Читать книгу Shadow Lane Volume 10: The Spanking Adventures of Amanda Sands - Eve Howard - Страница 9

Chapter Two Amanda’s Diary October

October 10th

Hugo warned me B&D support groups can be as exciting as standing in line at the bank and last night proved it. I couldn’t help but doze during the orientation, except I could never really achieve a satisfyingly somnolent state because a rude young man sitting beside me appeared to delight in constantly exhorting me to, “Pay attention!” This David Byrne type was toothpick thin, with hair neither long nor short, horn rims and a silly watch full of dials. He also had a teasing smile (with good teeth), which I considered presumptuous to flash me, on such short acquaintance.

A lecture on knife play began and I decided to leave. I had to wriggle past a dozen pierced, tattooed, leather swathed or gothed out dudes on the way and one had the nerve to squeeze my bottom. I gave the closest pair of goons a scathing look and told them they weren’t hot enough to get away with that. I glimpsed my annoying prodder grinning at my indignation.

So cosmically perfect that I was able to get Hugo to buy me the leather dress and fetish pumps instead of a lot of junk for my dorm room. It has long sleeves, a stand up collar plunging into a sweetheart neckline and a tight skirt that laces up the back. “You might want to be ambiguous about your orientation,” he advised. “Let them think you’re dominant, you’ll get more respect.” The shoes were 5” stack heeled black leather dream girl pumps. I want to make a good impression when I go places like that, one that people won’t forget.

The annoying guy followed me outside and fast-talked me into having coffee with him. He was only just lucky that there was a cafe right alongside the punk club where the orientation meeting had been held. I never would have agreed to go anywhere that had required a cab or tram. He should have known he was wasting both our time but he was persistent.

He introduced himself as Marty Patmore, got my name out of me and started asking me impertinent questions as soon as we sat down, such as my orientation, whether I was married, belonged to someone, etc. I just looked at him, sipped my hot chocolate and pretended to be impressed by his watch, so I could see what time it was.

“Well, I have to go,” I finally said.

“But, you haven’t told me one thing.”

“Because you’re not my type,” I explained, as nicely as you can say something like that.

“How do you know that? You don’t even know what I do.”

“Oh, are you out of school?” He looked to be early twenties, but he could have been a few years older.

“I am.”

“And what is it that you do?”

“I design software to test products without using animals.”

“That is admirable,” I sincerely replied.

“Can’t we just talk for a few minutes about our mutual interests?”

“No, that would only inflame you. You might decide to follow me home, stalk me, do any number things to attract my attention.”

“You’ve been through this before?”

“No, but I couldn’t help but notice how few girls my age were at the meeting.” I knew I also stood out because I had on a demi cinch under the leather dress, which took my waist down to 22”. (It was making me feel faint. I’m told it takes getting used to.)

“What type are you holding out for?” he presumed to ask me.

“Someone who knows how to dress and wear his hair. Someone hot and sexy. With a great look, to make my heart pound when I see him coming.”

“So, you’re looking for a rock star,” he decided.

“Where’s that ring from? MIT?”

“Yes. I graduated two years ago.”

“Top of your class?” I asked. Something had given him the confidence to come on to me.

“Yes.”

“I’m still not excited,” I said regretfully. He did seem very well bred and well spoken, so perhaps I was being too harsh.

He sighed and seemed to accept that he’d gotten as far as he was going to get with me. He handed me a card with his phone number and email address, saying, “In case you ever need a friend in the scene.”

“So, you’re submissive, right?” I asked. He colored again.

“No!” He got up, seemed to want to add another comment, but decided against it and just left.

October 11th

Couldn’t get to sleep last night thinking about how unkind I’d been to Mr. Patmore. Couldn’t remember how many ways I’d insulted him until I read the above. So, first thing I shot him this email:

Dear Mr. Patmore,

I apologize for my unnecessary bluntness yesterday. (Though you did have it coming for following me out of the meeting.)

