.”
Garda kept the beautiful, ivory corset on and over it threw a matching dressing gown, which, when it feel open, created the perfect frame to display the exquisite, hip length, waist cinch corset.
“Augie?” Garda called from the bedroom. Augie joined her with two glasses of white wine. “Please, do loosen my stays before I expire!” she cried, dropping the robe from her shoulders to show him how tightly she had laced herself.
Augie untied the central laces at Garda’s waist, then paused, confounded by the intricate crisscrossing network of laces that ran from the middle of her back to below her waist. “You know, I don’t have much experience with foundations,” Augie admitted. “Isn’t there a way to get it off fast?”
“Well, of course, it could be unhooked in front, but then it would be off entirely.”
“Don’t you think that would be a good idea? You could still wrap up in that dressing gown, couldn’t you, dear?”
“All right. It’s a good idea. I’ll take it off,” she conceded. “You wait out there. I have to undo all the garters and take off the stockings that are attached. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Finally taking off the corset felt like its own sort of orgasm. The stockings also went away and her slim, pretty feet went into ivory satin slippers with high vamps. “Oh, he’s smart,” thought Garda of her guest and went out to him feeling deliriously relaxed.
They lay on the hearth rug together in front of the fire, she with her back to him, but pressed against him, he with his arm around her, her waist under his hand, talking for several hours, then kissing and finally petting, which suddenly led to spanking. She was easily pulled across his lap and so accessible in the satin robe, with only her scrap of panties between his hand and her smooth, white bottom.
“I knew you’d have a beautiful bottom,” Augie said, caressing her baby smooth skin. She had finally ceased to feel the imprint of Jeffrey’s hand upon it but was grateful for the firelight in case her so seldom spanked bottom should still bear the traces of pink from her associate’s hard, calloused, weight lifter’s palm. “I couldn’t believe it when you said you were in The Scene the other day at my house. It’s been my dream to date someone like you.” But these fond words didn’t stop him from spanking her hard!
Garda and Augie played on Friday night, met again on Saturday, at a Hollywood B&D club, in order to be able to esoterically gambol in a dungeon, then spent all of Saturday night and most of Sunday together as well, continuing to play and make love. Since Garda hadn’t had a regular spanking boyfriend in over twenty years, she couldn’t seem to get enough.
They played all over his stylish little estate, established a safe word, which was never used and spent a portion of Saturday afternoon visiting Dream Dresser, where Augie bought her several outfits in leather and PVC.
By the time she ascended to the Noho offices of her firm on Monday morning, she had all but forgotten about Jeffrey Jardine, and what had happened between them at the party.
He was giving one of his Monday morning pep talks and looking particularly Clark Kentish in a crisp shirt and slim tie, when she walked in. Garda remembered the party and promptly exited the meeting without paying the slightest attention to the injunctions her supervisor was forcing on her hapless associates. When they next ran into each other, some hours later, at The Eagle Coffee Shop, he appeared to take umbrage at her earlier act of insubordination.
“So guess what, Jeffrey,” she lightly murmured while dropping into the next booth, “I cleared up that awkward misunderstanding with Mr. Rose about the rental of the house. He’s agreed to a reduced fee of 5K per day.”
Jeffrey reddened, imagining her to be purposely insulting him. He had extorted her temporary submission to him at the party on the basis of her costing the company an extra 30k. Now that she had erased the debt, the spanking he had given her seemed all the more gratuitous and he felt rebuffed by her exuberance.
“I see!” said Jeffrey darkly, which gave Garda that certain feeling. “You obviously went home with him that night!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“When can I see you?” he demanded. “I want to spank you for a long time, uninterrupted.”
Garda felt Cupid’s dart pierce her heart. “I might be free tonight. Call me.” She wrote her home number on the back of her business card and gave it to Jeffrey.
“What about your address?”
“Let me come to you.” Garda was far too fastidious to wish two different men to appear in her bed in the same week.
Jeffrey lived in a small, plain beach house in Zuma, smelling of fresh pine and sand. She arrived on the later side that evening, with cheese, bread and wine and was charmed to dine on the lanai overlooking the ocean. It would be pleasant to fall asleep to the sound of the waves in the big, muscular arms of the aggressive business school freak who ran her department so stupidly. His nearly empty boy’s house rather held the scent of him and she enjoyed breathing it in from the start.
“I don’t want you to do anything until we finish the wine,” said Garda to Jeffrey as the sun went down.
“That will take for ever,” Jeffrey protested. Garda laughed at his eagerness.
“We’ll go up in the little attic,” he tempted her. “I’ve built a few pieces of custom furniture that you’ll find interesting.”
“I hate surprises.”
“Even a spanking bench, a horse and a sturdy armless chair?”
“So you really did spank me the other night at the party in Beverly Glen!”
“Did you doubt it?”
“Well, I was drinking.”
“You know damn well I spanked you. I enjoyed it too. I’ve been thinking about nothing else since.”
“I’m surprised by that. A strapping young go-getter like yourself must be inundated with submissives,” Garda buttered.
Jeffrey snorted with derision, “I’m still reeling at the fact that you work in my office. You don’t know how hard it was for me to keep my hands off you today.”
“Is that so?”
“You have a beautiful waist.”
They went up to the charming attic. Jeffrey was particularly proud of a carved, solid oak spanking bench, padded down the center with black leather and designed to elevate the bottom while spreading the knees. There were grips in front and on the sides and rather smart retractable straps affixed at various points for holding the culprit or starry eyed submissive in place at the waist and knees. Around the attic were freestanding mirrors to reflect whatever activity took place therein from several interesting angles. Garda was suitably impressed.
“Why don’t I have a room like this?” she wondered, bitterly reproaching herself for being so ignorant about what was happening in her own back yard. “So, what do you plan to do now?” Garda asked, quickly gulping the remainder of the wine.
“You did let me spank you the other night.”
“Yes, I let you extort me into compliance.”
“Was that the sheer force of my will, or do you really enjoy this sort of thing?”
“Both, I guess.”
“So, if I now proceed to spank you again, you are likely to again enjoy it?”
“In all probability,” she smiled.
“Is there anything you’d like to ask me?”
“The sight of all this superb equipment answers most of my questions,” Garda sighed, “although I’m still not sure this is proper.”
“You mean because we’re associates?”
“No, because I don’t think I really like you,” Garda let slip out, due to having drunk most of a bottle of wine. “That is, I didn’t like you at all until the other night. Now I seem to like you to a certain degree, but maybe that’s because I’m starved for playmates.”
