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Chapter Three

Gallery Party and its Aftermath

Agreeing to meet at the gallery at ten that evening, the young women separated, Amanda to do some shopping in the village and Pamela to drop in on her husband at the department store. Young Mrs. Bartlett did look very smart in a straight skirted, chunky belted, sleeveless cherry red cotton shirtwaist and a pair of snub nosed black patent leather stiletto platform pumps, as she nodded to her husband’s secretary outside his office and waited until she had been announced over the intercom before walking in. Ambrose had been studying the bank of security cameras on the far wall that monitored every department in his large and well-stocked store. But he looked up sharply on her entrance and gave an immediate start at the change.

“Oh my god, you cut your hair?” he ejaculated, getting up from behind his desk to take a closer look. He was a tall, lithe, dark haired man in his early forties, well favored, impeccably groomed and as fashionably tailored as a luxe department store owner should be. He took her by the arm and turned her around. “So that’s the mischief you were getting up to with that bad Amanda Sands,” said Bartlett disapprovingly. But she could easily perceive from his tone and expression that the sleek bob did not displease him. “Very becoming,” he unwillingly complimented her. “But, you should have asked me first!” he added so sternly that she blushed.

“Why do you call her bad?” Pamela asked.

“Never mind.”

“I told her I’d meet her later at that new gallery that Raphael Price is opening tonight.”

“Fine. I’m working late tonight anyway.”

“Could you meet me at the gallery?”

“We’ll see,” Ambrose said, by way of dismissal, before turning back to his spy cams.

Amanda called Susan to ask her to go to the opening but found her fair friend was in Manhattan for the next several days. Susan helpfully suggested to Amanda that Anthony Newton might escort her to the event and offered to call him and arrange this. Amanda flushed with pleasure at the notion of arriving at the party with a celebrity collector in tow. For even at her tender age she knew the value of introductions and counted on making a big impression on Raphael Price that night. And besides, she had a shy crush on Newton, having liked him very much on the first day they had met.

Anthony Newton cruised by Hugo’s at ten pm to pick Amanda up. She had Hope Lawrence with her and both girls wore cotton halter dresses and strappy, high-heeled sandals, Amanda in white, Hope in pale blue. Hope was another one of Amanda’s slightly older scene girlfriends, a sophisticated, sunny natured blonde in her middle twenties who could answer questions on every aspect of BDSM from hobble skirts to straight jackets with equal acumen. By walking into Raphael Price’s gallery flanked by both a Broadway luminary and an exquisite second babe, Amanda knew that she would be not only noticed but also taken seriously. What had happened in the pool with Jaime so recently had been sweet, but it had hardly taken the edge off the crazily insistent itch of sexual frustration the sudden absence of Colby had left her with.

Dennis drove them to the gallery in the Bentley and went in with them. Amanda thought Anthony’s young English driver looked very smart in his gray sharkskin suit and narrow tie and told him so with an engaging smile. Dennis blushed and melted for Amanda. Newton was in a lightweight putty-colored suit, white shirt and no tie. As always, Newton’s pockets were stuffed with cash and he was ready to buy things. Cape Cod was Newton’s home away from home and he felt it his duty to patronize its shopkeepers as much as he could. A stylish new art gallery was just the sort of place where he was likely to spend. And he was particularly well disposed towards the photographer whose work was on display that evening. Pascal Robbins was not only a sensitive lens man, but his wife, Phoebe, a well trained stage actress and gifted chanteuse, was one of Newton’s friends. In fact, the Robbins were spending the summer in Random Point, as they had done several years before, so that Phoebe might perform at the Cape Cod playhouse with a repertory company she often toured with. The company was staging a revival of Kiss Me Kate this summer. Anthony Newton was producing, directing and accompanying the orchestra on piano and Phoebe was going to play Lily. Which was why Newton was spending almost the entire summer at his house in Random Point that year.

