six, nine, twelve swats in a row. He knew what he was doing though, alternating cheeks, striking not too high, not too low, covering my whole bottom, not just one spot. “I’ll teach you to objectify black men!”
“I already know how,” I replied, turning my face to look back at him, so the camera would catch my teasing expression.
“God, you’re a fresh little brat!” More vigorous swats.
“Don’t be so sensitive. You think Latin men squawk when white girls objectify them? No, they’re profoundly grateful!”
Ronnie spanked me long past the two-minute video time on my camera, good and hard. Then he let me go and took me in his arms again. We kissed so long and hard that his glasses steamed up. Then we were all over each other on the bed. He didn’t have protection, but I did and pretty soon, he was next in.
We made love face to face. I put my wrists above my head and he pinned them under one hand while unbuttoning my vest and blouse and unhooking my front closing lacy white bra to squeeze my bosom as he plunged his manly organ deep inside me. Gorgeous, lovable man!
Oh god, have I found my on campus-spanking boyfriend, so soon? If he is not a lifelong enthusiast for spanking, my name is not Amanda Sands.
Just before I left for class I got an email from Tommy Harrington. Which I quote below:
To the Fairest of the Fair, my Nymph, my Melisande,
When may I oh so delicately and carefully insert my throbbing engine of desire betwixt thy creamy, rosy orbs, that we may explore the deep mysteries of hardcore anal sex?
Your dusky knight awaits his lady’s pleasure, bestowing hot kisses on her ravishing lips, eyelids and all.
Your most devoted Tommy
P.S. I’ll bring chronic. Please be very bad in the meantime so I have many reasons to spank you again.
Gotta be an English major. And yes, I am charmed.
And now I have to watch the video I made of Ronnie Van Horn spanking me. For the twentieth time. It is delightful! My first spanking video, which I wrote, directed and starred in.
Still, I can’t wait to get to Spanish. For there I’ll glimpse again the one who may be more The One than any other. The aloof, aristocratic and possibly unobtainable, Castor Reyes.
October 22nd
This is very bad. I have a mountain of studying to do and all I can think about is boys, sex and spanking. I’ve spent almost the entire day emailing back and forth with Marty, Tommy and Ronnie. My famous ability to postpone pleasure seems to have evaporated into the Cambridge fog. I can’t afford to waste any more time on this type of thing. Thank goodness Castor offered to tutor me and check over my exercises. Our duet will commence on a properly academic note. One must move very slowly with this type of male, allowing him to make every advance. (I mean, after the initial one of appearing to need a good deal of tutoring in Spanish.) When he’s ready to possess me, it must seem to be all his idea. I should probably practice resisting in front of a mirror so it looks convincing when I try it out for real. I imagine there’s a good deal of wistful head shaking involved and possibly extending one hand in a rebuffing gesture.
Once he knows he wants me, I will force him to woo me relentlessly possibly for weeks. And when I finally do give in, I will do so stingily, one concession at a time, starting with the right to nibble my earlobes and smother my throat with hot kisses.
I’ll devastate Castor and ace my Spanish midterm.
Chapter Three Amanda’s Diary November
November 1st
“You can’t be in love with your professor,” Alicia remonstrated with me this morning, “it’s a cliché.”
But how can I help it when Mr. Keen is so adorable, so grave, so tall and lean and handsome? I am horribly in love. I write his name in the margins of my notebooks. I hang around after every class, with the cleverest questions I can think of, just to hear his voice and feel his gaze upon my face. I know he’s onto me. His dark eyes mock me while he makes polite, concise, informative replies, punctuated with pleasant smiles and always a quick glance at his watch to let me know I’m on his time.
November 3rd
I think of Mr. Keen night and day and it is pleasant to do so. It is good to be in love. But can I have him? Is it in the realm of possibility? He’s not married. He’s only roughly twice my age, so it wouldn’t be obscene. I’ve seen him play squash. He’s fit and trim. It would not be an embarrassment to view his unclothed limbs. Oh why, why did I have to be given a teacher who so exactly resembles Richard Widmark?
I wonder if Mr. Keen has ever spanked a girl. Would it be awful if he weren’t the slightest bit dominant? Would I fall instantly out of love? I think I would. I’m not sure why, but I think I would. I sometimes think I’m ready for a master. But suppose Mr. Keen is unsophisticated? Suppose he fails to appreciate the gift the gods of love are handing him?
Then, obviously, I will cease to adore him. He will have proven unworthy. But I sense he is worthy! I feel he will know exactly what to do with me, and how.
November 4th
Hugo says the only way to make sure a man is fully dominant is to try to tempt him to go submissive to you. He says that men who are submissive or switchable can never resist the temptation to receive corporal punishment from a good-looking woman or girl. But a dominant man will always suggest the reverse, because that is his primary wish and we all do what we want to.
I said to him, “You don’t think it would be wrong for me to try to get my most beloved professor to make love to me, do you?”
“That depends. Do you think the guy is cool enough to handle it, or could it make trouble for you in the long run? You can’t jeopardize Harvard.”
I said I didn’t know if he was cool or not.
“Try to run into him after hours and get him to smoke pot. Then you’ll know.”
Easier said then done. I’d have to stalk the guy to find out where he spends his off hours. And that’s not right. That could get me in trouble.
November 5th
The most wonderful thing has happened! Mr. Keen has invited his entire class over to his house for a wine and cheese party. I can see where and how he lives.
November 7th
Mr. Keen’s wine party took place at his nice, old house in Cambridge, where he lives alone with a group of cats. I felt it was a place I’d enjoying visiting repeatedly. The sitting room has a lovely fireplace. We could see it begin to snow through the windows. I’m told it doesn’t usually snow this early in the season, which portends a very cold winter.
I was the last to say goodbye to Mr. Keen at the door and since no one was looking except one of the cats, I seized the opportunity to lightly press my lips to his. He stared at me in confusion for a moment then finding his voice, lightly admonished me, “What’s this all about? Are you being naughty? Go on, go home!” I was dismissed with a smack on