“So, you really don’t like me, huh?”
“Then there’s also the age difference,” she declared. “You’re quite young, aren’t you?”
“You’re seven years older than me. Big deal.”
“You know exactly how old I am?” she sputtered.
“I looked up your records.”
“Damn you.”
“Did your bottom stay red from your spanking? It must be very fair with your coloring.”
“Go to hell.”
“Did you go home with Augie Rose that night?”
“I took him home with me!” said Garda deliberately, lighting a cigarette and blowing blue smoke up to the skylight.
He took the cigarette away from her and crushed it in an ashtray then took her by the earlobe and led her to the big wooden chair.
“No!” she resisted him, pulling back.
“Come over here, you little slut,” he told her sharply, thrusting her down across his lap. “I don’t like that arrogant way you just bragged about taking Augie Rose home!” Jeffrey’s hand came down hard on the back of her khaki Capri’s. “But I like this little J. Crew outfit you have on,” he said, flipping up the tail of the thin white cotton shirt that had been clinging so provocatively to her pert, upstanding, erect-nippled bosom. Then he dusted off her slim, oval bottom through the thin trousers with his big palm. She wriggled and twisted on his lap so he clamped his other hand to her waist. “You should not have taken Augie Rose home. Not after I had spanked you for the very first time. It was promiscuous and very wrong!” he scolded, slapping her cheeks alternately in a manner both robust and stinging.
“I thought it was great. Getting foreplay from one man then going to another for the conclusion!” she taunted him.
“Is that so? I can see I have my work cut out for me here,” he told her, spanking her harder but more lingeringly, making her wait breathlessly for each resounding smack.
“What work?”
“Taming you.”
“Never!”
“Well see about that!” Smack! It was then that Jeffrey discovered the trousers had an elastic waist and could be easily tugged down.
“Hey! Wait! Don’t!”
“Stop fussing, young lady,” he told her firmly, lowering her khakis to reveal her thin white cotton panties. Under them her gym-pampered bottom was that of a woman half her age, smooth and firm, with just a tinge of pink against the white where his hand had struck. Again he began to spank her, slowly and effectively, pausing a few beats between each swat so that each could be appreciated separately. Soon he had her half whimpering, half panting in expectation of his now more rapidly descending palm. Presently he pulled her panties down to her thighs and started all over again.
The sting of his large hand soon caused her to yip. Then she cried, “Oh Jeffrey, can’t we take a break?” She twisted to bewitch him with her sapphire gaze. “A shoe shopping break?” she added meaningfully. In a second she’d slid off his lap and was whipping her Capri’s back up. “You fascinated me when you mentioned fetish pumps,” she admitted, reminding him that Dream Dresser was open until midnight.
“All right, but they have to be at least seven to eight inches high,” he agreed, grabbing his car keys and ushering her out into the night.
After the shoe event it was all over for Augie Rose with Garda but for the Dear Augie letter. It wasn’t that Garda didn’t like Augie very much. It was just that she seemed suddenly to like Jeffrey Jardine much more. Augie was charming, deferential and sincere. Jeffrey was bossy, cynical and sexually aggressive. There was no question that Jeffrey would conquer.
Naturally, Augie reacted with customary grace and good humor but the affectionate rejection left him feeling deflated for a couple of days.
Garda, ridden with guilt at having played with the emotions of a deserving gentleman, appealed to Hugo to supply Augie Rose with a proper replacement. By the end of the day, Garda had received the following email from Hugo:
Hi Red,
I’m sure Mr. Rose is inconsolable. So near and yet so far to spanking heaven. There could never be a replacement for you. However, I do have a niece out there, attending UCLA, who might prove of great interest to your new friend. She’s not a blood relation, by the way and I only met her for the first time last summer, when she deliberately came looking for me after she found out I publish The New Rod.
Her name is Bettie Brandon. She’s of age and has been a complete spanking fetishist since toddlerhood. She’s a lit. major, pretty and mature for her age.
She has a boyfriend in the scene, a young shark from the Harvard Business School, now working for a real estate broker uncle of his in Westwood, but Bettie doesn’t care for realtors. I understand your Mr. Rose is a paperback book publisher. That would be more in Bettie’s line. Maybe he can even give her some freelance or start publishing her stories. Little Bettie Brandon is bored with her lover and has begged me repeatedly to put her onto an interesting older man in the scene. Mr. Rose cannot lose with this proposition. I’ll have Bettie email him tomorrow.
I highly approve of your thoughtfulness.
But what a bad girl you were to disappear from my life for so long!
Missing you, H.
Garda ran over to Augie Rose’s offices during lunch to apprise him of the incoming email from Hugo Sand’s 18-year-old half niece.
“Can they even write when they’re that little?” he asked.
“Her ad specified older men.”
“I’ve seen those ads but they never made any sense to me,” said Augie, escorting Garda out to lunch at Le Chardonnay.
“Dearest, you don’t understand. Younger girls adore older men. If you need to ask why you’ve probably forgotten how awkward you were at nineteen.”
“I’ve never thought much of men in their forties who run after teenaged girls,” Augie confided to Garda as they shared a bottle of wine, “I’d feel like an idiot dating one.”
“Hugo suggested you might give her some editorial work. College girls are always strapped for money, you know.”
Augie smiled at the innuendo, tremendously touched that Garda had taken such a personal interest in his happiness on such short acquaintance. He kissed Garda’s hand and murmured, “I feel so connected.” And yet he also felt a twinge of unease at the entire proposition.
Bettie Brandon’s email was waiting for Augie upon his return from lunch. It simply introduced herself and stated that Hugo Sands had indicated that Augie Rose might possibly have some freelance editorial work for her.
He sent her a reply at once, telling her to come and see him the following day.
The next afternoon at around two p.m., Augie Rose was looking out his 10th floor window when he saw Bettie Brandon get off the bus on Little Santa Monica Blvd. and begin walking up Roxbury Dr. towards his building. A slight girl with shiny black hair that hung in a waist length ponytail of tight, rippling curls, she was dressed in pegged blue jeans, a checked shirt and hiking boots.
In a few minutes Augie’s secretary was buzzing to inform him of Bettie’s arrival. Augie had her sent in directly and rose from his desk to firmly shake her hand. She was a small, olive complected beauty, delicately formed, with large, dark eyes and a wide, full mouth. After thanking him for the interview, she disposed of her backpack on the floor and timidly waited for him to speak first.