The Price Gallery was very large, taking up the three storefronts on the end of the last commercial block of Woodbridge village. The first storefront, towards the middle of the block, was given over to inexpensive prints, old-fashioned toys and novelties, sweets and stationary. The second store in was filled with moderately priced framed reproductions and mirrors, calculated to appeal to discriminating tourists and tasteful locals. The third room, at the corner end of the street contained original art, photographs, lithographs, signed numbered prints of the works of known artists as well as costly art and photography books.

Even though she was very new to Random Point and Woodbridge, Amanda ran into several people she knew in the outer courtyard behind the gallery, where there was a fountain, colored lanterns and several tables laid out with hors d’oeuvres and other refreshments. She first saw Dru Baxter, the young man who tended the coffee bar at Marguerite Alexander’s bookshop on the days when Hope was off duty. He was about to be a sophomore at Vassar and they had spoken at length about academic subjects and life on their respective campuses when she came in from the antiques shop to get her mid morning coffee. He was having as hard a choice picking a major as she was and they had already gotten into deep discussions about books. She liked him and had no idea, as yet, that he was in the scene

Then she saw Marguerite Alexander, the proprietor of the bookshop, who was engaged in conversation with Pascal Robbins. The photographer regarded Amanda with shock, left speechless by her new haircut.

“It’s adorable,” Marguerite assured her, giving her a hug.

“Is the cute man here?” Amanda whispered to Marguerite, looking about her.

“There are several, but who did you have in mind tonight?” Marguerite asked, taking the greatest pleasure in the natural vivacity of Hugo’s newly sprung offspring.

“The owner,” Amanda disclosed. “Raphael.”

“Oh! Raphael. Yes. He’s inside, with the photos on exhibit.”

“Don’t you think he’s an exceptionally well favored young man?” Amanda asked her worldly friend.

“He’s a god,” answered Marguerite whole-heartedly.

“Do you know anything about him, what he might be like?”

“I’m afraid he’s a complete mystery to me,” Marguerite replied. “He’s only just moved here recently.”

“Those two beautiful girls he walks around with, are they his slaves?”

“He walks around with beautiful girls?”

“Quiet, well behaved ones,” said Amanda sagely.

“I don’t know that he’s in the scene. We can’t assume that,” Marguerite pointed out.

“Even if he isn’t, I want to fuck him,” said Amanda with complete candor.

“Go and lead Mr. Newton to him,” Marguerite encouraged her young friend.

Amanda hastened to take Anthony by the arm and lead him into the corner store, which featured the Pascal Robbins showing. Sure enough, one of the most prominent blown up photographs was a moody black and white of Pamela, standing on a windswept cliff, in a simple black bodice dress, her long black hair blowing out behind her, with the look of a Bronte heroine, bad and wild. The photograph was from the book of dramatic editorial shots that had featured Pamela in a variety of stunning outfits and evocative settings.

Raphael Price’s eyes widened when Amanda walked in with Anthony Newton. He knew exactly who Newton was and when he saw Amanda immediately remembered handing her his card that afternoon. Amanda introduced herself and Anthony, explaining that her friend Pamela, whom he had invited along with herself earlier that day was due to arrive momentarily. Price was overwhelmed, not knowing who to fawn on first, the well-heeled patron or the dewy teenaged goddess.

“In fact, that’s Pamela’s photo,” Amanda said.

“Really? The Louise Brooks girl you were with this afternoon is her?” Raphael looked at the blow up with interest.

“Yes, we both got our hair cut today. Mine was down to here,” Amanda indicated the middle of her back.

“Oh? I wish I could have seen that,” said Raphael sadly.

“I looked like this,” said Amanda, showing him a photo of herself from the previous day on her cell phone.

Raphael smiled, “Should I cut my hair in solidarity with you brave women?”

“Oh no! Please don’t!” cried Amanda. “Not until we’ve had sex at least once.”

Raphael looked at her in complete fascination.