You seem nice. Calm. Coolheaded. You’re obviously scientific, and therefore experimental. It gave me an idea. Maybe we could work some thing out. I’ll get to the point, and you should understand where I’m coming from, having been yourself so recently an academic grind.

I’m a freshman at H. who has just discovered that she will have to work three times as hard now as she did in high school. So I won’t have time for a conventional romance. I can allow myself maybe one night out a week. I think I’d like to spend the better part of that night in kinky sex. Which is where you might come in. And I’ll be perfectly frank here. I’m not attracted to you, but if you’re a good top, I may be interested in playing with you, once in a while, with no strings attached, going either way, just for kicks.

Sexually, I’m adventurous and therefore uninterested in an exclusive relationship. If I allow you to possess me more than once, this is not to be taken as a sign that I am yours, only that I enjoy playing with you now and then. You would have no claims on me, no right to my fidelity, no options on the rest of my spare time. Moreover, you would have to remain uninvested emotionally, okay with the fact that while you were doing me, I might be fantasizing about Antonio Banderas or some fascinating older man I might be going to play with at a future date. You would not be my only sexual partner or my only scene playmate. Even though I’m only 18, I am already well connected in the scene. My father is the publisher of a spanking magazine and I am going to appear on the cover in a few months. I plan to travel out to the Cape several times this season to play in Random Point, where there is a large concentration of hip enthusiasts.

If you like my idea, let me hear from you soon. I’ve already fucked all the hot boys on my dorm floor, but they turned out to be crème Brule. Which reminds me of a lyric from Rancid: “No way in hell am I going through life having vanilla sex.”

Best wishes,

Amanda Sands

I hit send and went off to breakfast and classes, forgetting all about my impulsive proposition until I got back to my room after lunch. Mr. Patmore’s return email read:

Dear Ms Sands,

Nothing could have surprised me more than your adorable letter. I absolutely love your proposition. In fact, let’s do it fast, before you change your mind! At your service.

Marty Patmore

Nice. So I set up a meet for Friday night. I have the key to Hugo’s apartment on Boylston Street, so we won’t have to do it in my dorm room or in whatever messy bachelor digs he inhabits. He’s too young to be making much money yet and the way he dressed the other day belies any taste in decor. Hugo’s place is ideal for a sophisticated rendezvous. I’ll wear my black pvc hobble skirt, the fitted white blouse with the short collar and my patent leather 4” stack heeled ankle straps with seamed stockings and a gartered waist cinch, with frilled black nylon rumba panties.

October 14th

Imagine a first date on Friday the 13th. It turned out to be more than okay.

I walked into the bistro on the corner of Hugo’s block and didn’t see him at the bar. But he was there. He just looked tremendously different. It was as though some fabulous gay buddy of his had done a complete makeover on him in less than a week. The glasses were gone, the hair was cut short and geometric in back and on the sides but fell forward long and straight on his brow and it was a very striking shade of jet black, a fact which I had not taken note of before. His face was actually good. And his tall, thin body was just right for the really cool suit he had on, some sort of midnight blue silk, with a white shirt and no tie. Clooney couldn’t have done better. So, no wonder I didn’t know it was Marty. I kept standing inside the door, staring and staring. Finally this cute guy came over.

“Amanda?”

“Marty?”

He led me back to a small table, which had been reserved for us. I didn’t want to go through the embarrassment of being carded so I just ordered grapefruit juice.

“What happened to you?” I asked.

“I just got a hair cut and put on a suit.”

“Where’s your glasses?”

“I’m wearing contacts.”

“So, your reply to my note was brief.”

“I meant to convey my approbation of your plan.”

“Well, you did. But what other thoughts have you on the subject?”

Then the menus came and we picked out food. Finally he replied, “You seem to be a thrill seeker. As I understand it, if I perform satisfactorily and don’t offend you in some other way, you may condescend to see me again, but otherwise I’m to have no expectations outside of the kinky sex.”