“My friend Garda tells me you could use a little freelance,” Augie began, in a detached but not unfriendly manner.
“I’m not quite sure what that means,” Bettie replied.
“Freelance means assignments you complete outside of the office. I just lost my in-house editor and have quite a few small jobs I could give you. I notice you got off the bus. Don’t you have a car?”
Bettie shook her head, saying, “It’s not a long bus ride from Westwood.”
“See those paperbacks?” Augie indicated a small stack of books with plain pastel covers and provocative titles. “I’m about to recover them and I need back cover synopses. There are eight titles there. I’ll give you $50 per synopsis.”
“Wow,” Bettie took the books and looked at them.
“You don’t have to read them. Just skim them. Give me between a hundred and a hundred and twenty words each. Think you can do that?”
“Yes.”
“By when?”
“When do you need them by?”
“Think you can do them over the weekend?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Email them to me,” Augie said by way of dismissal.
Bettie Brandon left with the books in her pack, noting that Augie Rose had barely looked at her and feeling that the handsome publisher was completely uninterested in her scene affiliations.
Bettie neglected her schoolwork all weekend to complete the assignment and was still working on it Monday morning. The sex novels were awkward and her summarizations of them lackluster. She hadn’t enjoyed the assignment and wondered how such inept writers were ever able to have their manuscripts published. She also disrespected Mr. Rose for buying and recovering such brain drool. By noon she’d received an email from Augie Rose asking her whether the assignment was finished. Bettie emailed it straight back to him, realizing it would be better to keep to her deadline than try to rework her paragraphs any longer. Then she went off to her afternoon classes and her early evening stint in the library, where she already had one part time job shelving books.
Bettie wasn’t enjoying her freshman year. She had no affinity for her roommate, a cheerleader named Randi. She hated her dorm room, with its cinderblock walls and metal desks. She missed the lush trees and refreshing rains of New England. Her instructors either confused or failed to engage her.
She had also become disenchanted with her suitor, Gilbert Rush, a driven young realtor. He however, was becoming less of a problem since beginning an affair with one of his silicon enhanced, thin, blonde associate sharks. Bettie was untroubled by the development and felt quite ready to cut Gilbert loose, for since coming to L.A. her lover’s topics of conversation had narrowed to stock options, real estate envy and designer consumerism, none of which interested the college freshman.
Bettie Brandon hated L.A. The sky was ugly and the landscape virtually devoid of trees. The air held no scent. Bright, glaring concrete and soul killing post-Bauhaus architecture set the scene for general despair. Scrawny palm trees, useless mini-malls and appalling plastic signage dominated every vista. Public transportation was a cold, unfriendly thing. Libraries were few and far between. All restaurants and offices were kept icy cold, apparently by law. And the local newspapers were unreadable.
Westwood was only marginally pretty, massively inconvenient and almost completely without charm. Without a car or bike, distances even to and from the bus stop from within the village, where Gilbert’s condo was located, exhausted and deflated Bettie. Getting anywhere in the city other than Beverly Hills on the buses seemed to take half the day, and the end goals inevitably disappointed. Hollywood Blvd. made Bettie want to cry. The beaches were crowded, chilly and bleak. Parks were one square block of grass with no hills to climb, no trees to shelter behind. Downtown was but a dozen skyscrapers, divided from skid row by two blocks of food stalls, jewelry marts and pawnshops. The Civic Center stood desolately apart from restaurants and other city life. Indeed, there was no city life except in West Hollywood and Hollywood, venues which Bettie was just beginning to discover as she searched for cutting edge music and fetish clubs.
And then there was the onset of winter to contend with. Day after day low clouds hovered above and chill breezes blew in off the ocean, reaching all the way to the campus. Again and again she questioned her choice to come out, the only positive side of which was the considerable distance now extant between herself and her mother.
Then came the introduction to Mr. Rose. She had felt a fierce attraction for him the moment he shook her hand, partially because she knew he was a dominant and partially because he was an attractive, confident older man.
While her high school girlfriends hung portraits of Brad Pitt and Keanu Reeves in their lockers, she had worshiped black and white glossies of Cary Grant and Robert Taylor, ordered from Movietime News. For it was while watching old movies that Bettie had first become attracted to suave, assertive men. As a small child she had noticed that these early 20th century heroes were somehow more charming then the men she saw around her at the turn of the millennium, when she was coming of age. She liked the way the men of the silver screen were always threatening to spank their ladies or were throwing them over one shoulder or tucking them under an arm to carry them off somewhere in order to smother their mouths with kisses.
Bettie had come to associate men in their late thirties and early forties with such romantic images. Augie Rose, for example, had short hair and wore crisp suits, just like Melvin Douglas or Franchot Tone. He had the proper look, was undoubtedly in The Scene, and in fact was in every way, Bettie’s notion of a real leading man.
But Bettie sensed that Augie Rose was not interested. His body language confirmed it. Which made her wonder why he had given her the work at all. She had already been affected by Gilbert’s cynicism and didn’t expect something for nothing in Los Angeles. Bettie sent Hugo an email asking his opinion after reporting the results of their first encounter.
Hugo wrote back:
Dear Bettie,
He probably took one look at you and thought you were fifteen. Next time you see him, dress like a lady.
Hugo
Bettie didn’t own many grown up outfits. She did have several pair of outrageously high pumps that Gilbert had bought her and which she had only worn with lingerie (in that deliciously sleazy adult motel with the mirror on the ceiling) for him. And she had a stretch jersey dress or two.
When Bettie arrived at Augie’s offices the following Tuesday to pick up her check she was dressed in a long sleeved cream wool sheath dress and a pair of black pumps with four inch heels and elegantly high vamps. Over the dress she had thrown a black cashmere princess cut topcoat that had been Hugo’s going away present to her at the end of the summer. She had knotted her long, thick hair into a full chignon at the back of her head and colored both her lips and nails dark red. The effect was to add several years to her appearance and she looked like a different young woman entering Augie’s office the second time.
“Bettie?” Augie asked, rising from behind his desk. She tottered in and unsteadily sat down. They looked at each other for a moment, neither knowing what to say and both coloring as they tried to decide.
“Don’t you look different today?” he finally remarked, raising his eyebrow at her as though the change did not entirely please him. In reality his heart was thumping at the thought of how easily he might possess the sophisticated little dreamboat who was so obviously offering herself to him for a second appraisal.