“Okay!” he agreed, a wide smile lighting up his already extremely agreeable features.

“I like this one,” Anthony said of a portrait of Phoebe Robbins in one of her theatrical costumes from a Shakespearian play. Phoebe had the proper waist and bosom for a low cut velvet bustier gown.

“What a delicious young woman,” Amanda observed, to cover her embarrassment at having thrown herself directly at the dashing young gallery owner.

“That’s Pascal’s wife,” Newton explained to Amanda, handing Raphael his card. “Send it to my house tomorrow if you can,” he said, not asking the price.

“Of course!” Raphael said, delighted.

Then Amanda handed Raphael a card from Hugo’s shop.

“See, I brought you business. Now you have to come visit me at my shop,” said Amanda. Raphael looked at the card.

“You work for Hugo Sands? I’ve always wanted to meet him. Is he here tonight?”

“No, he’s on his honeymoon in Italy. I’m his daughter. I’m watching the shop for him this month. Then I’m going to Europe for the rest of the summer.”

“And after the summer?”

“Sophomore year at Harvard.”

Raphael raised his expressive brows at this disclosure.

“Lovely,” he said, looking at her with doubled interest.

“I heard you just got a house on Shadow Lane. I’m staying on Shadow Lane too, in Hugo’s house. I’m house sitting. All by myself.”

“Are you?” Raphael continued looking at her with a bemused smile.

“Who were those two girls I saw you with today? Are they here?”

“Oh yes. That was Tori Allston and Luz Martinez. They're working at the gallery this summer. Then they go back to the Art Students League,” Raphael explained while drinking in every inch of Amanda as she stood before him in the white a-line dress that flattered her slender body while exposing her satiny white shoulders and slim arms, clinging attractively to her deep, well developed bosom.

“You should come visit me,” Raphael told her, producing yet another card to write his address on. “There’s a path that leads directly from the woods behind my house to the beach.”

“Are you inviting me to visit you at your house?”

“Yes! Come by anytime.”

“I don’t know,” Amanda demurred. “Having already been so forward, perhaps I should take a step back now.”

“By all means, allow me to court you a bit,” Raphael agreed, pressing both her hands between his momentarily.

His touch wrought the exact effect upon her she had anticipated, her chest and stomach filling with butterflies.

“I’ll come visit your shop tomorrow,” he promised.

Amanda made a small bow to her host then fled to the outer courtyard to look for Pamela and report her success at attracting Raphael Price’s attention. As she searched the tiled enclosure for her new friend Amanda found herself resenting the fact that Pamela was married to the problematical Ambrose Bartlett. It would have been so much nicer if Pamela had been currently single and free to come and spend the night with Amanda, so that they could watch black and white movies together and discuss sex long into the night. Amanda was still young enough to never think of wanting to spend any time alone, no less a whole night in a large house, empty except for the resident cats. The cats were kind enough to sleep with her, of course, but they weren’t the exact equivalent of a human.

Amanda had decided that she could no longer keep a diary. With Colby now become so close, it was far too dangerous to commit every naughty thing she thought or did to print, for at any moment her lap top might repose unguarded in her room and in the midst of an innocent Google, he might inadvertently stumble onto her confessions. Her heart might have been his, but her favors and affections were still bestowed rather freely around and about everywhere that she went. So it was doubly important to her that she have her confidant close at hand to help her analyze her adventures. Pamela was so like her, in form and stature, in taste and sensibility, even in sexual orientation, that the smart brunette was the happiest choice for a new female friend that Amanda could have made. Pamela was even a few years older and had been about the world as a model and professional fashionista, which enabled her to give Amanda highly specific advice and provide excellent counsel on the subject of accepting jobs, for example.