“Your grasp of the situation is complete,” I admitted, unable to stop staring at him, who didn’t look nerdy anymore. He was looking more like Keanu by the second. I was getting turned on! But I kept wondering, will he have the guts to follow through, will he fumble, will he come in three seconds, will he be well endowed?

He asked me a lot of questions. What I’d tried, what I liked, how I liked it; we talked about positions, implements, safe sex, safe words, etc. I answered frankly. He gathered information, as a scientist will, and then planned his experiment. And that experiment was how many ways he could make me come in one night. (He found four.)

When we got up to the flat Marty said, “So who’s this spanking magazine parent of yours?” When I told him he was properly impressed. And even more enchanted when I showed him what that meant, i.e., a luxurious apartment, painted in rich jewel tones with exquisite crown molding and gilt mirrors; equipped with a spanking bench, a toy chest, restraints, vintage wines, a stocked larder and some really good weed. Yeah, I had it all. Even a St. Andrew’s cross concealed behind a panel in the master bedroom.

Meanwhile, he was starting to look even better to me. We were sitting on the sofa in front of the hearth and smoking Hugo’s extraordinary weed when I noticed just how good he looked.

I think I may have even blurted out, “Gee, all of a sudden, you look good to me!” (I blame the wine, not the weed, for this candor.)

Marty didn’t let this go to his head. Instead he rose and launched on a bit of a lecture. “So I hit the jackpot,” he said, cool and incisive. “So maybe I don’t deserve it.” I could only shrug. “But let’s remember one thing, young lady, I’m here on your invitation.” That was true. I waited to see where he was going with this. He paced. “You’re about the most conceited girl I’ve ever met,” he declared, without rancor. “And the most controlling one as well.”

“You’ve ever met other girls?” I said.

“Fresh too, huh? I’ll take care of that.”

“Really? You plan to?”

“That’s why I’m here isn’t it? So far you’ve controlled everything. You’ve circumscribed our relationship with micrometer precision, leaving me room to express my own personality in only one area: how I’m going to discipline you.”

That sounded good to me. I wouldn’t fight it. I facsimilated a Bardot pout and sat up quite straight on the sofa, perched on the edge, as a stiff Victorian waist cinch will make one do.

He rummaged in the toy chest and found a small pair of leather wristlets, then sat behind me and made me put my wrists behind my back. With my hands out of the way he began to take liberties, kissing me on the mouth and throat and squeezing my breasts through my blouse. When his hands went to my waist he realized I was cinched and gave me a look of deep satisfaction.

Pretty soon I found my wrists transferred to in front of me and myself over his lap, being spanked through my pvc skirt for a long time. Long enough for the heat to penetrate. I found the bony fingers weren’t at all unbearable.

He doesn’t ooze compliments, but he couldn’t refrain from commenting on the aspect presented by my trim bottom so tightly girded in the incredibly shiny black pvc skirt with the zipper up the back.

When the skirt was unzipped and removed and the blouse was taken off, I was left in my sheer black bra, black waist cinch with garters attached, black frilled panties, hose and the patent leather shoes. I saw how I looked reflected in a mirror. His being fully dressed was an erotic contrast. Vanilla guys are always for just ripping their clothes off, but players know the power of fine pelts.

I spent a long time over his lap. He didn’t lower my panties right away. He kept spanking me, then slipping his fingers into my panties, teasing me to insanity before he would actually do anything with them. Then, he did everything with them. Orgasm #1.

He rolled me over, took me in his arms and we kissed, Marty squeezing my breasts and going under my bra to pinch my nipples, just hard enough, while simultaneously biting my shoulders, throat and earlobes, just hard enough. Orgasm #2.