“Do you not like me this way?” she asked tremblingly.
“Well, I’ll admit you were a bit casual during our first interview,” he replied, writing her out a check and tearing it out of a large book. “Thank you, Bettie.” She took the check and put it in her purse.
“Thank you,” she said. “I hope my work was satisfactory.”
“Oh, fine. Call me next week. Maybe I’ll have something else for you.”
“Okay,” she replied, realizing with a heavy blush, that she was being dismissed.
By the time she had tottered to the bus stop, Bettie was sobbing. She was a beautiful, 18 year old submissive, a chic fashion angel in pure wools and fetish pumps. She had essentially wrapped herself up as a present for a 40-year-old man in the scene and he had simply dismissed her. Bettie was crushed. What had she done wrong? Why was he indifferent? She felt too ashamed at the lack of impression she had made on Augie Rose to confide in Hugo as yet.
Somehow she lived through the week, forcing herself to think about her schoolwork rather than Augie Rose. At least he had given her the invitation to call him. She did this mid morning on Monday, unaware that this is the busiest time for all businesspersons. She stammered out that she was calling to see if he had any more work. He seemed harried and said he’d call her later in the week.
More torment. Bettie had found Augie Rose’s website, which displayed several excellent portraits of the pulp fiction publisher. Therefore she was able to look upon the countenance of Augie Rose while she wondered and waited. Finally on Thursday afternoon he emailed her that if she cared to stop by on Friday afternoon he would have work for her.
Bettie was wildly excited at having a fresh opportunity to interest Augie Rose, but less than eager accept another tedious editorial assignment, the excellent money not withstanding. She had lost much valuable study time the previous weekend and dreaded another such laborious task.
This time Bettie arrived at Augie Rose’s offices dressed in a charmingly conservative little coed outfit composed of a skirt and matching cardigan over a fitted blouse, with well behaved two and a half inch pumps, rather reminiscent of the forties. She wore her hair loose and it rippled down her back. Augie was irresistibly attracted to its glossy luxuriance and in spite of his determination not to flirt with her, blurted out, “God, you’ve got beautiful hair.”
Bettie felt some pleasure at these words but they really meant nothing to her. What she wanted to hear was a threat or a promise of something which she knew interested Augie Rose as much as it did her.
“Anyway, I thought I’d talk to you about doing some writing for me. I’m putting out some erotic magazines. One will be vanilla, the other fetish. I have a lot of space to fill and I need someone to write the letters sections. I’ll need about six thousand words per magazine. I’ll pay you three hundred dollars for each letters section. Do you think you could handle that?”
“You mean edit letters or make them up?”
“After the magazines are out for a while you’ll get real letters from readers,” explained Augie, “but initially you’ll write them.”
“Where are they supposed to have come from then?”
“The vaults of Augie Rose,” said Augie with a smile.
“So I just make up jack-off letters?”
“Exactly. A vanilla set and a fetish set.”
“When do you need them by?”
“How about the first set next week and the second one the week after?”
“That sounds like a lot of writing.”
“You mustn’t be a perfectionist about it,” Augie advised. “This stuff is ephemeral. Just write it off the top of your head. ”
“Okay.”
“Here’s a list of topics to cover,” said Augie, handing her a piece of paper. Bettie looked at side marked: Erotic Fantasies. Under this heading Augie had penciled in: head, three ways, adultery, virginity, wedding night, bachelorette party, jumbo endowments, etc. The other side was marked: Exotic Fantasies and included: spanking, bondage, flagellation, cross dressing, exhibitionism, water sports, corsetry, shoes and boots, feet, bosom worship, bottom worship, goddess worship, leather, latex, S&M, B&D, transvestism, etc.
“Mr. Rose, can I just do the fetish letters?” asked Bettie with a sigh. It suddenly seemed to her that Augie would never pay attention to her as a woman, so she decided that she’d better get the most out of their business together.
“Oh? You just want the fetish magazine? Why is that?”
“The other one seems beyond boring. And I don’t have that much free time.”
“Okay. Take the fetish letters only.”
“And I think I’ll need the whole two weeks to complete them,” she meekly observed.
“You really need that long to write six thousand words?” Augie shook his head.
“My school work,” Bettie pleaded, shrugging her slim shoulders.
“H’m. Well, all right,” Augie said pleasantly, by way of dismissing her again.
Bettie could have cried. But this time she didn’t. Instead she went back to her dorm room and logically plotted to capture Augie Rose’s attentions through her writing. She had always done well writing letters. A letter had brought her to the interest of Hugo Sands, which had started her on the road to becoming a player. Now she was determined to write the best letters anyone had ever written on the subjects he had given her.
While Bettie knew very little about most of the topics on Augie Rose’s list, she had an invaluable research tool at hand, in the person of her new friend, Brooke Neuman. They had met at a campus B&D support meeting and were even in the same class. Brooke was a native of Hollywood and like Bettie shared a lifelong fixation on spanking. Brooke was in the film school at UCLA. She also had an interesting part time job, working at The Keep, a friendly little player’s club on Las Palmas.
Through working at The Keep as a submissive-switch, Brooke had come into contact with every variety of (civilized) kinkiness and was happy to recount specific sessions for Bettie’s letters column. Brooke had so many experiences, in fact, and so nice a turn of phrase in describing them, that Bettie decided to split her assignment with Brooke and let her write half the letters, all the truly esoteric ones, for half her fee. This enabled Bettie to fulfill her assignment faithfully, creatively and with integrity without infringing too brutally on her required study time. Becoming wrapped up in her first West Coast romance it was easy to forget that she was out here to get a degree.
Even so, what with spell checking and reorganizing the materials several times, Bettie was three or four days later in delivering her assignment than promised. She emailed the entire document to Augie Rose on a Thursday evening and awoke the next morning to a summons to Beverly Hills.
His email had been terse but it set her heart racing: “Good job. Come by at three and I’ll have a check for you.”
By noon it had begun to rain, with lightning and thunder. It became dark and cold, nature conspiring against a smart outfit. Instead Bettie went in jeans tucked into boots and a thick woolen sweater (with a matching beret) over a soft flannel shirt. At the hat and sweater set, Augie Rose almost went to pieces, but held himself together until she had been seated in his office with a cup of coffee before her.