According to Pamela, Mr. Pascal Robbins, the photographer whose work was being exhibited at the gallery that night, was one of the best friends a model could have. Pamela had traveled with him for a year as he photographed her for the fashion book, in which she had portrayed historical and fictional characters in rich outfits, and he had never once made a pass at her, honoring his marriage vows to the bewitching Phoebe Casper to the letter. Pamela held Pascal in high esteem for his fidelity and courtesy and never hesitated to introduce him to a lovely female friend. What Pamela couldn’t know was that even Pascal Robbins now and then encountered temptations he couldn’t resist, and Amanda was about to become one of them. For Pamela was ever Pamela, exquisitely chic but remote as a somnambulist and tense as a wire, whereas Amanda was glowing with warmth and bursting with animal spirits, the kind of girl Pascal truly admired on top of being stupefying beautiful.

Of course, Pamela was not blithe in the manner of a Hope Spencer Lawrence or a Susan Ross, two friends who were completely secure in their power over their men and their friends. The Parsons educated young designer was insecure and ridden with self doubt, jealous and suspicious, perpetually distressed and upset at being less than perfect on any given day and at any given moment. She never let herself relax long enough to enjoy the happiness she had as the fashionable young matron she thought she had longed to become above all things. She knew what happened when her husband’s first wife had relaxed enough to let herself swell to a size 8 or 10 with cappuccinos and cream tortes. Mr. Bartlett had fallen out of love with Paula and began to look at Pamela instead. And Pamela had not only her social x-ray figure to maintain, but much more. She also ran the Damaris boutique at Bartlett’s, while continuing to design dresses and suits for the Damaris label, in which she had become a partner with Damaris Perez Random several years before and which had just acquired its own factory in Puerto Rico to supply its numbers, another enormous pressure weighing on Pamela’s mind. She took pharmaceutical amphetamines to maintain the size 2 that she wore and that contributed to Pamela’s high-strung eccentricities and obsessive compulsions. Amanda suspected Pamela was doing this daily and had resolved to try to get Pamela to practice yoga instead but their relationship hadn’t gotten quite close enough for even gentle criticism. Though Amanda was quite sure that coming from another slim, though more athletic girl, her advice would resonate.

“Oh my god, you went Mia Farrow?” cried Ambrose Bartlett as Pamela led him towards the girl he only just recognized as Amanda. Smiling shyly back at her new best friend’s husband, (who had now spanked her twice, once to orgasm, unbeknownst to Pamela), Amanda recalled the fuss Bartlett had formerly made about her hair, which had reached to the middle of the back and was of a nature pale, ash blonde hue that always attracted attention. In addition to possessing the fine hair color, the texture of Amanda’s hair had always been silky and straight, with plenty of body and the tendency to fall back into place with the slightest shake and finger comb. It was very good hair. And Amanda could see on Mr. Bartlett’s stricken face the exact degree to which he felt she owed her peculiar charm to it. “What the hell got into you?” he finally sputtered. “I mean, Pamela’s cut is cute, so I won’t fault you for suggesting it, but what you did to yourself…” Bartlett let his thought trail off as he lit a cigarette and looked at her.

“I thought you’d quit,” she said, causing Pamela to wonder how Amanda would know such a thing. In point of fact he had quit the previous winter, but had lapsed back during their honeymoon in Paris in the spring, an end result of waiting for Pamela to try on clothes in various salons while parlaying with their owners.

Ambrose ignored Amanda’s reproachful statement, though inwardly pleased that she seemed to care about him to this extent, and took Pamela’s hand. “I hope someone spanked you for doing that,” Bartlett said by way of farewell, leading Pamela away.

“I do like your hair,” he said to his wife, suddenly quite interested in getting her home immediately. “It would look even better if you put on a silk satin chemise.” Pamela owned many of these handsome, bias cut slips, along with the garter belts and panties to match, each ensemble luxuriously embroidered or smartly piped.

