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

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