He slid back the St. Andrews Cross panel, made me stand facing it with my bottom positively thrust out, attached my wrists to the top of the X frame with the wristlets and boat hooks and my ankles to the bottom with similar leather restraints. Once I was generally positioned, he removed both my bra and panties, leaving me nude except for the waist cinch, seamed stockings and fetish shoes. He selected a deerskin flogger to begin with, but that merely made a lot of noise and almost no impression on me. He switched to a small cat-o-nine whip and demonstrated the accuracy of his aim and the control of his wrist as he touched me up smartly but not harshly for about ten minutes. Next he used a crop on my bottom, somewhat stingingly. I didn’t mind. Everything was feeling great. But my feet were starting to hurt. I pretended to cry and he let me loose. I told him my feet were hurting me so he put me over the spanking bench, which allowed me to kneel on a lower tier while I bent over the top.

He forced my knees apart so that my legs were widespread and he could see, touch and admire everything of beauty I possess all at once. He used a small wooden paddle on my bottom until each cheek was solid magenta. I could see this reflected in a double mirror arrangement behind and before us as we played. He placed one hand in the small of my back while he decorated my bottom in this manner, pressing me down against the bench firmly. Orgasm #3.

Finally he got behind me and penetrated my oh-so-ready body with a big, beautiful, safely sheathed male member until my fourth orgasm triggered his first.

We took a little nap on the bed but I had an early class this morning so I wanted to be at school when I awoke. He dropped me off in his old but cherry Volvo, smiling, pleasant, but a little distant. No doubt guarding his feelings, in case I don’t elect to see him again.

When I got back from class there were roses waiting for me with a small note: Call me!

October 21st

Just because I don’t have time for dating - it doesn’t mean I don’t have time for sex. The thing is, you don’t really have to make time for sex. You can just take it where you find it, on the spot, in between other things. Especially in a place that is utterly teeming with beautiful, intelligent men, as is this University.

This morning Alicia left early and said she wouldn’t be back until late afternoon. The parade of callers dropping by to scribble messages on our door pad began at around nine. I didn’t have to go to Spanish until twelve so I answered every knock.

The advantage of having a roommate who looks like Beyonce Knowles’ even more attractive younger sister, is that vast quantities of fine young black men swarm around our door. But Alicia isn’t interested in any of them, no matter how tall, muscular, doe-eyed and intellectual, no matter how earnest and politically correct, no matter how good a family or rough a background.

She considers them helpful in carrying laundry to the laundry room and occasionally she’ll accept a ride across the city in one of their cars, otherwise she looks through them. Black boys, white boys, she draws no distinction, considering all men very nearly useless to her at the moment. She’s a very serious student and I should strive to be more like her. I just started the semester and I feel as though my grades are already slipping because I’m spending too much time thinking about spanking and sex.

I asked her last week, “Do you mind if I make use of some of the men who come around to serve you? You hardly seem to use them at all, and never for their primary purpose, as far as I can see.” She looked at me as though I were an adorable primitive, buying into the myth of the awesomely studly African American male.

“Don’t you understand? All men are dogs,” she informed me, though not unkindly. “But of course feel free to learn this for yourself.”

Alicia is a pistol. I don’t know if she’s a dyke or just holding out for a tenured professor, but she’s the hottest, most elusive girl I’ve ever seen. (She’d make a great mistress.) I think we were paired off as roommates because we’re the exact same size and some thoughtful Dean of Residence was making sure we’d be able to lend each other wardrobe.

Anyway, the first interesting man to come by was Tommy Harrington. I’d been looking at him for a few weeks now. How could I help it? I’ve been a Snoop fan since I was twelve and he’s got the braids, as well as an arresting way of dressing in monochromatic colors. Also, he has a sexy, pencil thin, black moustache and the handsomest ebony skin. So I said to him straight up, “Alicia won’t be back until this afternoon. But I have an hour before class.”

He looked at me for a second while my meaning penetrated. Then he stepped inside and locked the door. Of course, I had to tell him, “Yes, you are my first black man.” (Adding a flirtatious, “How are you going to get me wet?”)

He proposed giving me head, and I let him, but all the while I was thinking about spanking and how I could get him to spank me. Finally I asked, “Spank me?”

