Shadow Lane Volume Eleven: The Venus Club A Novel of Sex, Spanking and Modern Love. Eve Howard

said, “Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels,” but had read that even Thomas Jefferson had observed, “We never repent of having eaten too little.” These adages had been her law since a teen and they had served her well in maintaining the figure that had always gotten her noticed. But she saw Amanda’s point just as well at that moment. Amanda was her same height, 5’8” and Amanda claimed to be all of a hundred and twenty five pounds. Pamela hadn’t allowed herself to get above 110 in years. Amanda appeared slender to a fault but she also looked strong. Through the application of scientific exercise joined to a conscientious effort not to skip meals anymore, she too might allow herself to gain a healthy ten to fifteen pounds without appearing any less sylphlike. Perhaps it would be easier to stand up to her tyrannical husband if she were more robust. Possibly regular meals and the subtraction of the pharmaceutical amphetamines, which had been supplying her with frantic energy for so many years, would result in an overall relaxation of tension and stress in her day-to-day existence.

      Pamela went to the medicine chest and looked at her bottle of Ritalin. She opened it. Ten left. Almost time to call in a refill. She took the bottle off the shelf and tossed it into the wastebasket, a sensation of relief passing through her frame. She hadn’t taken one yet that morning.

      She sat at her vanity mirror and reddened her wide, full lips with burgundy lip-gloss, just to the point of moist rosiness. Instead of applying any more make-up, she left her smooth, soft, faintly olive toned skin clean and ignored even her eyeliner, shadow and mascara. Her dark and wide set almond shaped eyes were naturally long lashed and she was determined not to expose them to any chemicals that day to enhance what was already lovely. Hanging small gold hoops in her ear and a thin gold chain and pendant around her neck, she felt herself to be adequately adored to greet the summer day.

      Calling in sick, Pamela packed a white and navy leather tote with gym gear and a change of lingerie, as well as her Kindle, on which she had recently placed The Ladies’ Paradise by Zola and deliberately left her phone on her dressing table before going downstairs.

      Pamela was happy that her husband always left for the store an hour before she herself arose. He was never very cheerful in the morning before work, so it was best not to encounter him at that time if one could possibly avoid it, especially on a day when one looked far too good to seem in the slightest off color, no less to call in sick. In the kitchen she brewed coffee, poured whole milk over a half cup of fruit and nut granola and ate one entire quarter of a rapturously sweet honeydew melon, all the while watching one of her favorite HBO dramas, which she had dvr’ed on the kitchen TV. It was ten am before she left the house, got into her BMW and drove into Random Point to spend the morning at the gym and spa and then meet Amanda for lunch at the wonderful vegan café that Amanda had discovered earlier that week.

      After lunch, Pamela drove over to the Damaris shop, climbed the polished wooden staircase to the pleasant design studio above it, and surprised her partner at her drawing board under the window.

      “Pamela,” cried Damaris. “I didn’t expect to see you here today. Isn’t there a big sale going on at the store?”

      Pamela regarded the petite proprietress of the shop and co-designer of the Damaris line with affection as she announced, “My love, I’m here to stay. I’m never going back to Bartlett’s. Never, never, never!”

      Damaris got up to throw her arms around Pamela’s waist and danced up and down the studio with her willowy friend.

      “What changed?” Damaris asked.

      “Today I awoke from my dogmatic slumber,” Pamela declared, “and suddenly realized, with Amanda Sands’ prompting, that being married to Ambrose Bartlett hasn’t benefited me one iota, unless you count being mistress of the pretty house, which is nice, but doesn’t equal the lifestyle upgrade that marriage to a millionaire once promised.”

      “You’re not saying you’ve quarreled with Ambrose?” Damaris asked, concern flitting across her expressive face.

      “Not yet. But that’s inevitable,” Pamela sighed, letting her charming friend go. “Because I am in full rebellion mode.”

       Chapter Five

      The Venus Club

      “Hello Ladies,” said Marguerite Alexander, rising from her seat at the large round table in the private party room at The Owl Inn of Woodbridge, and addressing nine of her female friends. “Thank you for coming and welcome to the first assembly of The Venus Club.” The tall, voluptuous redhead, clad in a full skirted, white portrait collar dress with black ribbon trim returned the smiles that went around the table at the disclosure of their new society’s name. “Looking around the table, we all know we have much in common. We’re all in the scene, we’re all players and most of us have played with each other’s men.” A general murmur of laughter greeted this statement, followed up by several suspicious glances from one girl to another. “I’ll get back to that in a second,” promised Marguerite, “But first let me thank you all for dressing in black and white, as suggested in the invitation. It will make the photos ever so attractive.” She paused as two waiters arrived with four bottles of wine and showed them to Marguerite for approval. She nodded and they busily began uncorking the two whites and two reds, then went around the table to fill each guest’s glass to preference. One paused when he came to Amanda, but Marguerite fixed him with a penetrating gaze and thinking both of his tip and not offending the beautiful hostess, he poured Amanda a glass of white wine without murmur.

      As soon as the waiters departed, Marguerite continued. “To continue, some of us know each other very well, there being less than one degree of separation between us, due to our playful natures and said men. Others barely know the group at all, having joined us more recently. I hope this society of Venus will become a regular part of our lives, encouraging us to meet and celebrate every happy event that may occur for us here on the Cape and out in the bigger world.” Marguerite paused to sip her red wine with appreciation. “I’ll have a word more to say on the precepts of our new society in a moment. Meanwhile, we’re here tonight to commemorate both the engagement of Alison Albrecht to Freddie Johanson,” Marguerite raised her glass to the slim brunette in a smartly cut white summer suit worn over a white open collared shirt, who smiled and blushed, not being used to this type of attention. “And to formally welcome Amanda Sands to our ranks.”

      Amanda looked startled and her blue eyes sparkled with pleasure. This had not been on the invitation! Amanda wore a short, white, form fitting, straight skirted, sleeveless, double breasted shirtwaist with a wide white fabric belt that emphasized her tiny waist. “I love your hair, Amanda, by the way,” Marguerite beamed at her young friend. All the women around the table complimented Amanda on her pixie cut and said how well it became her. “And we also love Pamela’s new hair cut,” Marguerite added, starting another round of pleasantries. Pamela smiled with simple pleasure, enjoying the wave of admiration that swept over her from her faultlessly groomed and sweet smelling companions. She hadn’t experienced much female comradery in her young life. She had always chosen one best friend, but had never felt the sensation of being well liked by an entire group of females at the same time. Pamela was too self-absorbed and hyper critical to realize how well liked and much admired she had become at Bartlett’s by the mostly female staff. Pamela was dressed in a narrow lapelled black silk suit with a nipped waist, a pencil skirt and a scrap of white cambric lace camisole peeking out at the cleavage. A black pearl on a pendant matched her black pearl earrings and her hair also gleamed like a black pearl.

      “What I propose is the strengthening of sisterly support in our own little rarified sector of the larger scene,” said Marguerite. “We are all drawn to a certain type of male. Which makes us highly vulnerable. But we also have our pride. More than one of us has set a dom straight.”

      “Am I in the rebel camp?” Amanda thought with excitement, thrilled to be included in this deliciously grown up group.

      “All of us have taken control at one point or another in our scene lives, to save our honor and our souls,” said Marguerite. This pronouncement struck Pamela to the heart, for had she not been