Shadow Lane Volume 10: The Spanking Adventures of Amanda Sands. Eve Howard

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