Being hip hop (and thus booty-oriented), Tommy understood pretty well what I meant. He bent me over the bed and while he was getting his dick positioned for penetration, he began smacking my bottom, not very hard, just kind of cutely.

“You’re a bad little girl, aren’t you?” he asked with some very real appreciation, I thought. Wow, did he ever have a big cock, really. But I haven’t been with all that many guys so it’s hard to objectively compare. (That adorable Marty Patmore was almost as big anyway, for all he’s a skinny white boy.)

We had a very hard time at first. I told him he needed to spank me harder, like he meant it, if he wanted me relaxed enough take his whole cock. I saw him shrug in the mirror before he began spanking me again, this time a little harder. It was just right. Then he fastened his hands to my waist and started plunging in. I taught him the trick my darling Carlos always used to use to get me to come, placing his palm against my lower abdomen, just above my muff, and pressing it while he was drilling me. It worked! I came hard.

Tommy finished up and disposed of our protection. I thanked him, promising that if our paths met as fortuitously again, we might repeat the performance. (Why not? He was damn near perfect.) He walked out a little dazed but with a big smile on his handsome face. I never even asked him his major. I’m so bad.

Tommy did me so well that I only planned on interviewing the other interesting man who rapped on the door, looking for Alicia, before I left for Spanish. But he also turned out to be too interesting to let get away before test-driving as well. (What the hell got into me today? Oh, wait, I know, two cocks.)

Ronnie Van Horn, an earnest, bespectacled sophomore, dresses and talks like a Manhattan preppie. Alicia told me that he isn’t here on scholarship, his parents have bucks. She’s actually spoken somewhat favorably about him because he’s serious and not as obvious a dog as the others. She is considering allowing him to take her to an afternoon concert and tea some day this winter.

Ronnie appeared very p.c. and was both shocked and seemingly offended by my offer of casual sex.

“I’m sorry Miss Amanda, but houseslave Ronnie is not available to service you today!” he scolded me indignantly.

I told him not to be so stuffy. He was a boy first and an enlightened African American intellectual second. I admitted that my initial attraction to him was probably based on his exoticness, but made no apologies for that.

He remained obdurate so I said, “Oh, never mind! You’re obviously a prude or timid and I have no interest in that type of person, whatever the race.”

I kicked him out and closed the door.

Two minutes later, he was back, knocking. When I opened the door he took me in his arms and kissed me. Not awkwardly, not halfheartedly, but like he’d been studying old Clark Gable movies. (I found out later he’s a film historian and of course, a future independent film maker.)

He pulled me inside, locked the door and threw me down on the bed, actually saying, “You want me to make love to you?”

“Yes!” I replied, “But spank me first!”

This threw him and he seemed confounded. A large question mark quivered above his neatly crew cut cafe au lait head. His liquid brown eyes searched my face intensely. Did he hear correctly?

He got up, paced, looked at me, made double sure the door was locked, paced, and looked at me again. “Spanking! You deserve a paddling for how bad you are,” he finally sputtered.

“Oh, you don’t know the half,” I assured him, looking straight into his devastatingly deep eyes.

“Maybe you picked the wrong person to joke with about such matters,” he allowed judiciously.

“Maybe I picked the right one,” I countered, rolling over on my stomach on the bed. I was wearing my short, fawn colored, wool pleated skirt and a brown velvet vest over a white shirt with cuffed, chestnut thigh high boots. No, it’s not the supernaturally shapely booty of a black girl, but in its own quiet way, it juts.

He paced some more, unable to decide what to do. Perhaps this carefully brought up young man was afraid the freaky blonde slut would cry foul after encouraging an assault. I jumped up and grabbed my camera off the desk. “Look, we’ll create proof of my complicity,” I told him, placing it back on the desk in line with the bed and turning it on. “It’ll do a two minute video.”