It was a good night for Pamela, one of the first in which she began to feel truly like a bride. Knowing she had a true Louise Brooks hair bob, she envisioned that silver screen goddess in her mind’s eye as she changed into the requested shimmy in her enormous, cedar lined walk in closet. Smiling into the middle segment of a triple mirror at one end of the room, Pamela fancied she saw a glimmer of Brooksian mischief sparkle from her normally serious dark eyes. The haircut really suited her!

Then she frowned, wondering how Amanda had known that Ambrose had quit smoking, fairly sure she had been present all the previous times Ambrose and Amanda had met, these being during fashion shows at the department store, in which Amanda had several times walked as a model. Had Bartlett seen Amanda some other time, alone?

Ambrose was already undressed and in bed when Pamela joined him and allowed him to enfold her in his arms, pressing her satin wrapped back against him and instantly feeling his full bodied arousal freshly sprung to life against her oval bottom cheeks.

“Did you really hate Amanda Sands’ hair or were you just teasing her?” Pamela asked, stretching her head up and back and exposing her throat to his lips.

He nuzzled her smooth neck for a moment before replying, “How could you let her do that?” he asked, caressing and squeezing Pamela’s small, pert, upstanding bosom while remembering Amanda’s voluptuous breasts with pleasure. His wife had an elegant body, but Amanda was a goddess.

“She said she’d cut her hair if I cut mine. I didn’t take her seriously. Then when they started on her, I tried to stop her from letting them go so far. But she was determined.”

“You’re older than her and have better taste, you should help her make better decisions.”

“I know,” said Pamela, relieved that Bartlett wasn’t opposed to a deeper friendship between herself and Amanda.

“I noticed that Anthony Newton bought that photo of you before he left,” said Bartlett, allowing his fingers to graze Pamela’s small triangle of dark pubic curls.

“That’s very flattering,” Pamela murmured, pushing her bottom back against his rigid cock, which was nestled between her satin clad cheeks. Ambrose reached down and pulled up the slip to bare her.

“It was a lovely photo,” Bartlett assured her; contentedly guiding his engine to her portal’s opening without inserting it. Reaching around in front of her again, he began to drum upon her Venus mound with his fingertips and then to slowly and delicately manipulate her to wetness before plunging deep inside her vagina to the hilt. Thus the beauty and her husband came together, as a newly wedded couple ought to do, though each one’s thoughts were focused on Amanda Sands.

Amanda got dropped off at Hugo’s house by Anthony and readied herself to enjoy the somewhat guilty pleasure of sleeping in Hugo’s bed. She had a perfectly pleasant room given over to her for her use at the top of the house, but Hugo’s master bedroom featured a large television screen connected to all the servers necessary to import every form of visual entertainment into the handsomely appointed room. Amanda had recently visited the vintage video store at the edge of the village to begin researching films for a course she planned to sign up for in the fall term called American Culture in the Depression. The helpful collector-owner of the shop with the walrus moustache had assured her that he possessed a viewable version of every preserved film from the 1930’s ever issued, though many of these rarities were only available on videocassette. Naturally Hugo still had a working VCR in his media set up so Amanda had asked the film expert at the shop to guide her in her cinema journey with suggestions, stressing an interest in pre-code productions. Enchanted to be charged with this duty, the shop owner sent her home with Dodsworth, Little Caesar, She Done Him Wrong, Professional Sweetheart and Five and Ten.

After tending and feeding Hugo’s three demandingly affectionate cats, Amanda changed into a white cotton wrapper, made herself a snack of tea, fresh peaches and buttered toast, and took the tray up to Hugo’s room, where she crawled in between the smooth sheets of his large, mahogany bed and began to watch the 1931 Marion Davies, Leslie Howard drama Five and Ten, from the Fanny Hurst novel. Amanda had only ever seen Leslie Howard in Gone with the Wind and had not quite liked the character of Ashley Wilkes, but the younger and more cynical Howard as the Manhattan book publisher who is pursued by the spoiled rich girl Davies was much more interesting and Amanda sat up and took notice, especially when he threatened to spank Davies. The movie had also virtually begun with a small, slapstick style-spanking scene on a train, wherein her older brother Kent Douglass as a finale to some mutual horseplay spanked Davies.

