Shadow Lane Volume 9: The History of Hugo Sands and other Stories of Spanking and Love. Eve Howard
Читать онлайн книгу.
he never recalled the color pink showing up so vividly on a bottom he had only briefly spanked. It looked electric pink. “I suppose you never get spanked,” he ventured.
“Never! Who does?”
“I think it stays pink longer the first time,” he told her, stroking her bare bottom with his big hand. “That’s been my experience with the few girls I’ve spanked more than once.”
“My sister was sure pink when I saw her and that was almost an hour after her encounter with you!”
“See, that’s where this whole day somehow goes all Alice in Wonderland,” he frankly admitted, pausing with his hands clasped on her waist. “Why did your sister pick me out to bait today? Why did you follow up? Things like this don’t happen to me.”
She wriggled against his sturdy thighs and murmured, “You were in the right place at the right time.”
“So you’ve posed for photographers! That was very naughty. And dangerous,” he told her, spanking her soundly for several minutes. “However, knowing that about you makes you coming to find me today more believable. You’re a wild girl. Aren’t you? You need someone to make you conform.”
“You?” she looked back at him.
“I should punish you severely for playing that joke on me,” he threatened, continuing to bring his palm down firmly on either cheek until each glowed magenta and radiated heat.
“What joke?”
“You know damn well what joke. Do you know how much it could jam me up to test positive for THC?”
“They’d bother testing a hoary old warhorse like you?”
“Keep it up and I’ll make you get me a hair brush.”
Veronica wriggled on his lap to entice him. He was rock hard again and she ground against it. The spanking began to hurt. She tried to breathe through it but finally she couldn’t help but cry out.
“Oh please! I’ve had enough. I’m sorry for whatever I did!”
“All right. Spread your legs and jut your bottom up.”
“Why?” she looked over her shoulder.
“You’ll see,” he told her, putting his palm between her smooth thighs and lightly spanking her public mound and vulva.
“Oh! How dare you spank me there!” she cried, delighted. Now he let one, then two long fingers slip up into her snug, creamy vagina.
“You’re so wet. Maybe I’ll show mercy and fuck you instead.”
“Maybe fuck me without showing mercy?” she amended.
“Bent over the kitchen table? As though we were married?” he suggested.
“Is married life that exciting?”
“We’ll see,” he promised.
Chapter Two The History of Hugo Sands Part One Never Trust A Hippie
After graduating Harvard in the late 70’s with a degree in art history, Hugo Sands found employment as a cataloguing assistant at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.
At 23, the future esoteric publisher was already a man of the world, with several summers of European travel and a decade of sexual experience behind him. Longer if you counted that he had been playing “doctor” and “house” with little girls since kindergarten.
And now that he carried the additional éclat of a Harvard degree, his school ring was proving more potent than the signet of Castle Roissy in compelling young women to shed their outer garments and submit to his whims.
“It works with everyone but that one, the only one I want,” Hugo complained to his companion, Van Milburn, of a tall, slim, young redhead sitting on a ledge by herself across the museum garden, with a book of Diane Arbus photos.
“Garda’s not the type to be impressed by Ivy League degrees,” Van informed Hugo on good authority, for the older man was a designer in the catalog department where Garda Hudson worked as a copy editor and knew her fairly well.
Van was 33, with refined features; short cropped, salt and pepper hair and a trimmed beard in the manner of a Greek coin. He and Hugo had become great friends due to their mutual interest in art history, but Van was just as happy to discuss the virtues of Garda, of whom he was also extremely fond.
“Do you know what makes her tick, Van?”
“I know that beneath that gauzy shift lurks a hardcore punk who spent the summer of ‘76 in London and owns a latex corset.”
“That is so arousing to me!”
“I’ll tell her.”
“Would you? I’d love to get involved with a girl who isn’t P.C.,” sighed Hugo.
“Why don’t you ask her out?”
“I have done. She keeps saying no.”
“Maybe it’s the ponytail,” said Van, biting into a baguette sandwich.
“Garda dislikes long hair on men?” Hugo asked in surprise. His straight, sandy blond hair was the proper length for the era, complimentary to his features and had contributed to his general appeal for young women since high school.
“Never trust a hippie is one of her favorite expressions,” Van helpfully revealed, amused to observe Hugo clutching his hair in a paranoid fashion.
“So, she’s anti-love and peace?”
“She’s a punk. Of course she’s anti-love.”
“Anti-drug?”
“No, actually. Now that you mention it, she was asking me where she could get some weed just today.”
“Oh really? What did you say?”
“I said I’d find out.”
“Are you going to?”
“I can’t just now. My guy’s out of town.”
“Tell her I can help her. At once!”
Around three that afternoon, when Hugo was alone in one of the archive rooms checking catalog annotations against hand written item descriptions of 18th century cameos, Garda entered the cool, quiet area on her dainty espadrilles with the pretty ribbon ties around each slim ankle. She brought the smell of frangipani with her and her creamy skin appeared to advantage under the milky globe lights.
“Hi,” she said uncomfortably and quickly, as one with business to conduct. “Van said I could see you about something.”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
"So, when?” Garda seemed perfectly desperate.
“Uh, whenever you like,” Hugo replied agreeably, then drew a lovely cocoa and cream broach from the drawer and showed it to her. “Isn’t this one pretty?”
“Beautiful,” Garda appreciated the cameo in moderation, then returned to the more important subject with impatience. “You mean, tonight might be a possibility?”
“Definitely. You can count on it.”
“Great! So, should I come to you?”
“Please!” Hugo couldn’t help but laugh.
“What? Are you teasing me? Is this for real?”
“Of course I’m not teasing you. Look, here’s my address,” Hugo wrote it on a tiny pad in his neat, architectural hand. “It’s right up the block from the Charles Street Steak House.”
“You’re kidding! I live