“Well, young lady, you’re quite a good writer,” Augie told her, lighting a cigarette and offering her one, which she accepted. Smoking was a new habit in which she occasionally indulged, especially in nervous making situations.
“Half of the letters were written by my friend Brooke. She works at a B&D club and I thought her perspective would add verisimilitude. I marked each of my own letters with an asterisk.”
“You didn’t have to tell me that,” he said, smiling faintly.
“I have no reason to conceal it. Besides, I wanted you to know which ones I wrote myself.”
“I’ll give you creative work on a regular basis if you’d like it,” Augie promised. “Providing you can learn to write a little faster.”
“That would be wonderful,” Bettie admitted.
“I like to develop new talent,” said Augie, writing out and handing her two checks for $150 each. “I split it for you and left the pay to blank for your friend so you don’t have to put her check through your account. If we do this regularly, I’ll need her to come in and fill out an employment form for tax purposes, just as you did.”
“Thank you very much. Shall I bring her with me next time?”
“Please do.”
Bettie felt desolate as she realized that she was being dismissed yet again. Even after reading her stories! It was simply unbearable. She tried to rein in her emotions. Perhaps he was doing and saying nothing simply because he didn’t realize just how much she wanted him to do and say something. She opened her lips to speak, but closed them again and dropped her eyes, not daring to express her thoughts to a man who was essentially nothing more to her at this point than a disinterested employer.
“Bettie? Is something the matter?” he asked.
Bettie heaved a sigh and murmured, “Are you really going to make me say it?”
“Say what, dear?”
Bettie’s eyes widened and met his at the first endearment that had ever passed between them.
“Say why I keep coming back here,” she replied, meeting his eyes with an adorable pout, finally tired of pretending.
“I’m sorry?” he said, as though he didn’t understand. “I thought you kept coming back here because I’ve been giving you work.”
“That’s part of it. But not the important part,” Bettie explained.
“Tell me about the important part.”
“I would have thought you’d have figured it out by now!” Bettie accused. “Being as you’ve read my letters. And knowing that I was virtually sent to you by Hugo Sands via Garda Hudson!” Bettie had worked herself up. She no longer cared that she might be humiliating herself. She had to make her position clear to this dense man.
“Bettie, you’re just so impossibly young,” Augie protested. “It doesn’t seem proper for me to think about you in that way.”
“So why dangle me along by giving me work?” Bettie demanded, seeing a swift, unsatisfying end to her day’s work looming in the next half minute and feeling close to tears of frustration.
“I always need editors,” Augie replied honestly. “You need to use your spell checker more, but you’re sharp. I’m ready to be your publisher. Doesn’t that make you happy?”
“Well, yes. Thank you,” she replied, forcing herself to focus on the positive aspects of the situation, as he advised, and calming down somewhat.
“Have you had lunch yet?” he asked kindly. Bettie shook her head, suddenly feeling butterflies in her stomach.
“No? Then let’s go celebrate the commencement of your literary career,” he said, leading her out of his office. Augie had seen a tear start in her eye and realized that to pretend that there was nothing going on would benefit no one any longer. For some reason, she wanted him, and now, having read her marvelously erotic stories, he wanted her too.
They went to a Beverly Hills brasserie and she was served the wine of his choice without question. The fare was of an elegance she’d never tasted before and she feasted with intense pleasure while basking in her new patron’s gaze. Then, over dessert he said, “Bettie, why were you four days late?”
Bettie stammered out several excuses to which Augie did not appear to be listening. “You know, you ought to be spanked for missing your deadline like that,” he interrupted her to remark, studying her casually, leaning his chin on his hand. Bettie’s color rose. “I notice you don’t argue with that,” Augie observed, their dark eyes meeting.
“No,” she replied, “I don’t argue.”
“I wouldn’t think of spanking you directly after lunch, however; I’ll give you cab fare and directions to my house and later this evening you can come over. And I’ll take care of you.”
And that was how Bettie and Augie’s first date came to be arranged. He told her to arrive promptly at six thirty, dressed in the same boots, but with a skirt on.
It was raining, but the air had become warmer. It felt like the height of sophistication to climb into a taxi and be driven up the windy, lush canyon to Augie Rose’s house as the sky became silvery grey, then black streaked with silver clouds. Under her black watch plaid skirt her legs were bare from her boot tops to her panties. A soft, cream wool polo shirt under a thick navy cardigan rendered her cuddly. There was nothing wispy about her after all, she was simply slim with good leg muscles from hiking and running and as Augie Rose would soon discover, fantastically firm, well rounded buttocks and thighs. The soft leather boots came up above her knees so that just a few inches of silken thigh was exposed to the chill air in the taxi. Around her Bettie had wrapped the black cashmere coat, for good luck as well as warmth. Her small bottom, encased in the sheerest white cotton French briefs, was only a pleated wool skirt and topcoat away from his hand as he took her from the cab.
Suddenly Bettie was seeing a different California. Augie’s house was quite wonderful. It even smelled delicious. He lived among splendid trees and thick foliage with twinkling views of the city below.
The moment he took her hand she realized that he had resigned himself to her. He now allowed himself to look at her with something like warmth, though not smiles. “I’m glad you weren’t late,” he told her. “That would have made me cross.”
He never relinquished her hand, but took her straight upstairs to his bedroom, a large, round room, the walls papered forest green and gold, with a cream and gold gilt domed ceiling. One of the most charming features of the room was a long, wide green velvet recamier. Two matching armless chairs were of similar interest to Bettie.
“Shall we get the unpleasantness over with at once?” Augie asked, moving one of the large velvet chairs away from the other, sitting down on it and saying, “Come over here, young lady.”
Bettie approached Augie, was caught by the wrist and pulled across his lap as though she were no more substantial than a dinner napkin. She flashed him one minx like smile over her shoulder, then made her face completely sober and wide eyed before dropping her head back down. Meanwhile, as he smoothed her little skirt down over her pert backside Augie was experiencing an epiphany re: the adorable girl, now draped so submissively over his lap. To wit: maybe Bettie was a gift from the gods, not to be questioned. Perhaps fate had introduced them at this particular juncture in time because they could be useful to each other. Augie thought, “There had to be a girl for me sooner or later. Even if it only lasts a year or two, neither of us are doing anything else. Besides, I didn’t plan this. She’s a gift.”
Scolding her about missing her deadline, Augie spanked her on the seat of her skirt, just hard enough to get her attention. She wriggled and shifted on his lap, thrusting her small bottom up for more smacks.
