Shadow Lane Volume Eleven: The Venus Club A Novel of Sex, Spanking and Modern Love. Eve Howard
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don’t I ever get invited to smoke pot?” she cried. Susan hastily produced the joint and lit it for Pamela to take from her. “It’s time to come back and place our orders,” she told them, after exhaling the buzz giving smoke. “And by the way, you all look stunning,” she said, critically shifting her gaze from Amanda’s short, figure molding white shirtwaist to Susan’s inexpressibly charming figure in the classic white blouse and full black skirt to Hope’s graceful slender torso set off to advantage by the light, crinkled, checked summer dress.
“We got all our clothes at your shop,” said Susan soothingly.
“Yes, yes, but what about Ambrose?” Pamela demanded of Amanda. “What did that bastard do to you?”
Amanda jumped back at the vehemence of Pamela’s loyalty to herself rather than her husband. Since she already knew her husband so well, Amanda saw little harm in admitting one thing to Pamela, and that a thing which might quiet her new friend’s curiosity as to probing deeper into Amanda’s relations with the owner of Bartlett’s department store. That man, Amanda knew, was half in love with her. He had never stopped sending her gifts, even after paying her the five thousand dollars in cash for allowing him her favors for one hour one night.
“He…broke me!” Amanda admitted finally, and both Susan and Hope nodded their approval of her confession, both having been made aware of her first and most unpleasant session with Pamela’s new husband.
“Yes, he does that on a first date,” Pamela grimly observed, but then smiled and linked arms with Amanda as they started back. “You might as well tell us all the story together when it’s your turn to speak,” said Pamela to her new and dearest friend. Pamela knew that her friendship for Amanda was becoming deep and pure, something akin to love, for she felt no jealousy or hostility towards the eighteen year old for attracting the attention of her capricious, decadent and self-indulgent man. Of course he must have Amanda after he had seen her and after being informed that she too was tinged with the propensity to play hyper erotic games. To be told that the libido of this tall, slender, young and ivy league Aphrodite was as steeped in dominant-submissive fetishism as those of both his current and previous wife, would present an irresistible opportunity to a handsome and affluent man who had come to the world of playing somewhat late in life and wished to waste no more time in storing up such memorable experiences.
Plainly, Ambrose Bartlett enjoyed punishing girls. Of all the men in their circle, he was the coldest fish, the most sadistic spanker, the least gallant or courteous, the least perceptive, the least caring. And yet he knew how to get into a woman’s heart and soul with clothes. He always choose women who adored clothes and it was a minor fixation with him to present his favorites with the most stylish numbers that passed through his ultra high end emporium. This was possibly the only way in which he was able to express generosity, but it happened to hit just the right note among the women he favored. They did feel like whores, but they always kept taking the clothes, which bound them ever in some degree of submission to this man.
“He’s a villain,” thought Pamela, and yet a wave of comfort and joy swept through her slender form as she contemplated her second whole day of no speed and no Bartlett’s department store.
The four young women rejoined the group in the paneled private dining room, that same room that Amanda had peeked into on the night she had done her second session with Bartlett, the much more pleasant one, and had been shocked to see a group of jocks, feasting post-pond hockey game, with her Colby among them. But that was not a story that Amanda planned to tell. As she regained her seat and consulted the gold tasseled menu, she whispered to Susan Ross, “Gee, if I’ve only just come to Random Point within the last year and I have so many secrets, I can only imagine what you might be admitting to.”
“It would take way too long for me to admit to everything I’ve done,” said Susan. “Oh look, they have roast lamb.”
“I’m trying to eat more vegetarian, but it’s very tempting,” said Amanda.
“I’m a vegan,” said Phoebe Casper. “For ten years.”
“I’m so happy to meet you,” said Amanda, shaking hands with Pascal Robbins’ small, fresh-faced wife, with her long, chestnut brown hair down on her peaches and creamy shoulders, which were exquisitely molded and flattered by the delicate, low neckline of her semi-sheer white dress. “You’re Mr. Robbins’ wife, I think? He shot me once.”
“Yes, he’s said he’d love to shoot you again this summer. I can see why,” said Phoebe, feeling a definite pain dart through her stomach while contemplating Pascal photographing this young divinity, possibly fully undressed. No wonder he had barely mentioned her. Though he had mentioned the other night his great disappointment at Amanda having abruptly cut off all her hair, just prior to posing for him again. It was true that Amanda hadn’t much hair left, Phoebe though, peeking at Amanda’s funny little cap of fine, soft, straight, beige blonde hair, but this did not detract from her beauty in the slightest and rather emphasized her good bone structure and very blue eyes.
“I’m so excited that you’re doing Kiss Me Kate,” said Amanda, eager to turn the conversation away from the unpredictable photographer to whom Phoebe had been married but a few years and continued to adore. “And with Mr. Newton directing. That must be sheer heaven!” Amanda said, with the enthusiasm of a connoisseur. “That was one of my favorite albums as a child,” Amanda continued. “My mother had a vinyl copy and a stereo to play it on. I would stare and stare at the picture of Alfred Drake enclosing Patricia Morrison in the lash of his whip. And then I loved the music so!”
“Bless Anthony for choosing this project,” said Marguerite, raising her glass to their local luminary, who was in one way or another, the patron of so many of the women present and all of them drank to Anthony Newton’s health.
Each woman haven chosen a dainty lunch, they allowed their glasses to be refilled and encouraged Marguerite to recommence.
“We’ll start with our first honoree, Alison Albrecht,” said Marguerite. “Alison, please tell us something of your history in Random Point?”
Alison took a sip of white wine and began, “First of all, thank you, Marguerite for making me feel so welcome. I’ve never done well with BDSM support groups, but I’m thrilled to be included in this obvious upgrade of one of those.” Several of the women nodded sympathetically, having recoiled from the sometimes creepiness of such groups on more than one occasion.
Alison turned to Amanda and said, “I’m so happy to meet you, Amanda. I wasn’t one of Hugo’s original readers, but like you, my roots in Random Point and the scene go back a long way.” Amanda smiled back at Alison.
“I grew up in Random Point,” said Alison, “as did Freddie, my fiancé. And strangely enough, we both know that our parents used spanking for foreplay before we were born. Freddie found some diaries his mother kept when she was young and they detailed a number of spanking specific incidents.
“My father wasn’t lovable and I wasn’t fond of him. He was an elementary school vice principal, organically authoritarian and harshly critical to such a degree that by the time I was six or seven, he had completely lost credibility in my eyes. My mother’s obsessive perfectionism kept him from picking on her and she managed him better than any other woman could have done. My mother was a true friend to me, and shielded me from my father’s grumpiness as much as possible. Corporal punishment was only a small part of my traumatic childhood, mainly because I was too terrified of my father to ever get caught being less than well behaved.
“And yet, I grew up with a desire to be spanked by some strict male. Not my father, but someone who loved me instead of desiring to totally control me. I tried the BDSM groups and discovered an acute lack of symmetry in the scene in that half the men I met wanted to be spanked and the other half wanted the same thing. They’d always try to introduce the old “turn around is fair play” axiom, which I soon figured out was male submissive code for, ‘Don’t make me admit that I want to be your bitch.’
“I played with the personal ads for a while but so many people