Shadow Lane Volume 9: The History of Hugo Sands and other Stories of Spanking and Love. Eve Howard
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cried Brooke with glee. “Bet that restored the old ego, eh, Gilbert?”
“I have no idea what you mean,” he said, throwing the bolt on the door again and removing his jacket once more.
“Wait a minute, how much over thirty-five was she? I do hope you’re not starting to feel cheap.”
“Come over here, wise guy,” he threatened, picking up a wooden paddle and pointing to his favorite chair in the wood paneled dungeon room.
“Can’t I hear the details first? Was she a face-lift queen? How many times were you required to get it up before she signed off on the house? And most importantly, was she kinky?”
Gilbert didn’t answer, but instead stalked her, grabbed her by her wrist and dragged her across his knee. “You’re not only irritating, you’re rude,” Gilbert accused, whacking her vigorously with the paddle through her copper latex apron dress. He was mad for her tall, slender body but hadn’t gone beyond punishing her yet. Not even a stray caress had he spared the cheerful young cynic. Her bottom-arching body language he had been pleased to ignore. She had laughed at him and he would not give her the satisfaction of openly lusting after her. If she wanted to go anywhere else with him besides over his knee, she would have to tell him so. Meanwhile, it was nice to have her to spank. Especially now that he’d have his first commission to defray the expenses of an ongoing session relationship.
Brooke felt that it was a significant day for Gilbert. He had sold his first house and seemed to have no one to celebrate with. So after the second half hour was over, and Brooke was released, very sore, she mildly remarked that she got off at ten that evening.
Gilbert was back at ten, but was told by Hildegarde that Brooke had unexpectedly gone into a two-hour session that would not conclude until midnight. Gilbert had to be in the office at seven thirty the next morning but went to a nearby sports bar to kill two hours until midnight anyway. When he got back to The Keep he was told that the client had extended the session with Brooke for yet another half hour. This time Gilbert waited.
When Brooke stumbled downstairs after her two and a half hour bondage, whipping and hot wax session, she was nearly asleep on her feet. In fact, she didn’t even have the energy to put her heels back on and carried them in her hand as she padded downstairs. Gilbert saw the perfect opportunity to scoop the sleepy girl up in his arms before she even saw him at the foot of the stairs. He carried her out to his convertible and dumped her in the front seat. “Some ten o’clock scholar you are,” he accused.
“I’m so sorry,” she protested, laying her head on his shoulder as he pointed his car towards Westwood Village.
“You’re going the wrong way, I live up Laurel Canyon.”
“Alone?”
“No, with my dad.”
“Then come to my place instead,” he said, continuing on his original route.
“Starting next semester Bettie and I are getting a place together.”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess. In Hollywood?”
“West Hollywood.”
“God forbid you’re ever more than three blocks away from the Pleasure Chest,” Gilbert said.
Gilbert took Brooke to his stark white enamel and brushed metal condo in Westwood with the track lighting and flat TV and on site spa. Brooke could easily see why Bettie preferred Augie’s warm, textural canyon aerie, but for a youthful bachelor the cool, postmodernist lines of Gilbert’s domicile seemed exactly right.
“I know it’s boring and ugly. I’m moving soon,” he told her as soon as he closed the door behind them.
“It’s sexy as hell, Gilbert. In fact, I’d be delighted to spend the night with you here.”
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