This naughty and flirtatious behavior was acknowledged by more and harder spanking, which caused her to grind into his lap in a most sophisticated style. Augie spanked her on her skirt until heat radiated from the entire area, one hand wrapped around her tiny waist all the while. She caught her breath and whimpered now and then but gave no indication of distress or wanting him to stop. After spanking her vigorously over her skirt for at least five minutes, he raised it to her waist to glimpse her endearingly pink bottom glowing through her sheer white panties. Her thighs were milky in contrast to the portions of her slim bottom cheeks left uncovered by the high cut French briefs, now stained so rosy from his hand.
“You write like an experienced submissive and take a spanking like a seasoned player; I guess I have to assume that you’re not the baby I thought you were,” Augie remarked, smartening her up again with his palm, through the thin panties which so snugly wrapped her shapely backside.
“I don’t mind being treated like one though,” she told him. So Augie pulled her pristine panties down to expose her freshly pinkened bottom.
“You’re as smooth as one,” he told her, caressing her tender skin. “This may be the prettiest sight I’ve ever beheld.”
“I was wondering when I’d get a compliment out of you,” Bettie murmured.
“Don’t be fresh when I have you in this position,” he warned, resuming the spanking, this time with her panties pulled down to mid thigh. In a very few minutes, Bettie’s excitement became palpable. Augie was pleased but still hesitant to go any further. Even though she parted her legs invitingly and seemed to arch towards his hand every other moment, as much as to say, penetrate me, now! Soon her parted legs, dewy sex and dainty bottom began to mesmerize him blatantly.
“You’re a very naughty girl,” he told her, holding her apart and spanking her labia lightly, then spreading her bottom and spanking her bottomhole, though not so lightly. Bettie moaned and whimpered, grinding against him frantically, as though he’d just found her on switch. Deliberately spanking her sex a little harder, he observed the dynamic effect this treatment had upon her. Bettie whimpered and squirmed on his lap, eager for more discipline but nearly sobbing when she got it.
Finally Bettie noticed the pulsing rod beneath her. She turned to look at him and innocently said, “Mr. Rose, I think you have a hard-on.”
“Of course I have a hard-on. Look at what I’m doing to you?” he replied impatiently, pausing to rub her rosy cheeks in circles with the palm of his hand.
“I have condoms,” she informed him.
“Do you now?” Augie stopped spanking her and rubbing her and pulled her up off his lap. “Don’t you think that would be a little sudden, young lady?”
“Why? You’re not getting any younger, Mr. Rose,” she replied with a grin.
“All that spanking and you’re still this fresh?” Augie shook his head in amazement but punished her by taking her by the ear and turning her back over his knee for several dozen hard swats, each of which made her yip and kick.
Then of course he had to soothe her by caressing her bottom again, which lead to spreading it, spanking her pussy again, then her bottomhole, then when the glistening promise of her almost untouched pussy was simply too creamy to resist, penetrating her with his fingers, deeply and dominantly, for a very long time.
“Didn’t I say I’d take care of you?” he asked, masturbating her deftly over his knee until she gave up a delightfully girlish orgasm. If she wasn’t in love before, she was when he let her up.
“But now I want to take care of you,” she declared a few minutes later, bouncing on his lap, which still cradled the engine of his desire in a fully rampant state.
“No, that’s absurd,” he told her sternly, seizing her around the waist and putting her off his lap before going to wash his hands. She followed him into the marble bathroom with the matching sweetheart sinks.
“Why is it? You got me off. Now I wish to reciprocate.”
“I won’t hear any more of that, young lady,” Augie warned her.
“It’s not like I haven’t had lovers,” she pointed out. “I’ve had five!”
“Have you now?” Augie was amused and relieved by her candor. But when she boldly laid her hand upon his pulsing organ through is trousers he deliberately slapped it hard.
“Ow!” She held her hand to her cheek like a bad little girl. Which made Augie melt and take her in his arms. Which led to him kissing her deeply. Which led to Bettie Brandon not leaving the house until the next morning.
Brooke Neuman was taking a nap in Bettie’s dorm room, face down and ravishing on Bettie’s little bed, in pegged blue jeans, black ankle boots and a black cashmere cowl neck sweater. Her dark hair streamed down her back, thick, straight and long. Her face was turned to one side, pillowed on her arm, young, lovely and peaceful. Then Gilbert Rush walked in, jolting the girl out of her dream state, causing her to sit up with a start and stare at him.
“Oh, hi Gilbert,” Brooke said.
“You know me?”
“Bettie showed me your photograph.”
“Where is the little termagant anyway? She’s been harder to get an appointment with than a grown up lately.”
“I’m expecting her momentarily. We’re going shopping,” Brooke reported, frankly though carelessly appraising Gilbert through her sophisticated, 19 year old, UCLA freshman’s eyes. “You are good looking,” Brooke declared, granting him a quarter of a smile.
“You make it seem as though I haven’t a single other valuable quality,” Gilbert bristled at the superior tone Brooke had adopted but was instantly attracted by her tall, elegant form and charming face. Brooke shrugged and gave him the second quarter of the smile. “What’s Bettie been telling you about me?”
“Only the truth, I expect,” said Brooke. “That you’re a soulless, grasping businessman whose been running around lately with dyed blonde silicon jobs.”
“That was a passing obsession. It’s over and done with now,” said Gilbert cheerfully.
“Interesting. Well, I’m sure that someone as attractive and upwardly mobile as yourself will have no problem acquiring a new one.”
“I don’t want a new one. I just want Bettie. But she’s been almost impossible to track down these past few weeks. What’s going on?”
“Well, she does have a part time job you know.”
“Shelving library books.”
“No, freelance editorial work. It’s been keeping the both of us busy. Of course, I’m not the writer she is. I’m in the film school.”
“Oh, are you the one who videos everything?”
“Yes. You should let me video you. I could document a day in the life of a young realtor.”
“No thanks,” replied Gilbert emphatically.
“Why not? It would be ever so useful to me.”
“Why should I want to be useful to you?”
“Gallantry?”
“Strange things are passing for that these days,” he returned.
“The more I look at you the more I see what a marvelous subject you’d be. I don’t only film journalistically, you know. I could create a scenario for you instead.”
“What sort of scenario?”
“I’d have to think about that.”
“And what would I get out of this venture?” Gilbert smiled.
“The chance to work with an important filmmaker to be.”
“You’re pretty confident for a freshman.”
