Shadow Lane Volume 8: The Spanking Libertines A Novel of Spanking, Sex and Romance. Eve Howard

wetness as a lubricant, he inserted his middle finger into her anus. Plunging it deeply inside her, he felt her clamp down on it hard. Pulling it free he spread her and spanked her bottom hole.

      “Oh my god!” she cried at the one thing that always sent her over the edge. “You can’t!” she protested weakly for form’s sake. It was too humiliating. Now he would realize exactly how submissive she was.

      “Hold still,” he warned her, keeping her cheeks spread with one hand and continuing to spank her anus with the other, less delicately by the moment. “Since this isn’t your pussy I don’t have to be nearly as gentle with you. Do I?”

      “I don’t know,” she moaned in confusion, shrinking from the increasing though far from unpleasant sting of his punishing palm between her cheeks.

      “I’m going to take you there.”

      “Take my bottom?” she turned to him.

      “I’m sure it wouldn’t be the first time its been done,” he sighed, pulling her up and into his arms.

      “There it always feels like the first time.”

      “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.”

      “Yeah, I noticed how expert you were with that switch,” Lupe blithely retorted.

      “You deserved for it to be real.”

      “I don’t want to be in love with a martinet,” Lupe mused, allowing her throat to be nuzzled and her earlobe bitten.

      “Oh no? You’ve been looking sad all week. And I think it’s because you missed me,” said Clarence, squeezing her small waist.

      “So you noticed and still remained a hard, cold thing? Oh Clarence, how could you be so cruel to me?” she lay her head against his chest and murmured.

      “Lupe, your behavior has been far worse than mine! Picking up a stranger at the Vault while you were there as my date was bad enough. But then you compound the insult by surrendering yourself to a second and even more insolent male, right here on campus, that I now have to worry about cutting me out every chance he gets.”

      “So don’t give him any chances.”

      “Unfortunately I can’t be with you 24 hours a day,” he said, drawing her against him comfortably. “So I’m putting you on your honor to be a good girl from now on.”

      “Anyway, you’ve secured a place in my memoirs as the first man to ever beat me for being unfaithful to him.”

Chapter Three Alison’s Knight

      Alison Albrecht 28, though no fault of her own, was a difficult girl. Fortuitously, her sharp, tense, meticulous personality was suited to her new job as assistant to the bursar of the Braemar Academy. This was her first important position and also her first return to her birthplace in five years.

      The death of her father over the summer had transformed Random Point from a dreaded destination into a desirable locale. Her mother, who lived in Paris, did not return for the funeral, but sent Alison an enchanting gown and the deed to the house in which Alison had been raised.

      It was a charming cottage in the woods, only five minutes from the cove. Her mother, an obsessively artistic homemaker, had turned it into a showplace.

      Alison got a thrill walking through the rooms for the first time without fearing that her father might materialize with a scolding or irrational harangue.

      Both her parents had been perfectionists. But at least her mother’s concerns: cleanliness, tailoring, grades and comportment, made some degree of sense to Alison. Besides which she had taught Alison many valuable accomplishments, such as skating, drawing and the ability to do her own hair. Appearances were vital to her mother, including that of a happy home, which was of course impossible with her father at the helm.

      It was well for Alison that her mother had striven to mold a perfect daughter, because an awkward one might never have survived childhood under Alison’s father mentally in tact. Alison was only barely so herself on the happy day she had finally escaped to college in another state. Luckily she had been born pretty and bright. These pleasing attributes – combined with the appearance of filial passivity which she constantly labored to project – had allowed Alison to occasionally tap the extremely modest reserves of tenderness in her father’s heart and enjoy the hugs, kisses and prolonged lap sits that her mother never had the time to give her.

      She rather imagined that in his own way, her father had loved her. No doubt, he, in his turn had been an abused child. But that didn’t counter the fact that she had spent her entire life in cowering fear of him and him alone.

      Not that Alison received many spankings as a child. She was too fearful, well behaved and sneaky for that. But the threat was always there.

      Once she was of high school age, the threat became that of a strapping, rather than a spanking. Then it became even more vital not to get caught doing whatever it was he didn’t want her to do. Which was everything except studying and helping her mother clean.

      Not that Alison ever received a strapping from her father as a teenager. She was much too docile to anger him with overt disobedience and much too cautious to get pregnant from the illicit sex she had begun to have with boys from age 15. But the threat was always there.

      Alison was sure that the strap was her father’s favorite implement for use on girls because she was almost positive that she had once heard him use it on her mother.

      Alison questioned the memory whenever it arose, wondering whether she’d merely imagined the entire incident, in view of her fascination.

      It seemed that one night, when she was about aged three, her parents went to a dance at a country club. Her mother looked divine in her gown. Alison was put to bed by the babysitter and her parents returned quite late. She awoke to the sounds of a quarrel, not her father’s usual vitriolic monologue but two voices raised in anger. Then it was put to a stop by the sounds of – a strapping!

      Or had she dreamt the whole thing?

      Now that her father had expired, she could write to her mother and ask what had really happened that night. For the first time she wanted the details. If only she could believe that on some level her mother found that thug in a pinstriped suit arousing, she might feel better about their marriage and her childhood.

      Quite independently of fearing spankings from her father, Alison was, from toddler age on, completely fascinated by and enraptured with Spanking.

      As early as age three, Alison thought about spankings. Then, as a child, she was always the one to initiate spanking games with her playmates. She never wondered why she found it the nicest thing in the world when someone talked about spanking, or she saw a spanking on TV. But she knew instinctively never to discuss this phenomenon with anyone. Because even as a child, Alison observed that other people didn’t feel the same way about spanking as she did. Other people thought it was a silly or very bad thing – always to be avoided. Nobody else seemed to feel it was an immensely intriguing subject. Except perhaps the writers who put spankings into TV shows and old movies. And novels. Oh, how she loved to read a book where one might come across a spanking! Perhaps these creative geniuses alone understood about the power of spanking and put the references in, just for the likes of Alison and a handful of others who might also understand.

      Alison “came out” at aged seventeen, by answering an ad in The East Village Other when she was a freshman at Sarah Lawrence. It was the first of many correspondence adventures, followed by a collection of somewhat sleazier escapades initiated in pick-up bars around Manhattan. But she never had the fortune to penetrate the actual Spanking Scene, bouncing around instead in the New York BDSM community for years and beginning to hate life.

      Then, quite by miraculous chance, during her very first week at Braemar, she happened to discover that two of the other staff members, an English