The two small spanking startles triggered immediate longings in Amanda and she felt her pussy throb to life under the bedclothes. But it had been a very long day and as much as she wanted to dwell on the thought of the beautiful young man with the beautiful name whom she had met at the gallery, she fell asleep before she could even complete a fantasy in which he featured.

The next morning dawned warm and overcast, with a summer thunderstorm about to begin. Amanda awoke, hastily remade Hugo’s bed, fed the cats and cleaned up after them, then quickly prepared a breakfast of coffee, granola and blue berries. She soaked briefly in a Caswell Massey peach bubble bath in the antique copper bathtub in the second floor guest bathroom, thinking all the while of Raphael Price, whose attractive image had filled her mind from the moment she awoke. He seemed a confident yet infinitely polite man, just the type who would know exactly how a young woman of sensibility might enjoy being treated. And she dared hope he was dominant too. After her bath, she showered off and shaved her legs in the thickly beveled green glass shower stall beside it. Finally she lavished a peaches and cream scented skin toner all over her taut, smooth bare skin, breathing in its delirious essence with delight. This is what she would smell like to Raphael Price if he took her in his arms and held her close that day. Back in her room she selected a sleeveless peach and white cotton seersucker shirtwaist dress with a chunky belt of the same material to accentuate her extremely small waist, a full skirt and notched lapel collar, which she artfully paired with pale green leather clog sandals that displayed her white tipped French pedicured toes flirtatiously. Around her neck she wore a golden locket on a gold chain and in her ear lobes hung small, gold-wired pearl drops. She frowned into the mirror at the image of a girl in a dainty dress with a boyish haircut. “Pixie do,” she told herself positively.

“Very smart. Very Jean Seberg,” the nice man at the vintage video shop had told her on seeing her thus shorn, while remembering having seen her earlier in the week with a gloriously full head of blonde hair. While on a clear day she would have walked the mile into the village or ridden Laura’s bike, the threatening storm called for more protection and Amanda drove Hugo’s old bottle green Jag into town.

Once she got to the shop she had to unlock the doors and put on all the lights, play the answering machine back and return any business related calls. There were none. Then she went back into Hugo’s office and stroked on his Mac to view any emails from customers relating to both his antiques business and his sideline publishing business, which was responsible for the New Rod Quarterly, a spanking magazine originally co-edited by her mother with Hugo approximately twenty years before. The mode of publication of the journal had changed over twenty years, but the content was still concerned with high quality corporal punishment fiction, photography and art, augmented by articles and letters, advice and reviews, referrals and the type of ads which could only be of interest to spanking enthusiasts. Hugo had instructed her to reply to none of the antiques related queries and all of the spanking ones, trusting to her instincts as a self confessed practitioner of the spanking arts to provide the right answers even to questions she had never considered before. She was “into it” and she was his daughter. She already had spanking boyfriends, had written, shot and directed spanking video scenes, had done professional spanking sessions. As far as Hugo was concerned, Amanda was as qualified to handle his spanking business in his absence as anyone could have been. He had always been an active booster of female initiative in the scene, discovering new artists and writers and helping them to get their work in print and in Amanda’s modern case, on video.

It had been through Hugo’s offices on her behalf that she had worked out a deal with Ambrose Bartlett to shoot her video spanking scenes at Bartlett’s department store the previous Christmas Day. Amanda’s new best friend Pamela knew nothing about the subsequent consequences of this privilege granted Amanda by Bartlett, which had been to submit to a hard, nude, tear-provoking corporal punishment session at his hands, in his executive office at the store. As far as Pamela knew, Bartlett had only permitted Amanda and some of her college friends to shoot some video footage at the store as a favor to his friend Hugo Sands.