“I’ve always been that way. I think it has to do with being tall,” Brooke replied, still look at him with the eyes of a hungry casting director.
“What’s the freelance connection all about?” Gilbert changed the subject abruptly.
“Erotic magazines. We’ve been writing copy for a publisher called Augie Rose in Beverly Hills. He pays us well and the work is easy. Augie Rose said I could video him for my businessman in L.A. documentary.”
“What’s this you say? Bettie’s writing stroke books?”
“Don’t sound shocked. We got the introduction through her uncle Hugo,” Brooke revealed pointedly.
“What? You mean to say this publisher is also a player?”
“As I understand it,” said Brooke.
“As you understand it from whom?” Gilbert was beginning to feel sick with apprehension that an older, more successful male had annexed Bettie for his own plaything.
“Who do you think?”
At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Gilbert opened it to confront a delivery boy bearing an enormous bouquet of Birds of Paradise surrounding a heart of crimson roses. Gilbert dismissed the boy and tore open the card.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Brooke cried.
“I see I’m too late,” said Gilbert, the color draining from his face as he slipped the card back in the envelope. “How old is this Augie Rose, anyway?”
“Oh, forty, I suppose. Hey, you’re not really upset, are you?” Brooke asked with some perplexity.
But Gilbert had no chance to reply because Bettie walked in at that moment, gave a start at the occupants of her room, then smiled at the large bouquet. Gilbert noticed her carelessly toss the keys to a Volvo on the dresser before burying her face in the roses.
“What’s everyone doing here?” she asked, tucking the card into her pocket without reading it.
“You’re driving a Volvo?” Gilbert demanded, picking up the keys as his world went spinning around. Was he really losing his dream girl to a relic in his 40’s??? Why hadn’t he thought of helping Bettie get a car?
“It’s fifteen years old and I’m only borrowing it,” Bettie explained.
“I’ll meet you downstairs, okay?” Brooke said, tactfully disappearing.
“So I’m out, am I?” Gilbert said caustically as soon as they were alone. Bettie blushed, her heart pounding.
“I never promised I’d be yours forever,” she replied. “I told I was looking for a different kind of man right from the start.”
“So all those nights you spent in my arms meant nothing to you? You don’t care for me anymore?”
“I’m very sorry. You’re a good lover, but we don’t want the same things out of life. Mr. Rose is more my type.”
“You’re going out with man old enough to be your father?”
“I’m sorry, Gilbert,” Bettie said, her eyes filled with sympathetic tears.
Stabbed in the heart, Gilbert stumbled out the door, choked by emotion. Bettie joined Brooke downstairs, still dashing tears from here eyes.
“What’s the matter? Did he yell at you?” Brooke demanded.
“No. He just seemed devastated.”
“He’ll get over it. Maybe I’ll help him.”
“Really? You want Gilbert?”
Brooke got into the car beside Bettie, musing, “Only if you really don’t want him anymore.”
“I’ll give you his number.”
“Okay, I’ll bug him some more about letting me film him and see if he asks me out.”
Bettie pulled out the card from Augie Rose and read its contents aloud to Brooke, “Dearest Bettie, What a night that was and what a girl you are. I am slain. Augie Rose.”
“So they can still get it up at that age?” Brooke asked as they headed into West Hollywood via Beverly Hills.
“Get it up? He had me both ways!”
“Wow. I’ve barely ever been sodomized. I keep hoping I’ll meet a man who’s interested but the closest I’ve come are men at the club wanting to put toys in me.”
“Do you let them?”
“We’re not supposed to let the customers take those sorts of liberties, but I have a few regulars I grant special privileges to.”
“Look what Augie gave me when I was going out this morning,” said Bettie, pulling out two new hundred-dollar bills.
“Wow,” exclaimed Brooke. “He even gave you allowance. I’m so impressed.”
“Let’s go to Melrose. I want one of those PVC slip dresses and a pair of four inch heels!”
Over the next week, Brooke did not call Gilbert, but she thought about him at least once a day. Consequently, on Friday night, he showed up at The Keep to book a session with her. She was somewhat disappointed when all he did during the session was turn her over his knee and spank her (rather hard!) for the entire half hour, not even pulling down her panties until minute twenty-two. He neither scolded nor flirted, so she did not know what to think. But when she did catch a glimpse of his expression in the opposite mirror, it was one of grim determination. Brooke could only conclude that he was using her as a surrogate for Bettie, just to have someone to punish for Bettie’s betrayal. The entire situation felt so B&D Gothic to Brooke that she began to dream of Gilbert every night.
Meanwhile, Bettie found it nearly impossible to concentrate on her studies. She longed to see Augie Rose again, but didn’t quite know how to make this happen. She had called and left a message about bringing back the car, which he had breezily replied to in a quick email, telling her to keep it for a while. Bettie didn’t realize that Augie was as hesitant to rush her as she was to dog him.
But finally, thirty-six hours later, her passion overcame her better judgment and she typed a reply to his last that demanded attention: “I’m starving.”
Thirty minutes later they were meeting at a favorite bistro of Augie’s at the bottom of Nichols Canyon. She was wearing the new black PVC slip dress and the matching fetish pumps, under a leather jacket that Brooke had lent her.
“That’s a great outfit,” Augie told her as they consulted the menu, “for a B&D call girl.” Bettie instantly looked stricken. Then she saw by his eyes he was teasing.
“I used the allowance you gave me to buy it and the heels. Do you like them?” Bettie extended one slender ankle to display one of her spectator pumps.
“You’re a good shopper,” he commended her, “but you’re attracting a lot of attention, young lady.”
Bettie melted and murmured, “I just want you to notice me.”
“I think everyone is noticing you. That dress clings to your bottom like ink.”
“I apologize for dressing inappropriately,” she offered.
“You’re lucky you don’t get your first public spanking for that.”
“A public spanking?” Bettie was intrigued beyond words.
“I saw a tree with a circular bench facing the front entrance.”
“Brooke told me her ex-boyfriend spanked her outside of Yamashiro once,” Bettie confided.
“I didn’t realize it was becoming such a trend!”
“I’ll cut you a break,” Augie told her, as they left the restaurant an hour later.
“What do you mean?” she asked as he took her by the hand and strolled towards the tree.
