Shadow Lane Volume 1 & 2: The Romance of Discipline, Spanking, Sex, B&D and Anal Eroticism in a Small New England Village. Eve Howard

do you know all of this?” Marguerite demanded, a stab of jealousy piercing her heart.

      “They were in the shop today. He bought a mahogany four-poster... for their love nest.”

      “How horrifying,” she cried.

      “Don’t worry,” Hugo told her. “You’ve got until spring. And we know what Jane is like. It’s hardly even a challenge for you. Now, if you only had until next weekend to get him to call off the wedding, that would be a challenge worthy of you.”

      “They aren’t suited to each other,” Marguerite pointed out.

      “I agree, but that does not alter the fact that you were late for our appointment. You know how I feel about tardiness, Marguerite. It shows a want of feeling and a lack of respect. Doesn’t it?”

      “Yes,” she answered meekly, putting her hands in her lap and waiting for him to pronounce sentence.

      Circling her he said, “Marguerite was naughty to keep Hugo waiting.”

      “I just wanted to go for a walk in the rain!” Petulance replaced docility as the disagreeable information about the new talent’s approaching nuptials began to twist her heart into knots.

      “Marguerite, do you remember what happened the last time you used that particular tone of voice with me?” Hugo knelt beside her on the highly polished parquet floor and handed her glasses to her. “Put your glasses on, darling.”

      Marguerite put her glasses on. Then he told her to stand up and she obeyed. Hugo untied and relieved her of the robe.

      “Now go up to the bedroom and put your garter belt, hose and boots back on. Then come back to me.” Hugo turned her around and gave her a slap on her lush, womanly bottom that made her gasp. “Go on, don’t keep me waiting!”

      When Marguerite came back downstairs, still naked except for the articles Hugo had named, her milky white skin was suffused with an all-over blush and the rose-colored nipples that capped her full, firm breasts stood to attention.

      Hugo was sitting on the stool she’d vacated, with a large cookbook open across his lap and a wooden spatula casually tucked in the crook of one arm. He affected characteristic indifference at her spectacular entrance.

      “Now, my dear,” he began, scarcely looking up; “you and I, but mostly you, are going to be baking a cherry pie. Put that apron on.

      Come here and I’ll tie your bow.”

      Marguerite slipped the starched white linen bib apron over her head, then went to Hugo and obediently turned her bare bottom toward him. First he tied the apron strings into a bow that tightly cinched her slender waist and emphasized the contrasting swell of her hips and buttocks. Then he reached for the length of silver chain and leather ankle cuffs he’d stowed beneath the stool. He made her stand with her feet about 12” apart, fastened the cuffs around the ankles of her high heeled, bisque leather, lacing ankle boots.

      “There,” he said, straightening up; “That should make the cooking lesson more piquant.” He turned her about between his hands, approving the addition of the restraints to her ensemble.

      “I’ll trip and stumble,” Marguerite fretted, taking a baby step.

      “You’d better not be too clumsy, or you’ll get this!” Hugo warned, giving her a sharp swat on her bare bottom, framed by the crisp, ruffled apron and bow, with the flat wooden spoon.

      “Ouch!”

      “Hurts, doesn’t it?”

      “Yes!”

      “There’s lots more where that came from if you don’t prove a competent apprentice baker. Now let’s see what we’ll need to start with.” He read aloud, “3 cups drained, pitted, tart red cherries; 1/2 cup cherry juice; 3 1/2 tbs. all purpose flour; 2 tbs. butter; and for the pinch of salt we’ll substitute 2 of Marguerite’s tears. Step 1 says: prepare and set aside pastry for 2-crust pie. Did you get that, Marguerite?”

      “Uh... how many cups cherries?” Marguerite hadn’t realized she was supposed to be memorizing the ingredients as he read them off.

      “You weren’t paying attention?”

      “I was but you read too fast!”

      “Bend over the table and grip the opposite edge,” Hugo told her sternly.

      “But you didn’t say I had to memorize —”

      “Don’t make me tell you twice.”

      Marguerite walked in small steps to the large trestle table that dominated the kitchen.

      “May I take my glasses off?” she asked, before bending over. Hugo nodded and she put them down, then bent over and grasped the opposite edge of the table with her hands. She kept her legs straight and together, as she’d been taught. Hugo stepped up behind her and gave her one hard whack across each cheek with the flat of the spoon. Then he stood her up, so they could start again.

      Two hours and one shapely pink, well-paddled bottom later, the kitchen was powdered in flour, and the cherry pie stood cooling on a rack. Then, still locked into her anklets, Marguerite was firmly marched up to bed.

      The following morning dawned cloudy and raw. William, Laura and Susan were having breakfast in the dining room when the bell rang. William looked up from his paper annoyed, while Laura and her sister exchanged puzzled glances. When Laura went to the door she was surprised to confront Hugo and Marguerite.

      “I hope we’re still in time to see Susan off,” said Marguerite, handing a ribbon wrapped pink box to Laura. “I baked this for her. Myself!”

      “How sweet of you both,” Laura said, without meeting Hugo’s eyes. “Come in and have some coffee with us. What kind of pie is it?”

      “Cherry,” Hugo told Laura; “Just like your lewd little sister wasn’t.”

      “Did you expect her to save it for you?” Laura returned scornfully.

      “Not at all. I knew she was a little slut the minute I met her. William up?” Hugo followed Laura confidently through the house, pulling Marguerite along behind him by the hand.

      William was far from overjoyed to see his competitive neighbor settle in so cozily between his charming sister-in-law and lovely wife; however, he grunted at Hugo, let his eyes linger on Marguerite a moment, for she was well worth lingering over, sleepy-eyed and tawny in her fur; then reburied himself in the Wall Street Journal. He had no flair for small talk and disliked the gossipy, girlish hilarity which tended to ensue when two or more women who hadn’t seen each other in over twelve hours happened to converge.

      Delighted at the surprise appearance of Hugo and Marguerite, Susan served the sweet, flaky pie. She knew better than to offer William any. Even so, he came out from behind the paper to volunteer the information that they were all about to consume mass quantities of “white death.”

      When Hugo asked Susan how she was getting to Boston, it was revealed that Laura would be driving her, and staying with her for a few days. William had found Susan loft space in Back Bay and Laura was going to help her furnish it.

      “You know,” Hugo said, “I was going up to Boston today myself. There’s an auction I want to attend.”

      “Really, Hugo?” Susan was instantly aglow. “Won’t you consider driving in with us, then? We’ve got plenty of room.”

      “I was going to offer to drive you girls in myself,” Hugo said. “I plan to be in town for several days.”

      “If those are your intentions anyway,” William said from behind the paper, “then you can take Susan and settle her in. I’d rather not have to do without Laura.”

      Susan looked at Hugo. If he was piqued at missing the opportunity of getting the two girls alone in the city with him, he didn’t show it.

      “Fine,”