Amanda had a phone number to contact Hugo in Italy and ask him any questions she couldn’t figure out the answers to herself. So far she had not called him. His computer files were meticulously organized and she was fully capable of doing searches and digging up information for readers and subscribers by herself. And if she couldn’t figure something out for herself, she called Susan Ross or Marguerite Alexander for advice, as these two friends of hers and long time protégées of Hugo were immensely conversant with scene minutia, from professional referrals to the various availabilities of books, movies and supplementary erotic publications, along with support groups, party hosts world wide and related websites. Hugo had told her to make herself as helpful and useful to the scene as she possibly could and the scene in turn was sure to make itself helpful and useful to her.

Amanda saw there were several orders for subscriptions to the New Rod Quarterly to process. Hugo had quickly taught her how to put through a charge card order and how to postage envelopes using his postage machine and she had agreed to fulfill the important duty of shipping out new and back issues to readers during the month of Hugo’s absence. This process involved packaging, postaging and taking the orders into the post office to be mailed. Amanda had an excellent memory for routines and with a little help from Sloan Taylor, the co-owner of Marguerite Alexander’s bookshop across the street, she got everything to work and managed to start processing orders almost immediately. Just as she was printing out address labels, the doorbell tinkled on the outer door of the shop.

Amanda rushed out to the floor to greet the first customer of the day and to her surprise she found herself confronting Raphael Price at ten twenty am. He was dressed in a black long sleeved shirt and black jeans. His long brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail and he had a sexy two days’ growth of hair on his chin and upper lip. Amanda now noticed that his eyes were nut brown and his hands long and graceful as he put one out to shake hers.

“Hello Amanda. Remember me from last night, Raphael?” he asked, holding her slim hand between both of his for a long moment as he smiled at her.

“Of course I do,” she replied, self consciously pulling her hand away to run it through her half inch of hair.

“Not used to the haircut yet?” he smiled.

Amanda shook her head abstractly, suddenly happier to gaze into his kind, friendly eyes than to worry about her hair.

“It suits you. Gives you even greater power.”

“Thank you. But why would you think I wouldn’t remember you? I practically propositioned you!” she exclaimed, because it was a warm, wet June day, she was almost nineteen and the blood was coursing through her veins.

“You did proposition me. It gave me chills.”

“I think you get propositioned all the time,” Amanda accused him, daring to survey him from the golden chest vee emerging from his open collared shirt to the smart shine on his black urban walkers.

Raphael shook his head and lied, “No, of course I don’t.”

“May I bring you some coffee?” she asked.

“I get coffee too? Thank you,” he smiled, and began to cast a practiced buyer’s eye around the shop. She left him to browse in the front room while she made her way to the galley next to Hugo’s office to start the coffee. When she returned to him she found that he had moved a large, ornate, gilt mirror away from the wall against which it had been leaning and dragged it towards the main counter.

“I definitely want this,” he said.

“Oh, how nice!” Amanda cried. People who spent money in the shop were rare. Then she remembered the rich, fancy customer she had brought Raphael the previous night and realized that she was receiving quid pro quo! This was classic economics in action. Colby would appreciate this anecdote, she thought gleefully, then pulled herself up short and realized that the magnetic Raphael Price ought never to be introduced into a conversation she might hold with her distant sweetheart, but should be in fact a closely kept summer secret. The first really loud clap of thunder sounded above them and Amanda gave a start. “How do you like your coffee?” she asked, noting that he had pulled a perfectly preserved walnut telephone table and matching upholstered chair from the 1950’s away from the wall.

“With a little milk, thank you. And you might as well get your tape, I’m seeing a lot of things I need for my house,” Raphael delighted her by saying. She ran behind the counter and got a roll of pink tape out to mark the pieces he picked out.

“Did you say that you just recently moved into the area?” she asked.

“Just this year. And my house is half empty. Maybe you can point out some of the nicest things? I know you have excellent taste.”