“I’ll spank you on the side facing away from the entrance,” he replied, taking her there, sliding onto the bench and pulling her lithe form over his lap. The PVC skirt was so shiny and taut it seemed to reflect the moonlight on the crest of each small, jutting, oval bottom cheek. The skirt only came down to Bettie’s upper thighs and her black fishnet tights looked adorably naughty outlining her shapely legs. The fetish pumps were perfection on her tiny size five feet.
“No my dear, this is not an outfit to wear in public, unless you are working,” he declared, spanking her pert backside firmly and resounding at least thirty swats. Bettie had no idea whether anyone was leaving or entering the restaurant at that moment or how much they could see, but the unmistakable sound of crisp smacks connecting with a patent leather girded rear was unmistakable to her sensitive ears. When pulled her by her hand back to the valet station, he seemed perfectly indifferent as to whether anyone had heard or seen what he’d just done. Nor could Bettie raise her eyes. Her face felt warm, as did her bottom under the skintight skirt.
Augie Rose may have been just a little too civilized for Garda, but he was just edgy enough to electrify the much younger Bettie, who soon became his spoiled darling. Possessed of the natural authority that comes from achieving an early and steady success in the business world, Augie didn’t have to try to impress Bettie; just being who he was and doing what he did accomplished that. Even weeks after they began their affair, she still felt pleasantly intimidated by him.
For Augie’s part, it was all too easy to become accustomed to the company of a charming and compliant young lady whose pure and unrestrained love seemed to envelope him from their first night together. The way she clung to him each night, the way she fussed over his morning coffee, the glow on her face when she waved to him from a table in a cafe where they were to meet, all were clear indications of her affection. It was but a step from complaining about her roommate to having a suite set aside for her own use in Augie’s house. He never asked Bettie to spend up to five nights a week there, but this is what transpired naturally. With the old Volvo to take her back and forth to school this scarcely inconvenienced her at all. Since he was gone during the day, the house made the perfect secluded study palace, with her choice of computers and refreshments.
A late autumn heat wave permitted Bettie to swim in Augie’s pool every day of the first week of November. Suddenly she began to see the virtue of a California winter. Brooke was also of course encouraged to visit Bettie at Augie’s house and the girls made it their haven in the afternoons whenever they could meet there.
Neither Bettie nor Brooke could quite understand what was going on in Gilbert’s mind when he came to see Brooke once more at The Keep. Again, he only took her over his knee and spanked her, eschewing conversation. Glimpsing his face in the mirror, Brooke saw that Gilbert was still angry and bitter about losing his girl.
But the second time he came to see her was slightly different. She was amazed when he gave her a hundred dollar tip after the simple, though stinging spanking. “Really?” she sputtered incredulously.
“I sold my first house today,” Gilbert admitted, smiling faintly.
“Congratulations! Where was it? Who bought it? And for how much?”
“Brentwood, a movie star and five million dollars,” he modestly reported.
“A female movie star?”
“Yes,” he nodded wryly.
“A female movie star over the age of thirty five?” said Brooke shrewdly.
“How did you know?”
“That creeping blush. It’s a sure indication that you exerted more than just your powers of persuasion in making that sale.”
“What are you implying?”
“You did her, didn’t you?” Brooke accused her tall, dark, handsome client naughtily.
“You know what? Let’s extend the session. I don’t think I’ve spanked you enough!”
“Sure, but you fucked her. I can tell you did!” cried Brooke with glee. “Bet that restored the old ego, eh, Gilbert?”
“I have no idea what you mean,” he said, throwing the bolt on the door again and removing his jacket once more.
“Wait a minute, how much over thirty-five was she? I do hope you’re not starting to feel cheap.”
“Come over here, wise guy,” he threatened, picking up a wooden paddle and pointing to his favorite chair in the wood paneled dungeon room.
“Can’t I hear the details first? Was she a face-lift queen? How many times were you required to get it up before she signed off on the house? And most importantly, was she kinky?”
Gilbert didn’t answer, but instead stalked her, grabbed her by her wrist and dragged her across his knee. “You’re not only irritating, you’re rude,” Gilbert accused, whacking her vigorously with the paddle through her copper latex apron dress. He was mad for her tall, slender body but hadn’t gone beyond punishing her yet. Not even a stray caress had he spared the cheerful young cynic. Her bottom-arching body language he had been pleased to ignore. She had laughed at him and he would not give her the satisfaction of openly lusting after her. If she wanted to go anywhere else with him besides over his knee, she would have to tell him so. Meanwhile, it was nice to have her to spank. Especially now that he’d have his first commission to defray the expenses of an ongoing session relationship.
Brooke felt that it was a significant day for Gilbert. He had sold his first house and seemed to have no one to celebrate with. So after the second half hour was over, and Brooke was released, very sore, she mildly remarked that she got off at ten that evening.
Gilbert was back at ten, but was told by Hildegarde that Brooke had unexpectedly gone into a two-hour session that would not conclude until midnight. Gilbert had to be in the office at seven thirty the next morning but went to a nearby sports bar to kill two hours until midnight anyway. When he got back to The Keep he was told that the client had extended the session with Brooke for yet another half hour. This time Gilbert waited.
When Brooke stumbled downstairs after her two and a half hour bondage, whipping and hot wax session, she was nearly asleep on her feet. In fact, she didn’t even have the energy to put her heels back on and carried them in her hand as she padded downstairs. Gilbert saw the perfect opportunity to scoop the sleepy girl up in his arms before she even saw him at the foot of the stairs. He carried her out to his convertible and dumped her in the front seat. “Some ten o’clock scholar you are,” he accused.
“I’m so sorry,” she protested, laying her head on his shoulder as he pointed his car towards Westwood Village.
“You’re going the wrong way, I live up Laurel Canyon.”
“Alone?”
“No, with my dad.”
“Then come to my place instead,” he said, continuing on his original route.
“Starting next semester Bettie and I are getting a place together.”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess. In Hollywood?”
“West Hollywood.”
“God forbid you’re ever more than three blocks away from the Pleasure Chest,” Gilbert said.
Gilbert took Brooke to his stark white enamel and brushed metal condo in Westwood with the track lighting and flat TV and on site spa. Brooke could easily see why Bettie preferred Augie’s warm, textural canyon aerie, but for a youthful bachelor the cool, postmodernist lines of Gilbert’s domicile seemed exactly right.
“I know it’s boring and ugly. I’m moving soon,” he told her as soon as he closed the door behind them.
“It’s sexy as hell, Gilbert. In fact, I’d be delighted to spend the night with you here.”