I took him by the hand, led him to the bed and made him sit right in the middle, where I’d trained the camera. Then I stood to one side of him, defying him to turn me over his knee with a proud glance. He wasted a few seconds trying to consider whether this type of proof would help or hurt him should I turn psycho bitch and decide to lodge a complaint against him with the University. At last the greater imperative asserted itself and he yanked me face down across his corded thighs. He must either run or play some sport. Fantastic legs! He fastened his hand on my waist as though he’d been spanking girls all his life.

“What did you mean when you said I don’t know the half?” he demanded.

“Oh, you really want to know?”

“Yes!”

“Well, then I’ll have to admit, you’re the not the first man I’ve seduced today.”

“Oh? Really?” His hand came down hard on my bottom through the skirt five or six times.

“Yes, really! And the first one didn’t hesitate. He gave me everything I wanted, all at once. And, oh yeah, he was also black.”

“Oh my god, you’re a slut!” Smack, smack, smack! Three, six, nine, twelve swats in a row. He knew what he was doing though, alternating cheeks, striking not too high, not too low, covering my whole bottom, not just one spot. “I’ll teach you to objectify black men!”

“I already know how,” I replied, turning my face to look back at him, so the camera would catch my teasing expression.

“God, you’re a fresh little brat!” More vigorous swats.

“Don’t be so sensitive. You think Latin men squawk when white girls objectify them? No, they’re profoundly grateful!”

Ronnie spanked me long past the two-minute video time on my camera, good and hard. Then he let me go and took me in his arms again. We kissed so long and hard that his glasses steamed up. Then we were all over each other on the bed. He didn’t have protection, but I did and pretty soon, he was next in.

We made love face to face. I put my wrists above my head and he pinned them under one hand while unbuttoning my vest and blouse and unhooking my front closing lacy white bra to squeeze my bosom as he plunged his manly organ deep inside me. Gorgeous, lovable man!

Oh god, have I found my on campus-spanking boyfriend, so soon? If he is not a lifelong enthusiast for spanking, my name is not Amanda Sands.

Just before I left for class I got an email from Tommy Harrington. Which I quote below:

To the Fairest of the Fair, my Nymph, my Melisande,

When may I oh so delicately and carefully insert my throbbing engine of desire betwixt thy creamy, rosy orbs, that we may explore the deep mysteries of hardcore anal sex?

Your dusky knight awaits his lady’s pleasure, bestowing hot kisses on her ravishing lips, eyelids and all.

Your most devoted Tommy

P.S. I’ll bring chronic. Please be very bad in the meantime so I have many reasons to spank you again.

Gotta be an English major. And yes, I am charmed.

And now I have to watch the video I made of Ronnie Van Horn spanking me. For the twentieth time. It is delightful! My first spanking video, which I wrote, directed and starred in.

Still, I can’t wait to get to Spanish. For there I’ll glimpse again the one who may be more The One than any other. The aloof, aristocratic and possibly unobtainable, Castor Reyes.

October 22nd

This is very bad. I have a mountain of studying to do and all I can think about is boys, sex and spanking. I’ve spent almost the entire day emailing back and forth with Marty, Tommy and Ronnie. My famous ability to postpone pleasure seems to have evaporated into the Cambridge fog. I can’t afford to waste any more time on this type of thing. Thank goodness Castor offered to tutor me and check over my exercises. Our duet will commence on a properly academic note. One must move very slowly with this type of male, allowing him to make every advance. (I mean, after the initial one of appearing to need a good deal of tutoring in Spanish.) When he’s ready to possess me, it must seem to be all his idea. I should probably practice resisting in front of a mirror so it looks convincing when I try it out for real. I imagine there’s a good deal of wistful head shaking involved and possibly extending one hand in a rebuffing gesture.

Once he knows he wants me, I will force him to woo me relentlessly possibly for weeks. And when I finally do give in, I will do so stingily, one concession at a time, starting with the right to nibble my earlobes and smother my throat with hot kisses.

I’ll devastate Castor and ace my Spanish midterm.