“Well, I just started working here, so I’m not exactly familiar with the stock, but let’s stroll up and down the aisles together and see what there is,” she suggested.

“That sounds great.”

Amanda went to pour his coffee, her heart beating with excitement. Hugo was going to be over the moon. She knew how much Harvard was costing him and it weighed on her conscience. If she could deliver the goods during the month she was to work at the shop, she would feel less guilty about what an expensive newly found daughter she had become.

They went down the rows together and Amanda told Raphael what she herself would buy if she were the shopper. She picked out pictures, chairs, dressers, a vanity, china cupboards and armoires, an enormous carved bedstead, with a complete suite of bedroom furniture to match and finally, a pair of teak bookcases. Everything she said she liked, he had her put a pink tape strip on. And when he was done, Amanda felt unequal to attempting to add it all up on the spot.

“You’ll have to let me call Hugo and ask him if there are any discounts with such a large purchase,” she finally decided to say.

“That would be lovely, Amanda,” said Raphael. “Meanwhile, just make an inventory today and I’ll send my guys with a truck to pick everything up tomorrow. And maybe you can visit me on your next day off and help me decide where to put all of this.”

“I would adore that,” she murmured, remembering what he had said about the path to the beach through the woods behind his house.

They were standing in one of the side rooms of the shop, a long, narrow room, rather on the dark side, and crammed with heavy wooden chests of drawers topped with ornate mirrors on either side of the aisle. Perfectly alone in this secluded nook when the rain started to pound on the roof, they found themselves staring into each other’s eyes and shyly, softly smiling. Raphael put out his hand and Amanda put hers into it. Then he surprised her by bringing it to his lips.

“You’re a Venus,” he said, sinking to his knees before her. Amanda looked down at his upturned face in wonder and he looked up at her, wonderstruck. For a long moment, she didn’t move, keeping her arms relaxed but close to her sides as her brain raced to interpret his actions. Was he simply a romantic or had she found her first slave? Either way, he was still the most beautiful young man she had ever seen and she imagined that they would be waking up together sooner or later.

Now Raphael dropped his head to her feet and placed one reverential kiss on each high, leather strapped instep. She reached down and pulled him back up to a kneeling position and pulled him against her, so that his chest was level with her thighs. She placed one hand on each side of his head and stroked his hair. He wrapped his arms around her hips and she pressed his head against her flat stomach. With only her thin cotton dress and a scrap of panty between his jaw line and her Venus mound, Amanda shuddered with a sudden thrill.

Then the bell tinkled on the outer door of the shop and Raphael sprang agilely to his feet.

“That’ll be another customer,” she said in a rush. “I have to go and greet them.”

“Do that,” he encouraged her. “While I think of some way to make this hard-on go down.”

Amanda grinned at him and said, “Save it for Sunday afternoon. On the beach.”

Raphael had to get back to his own shop and departed a few moments later, leaving Amanda to number and record all his purchases, then arrive at a preliminary total. According to her calculations, which she checked and rechecked four times, her customer had spent over nineteen thousand dollars in less than one hour.

Amanda went back to Hugo’s computer and Googled international time to find out if it was a decent hour to phone her father in Italy. She found it was still early enough in the evening to place a call and opened the desktop file with his itinerary. He and Laura were in Florence that night, staying at The Grand Hotel Cavour. Amanda found its website and phone number and punched in the number. In a few minutes she was connected with Hugo’s suite and he answered the phone himself.

“Hugo, I’m so glad I found you in,” Amanda said in a rush.

“Is everything okay, Amanda?” Hugo asked with concern, for she was not the type to casually phone him.

“Everything is fantastic. Hugo, you’ll never guess what happened. I just made a huge sale.”

“Really?” he replied. She could envision his face breaking into a wide smile. “What did you sell?”

“I sold almost twenty thousand dollars worth of your best furniture. To a Raphael Price.”

“No kidding! That would be Randy Price’s nephew. He just opened an art gallery in Woodbridge, right?”