of coffee with Alicia. She was rather unsympathetic about my quandary with regard to Ronnie and continues to maintain a no-man-is-a-good man attitude. When I wondered aloud whether I should admit to Castor that I really didn’t need any help in studying for Spanish tests she heartily endorsed the move. “Why should he be allowed to think himself more important than he is?” she asked me indignantly. And scolded me for ever having had Castor tutor me in the first place. She was of the opinion that there was entirely too much protecting of male egos going around as it was. “Why do you spoil them so?” she demanded. Adding, “If you must use them, do so, but at least make them serve you, not the opposite!”
I can see her becoming a mistress some day, but not the type who wears leather and corsets. That would be objectifying and she’ll have none of that.
My brain was nearly dead and I knew I could do no more work that night, yet I was restless and far too wound up to sleep, the half-pleasant half-unpleasant encounter with Ronnie going around and around in my head. I didn’t think I was spoiling for trouble when I showed up at Castor’s room, but I guess I really was.
His door was ajar and I walked in. He wasn’t there but entered in a few minutes, fresh from the shower across the hall, with a towel wrapped around his slim waist. His black hair was still wet and gleaming and the v of his golden back flecked with drops of water.
“Amanda!” he cried, delighted at my appearance. Then he contrived to look severe and demanded to know why I hadn’t called him all weekend. I explained about going out to the Cape with my new girlfriend and the photo shoot we had done. He was immediately jealous of another man having spanked me, even in the context of the shoot and became rather huffy with me. Things went from bad to worse when he locked the door and dropping the towel without further preamble, asked me to give him some head. Not that he needed any, mind you, what with that flagpole waving around!
“I’m sorry, I don’t do that,” I replied, looking at him steadily. Perhaps if he had been much, much more charming about the request or even have gotten me stoned first, but going from “Hi” to “Blow Me?” I’m not a porn star!
“What do you mean, you don’t do that?” He seemed puzzled, as though I had suddenly started to speak in a language he didn’t comprehend.
“I don’t like to give head,” I told him. “And, you’re not even circumcised,” I added to myself.
“I thought you were submissive,” he protested.
“Why did you think that?”
“You let me spank you and sodomize you,” he pointed out.
“Oh well, I do enjoy spanking and sodomy. But not oral. And after all, I’m not asking you to go down on me, am I?”
“I’d love to go down on you,” he volunteered with a grin.
I covered a yawn with my hand. He stared at me.
“So you’re saying you won’t give me head?” he asked in disbelief, the flagpole drooping a bit at the revelation. He quickly pulled on a pair of jeans and a shirt.
“Don’t you know that being a good lover is all about giving pleasure to others?” he lectured. “Are you a spoiled brat who just wants what you want and doesn’t care about what anyone else wants?”
“I guess so,” I replied. What an awful day so far!
“Maybe you need a good spanking before you do as you’re told,” he suggested, picking a small hairbrush up off his dresser top.
“You mean to try to force me to go down on you?” I bristled.
He stared at me hard, smacking the back of the brush against the palm of his hand.
“Luckily, I don’t need a b.j. that badly,” he said, “but you deserve something for sheer orneriness!”
With that he caught me by the arm and pulling me over to his desk, bent me over it. Then he administered six extremely stinging swats to the seat of my jeans with the little wooden brush.
Two pants warmings in one day - in retrospect - were not unstimulating. But I was in an emotional state when Castor put me over the desk and punished me and the spontaneous spanking really hurt! Suddenly awash with self-pity, I began to sob violently.
Amazed that such a brief spanking over corduroy pants could result in this type of reaction, Castor pulled me up and looked at me to see if I was kidding him. He was visibly shocked at my wet face and trembling lips and pulled me against his chest to comfort me.
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” he murmured into my ear, kissing my wet cheeks and throat. “I didn’t mean to bully you.” As he pulled me against him I felt his renewed excitement, which I found quite annoying. How could he earnestly apologize for hurting me and yet unapologetically thrust at me a hard-on that had developed solely from my pain and tears?
I couldn’t bear to let him see me at this extreme pitch of vulnerability any longer and tore out of the room with the briefest of farewells. I stumbled back to my own room, brushing the tears from my face and trying to ignore my own latent excitement at what had just happened.
Luckily Alicia was out when I got back to my room and I was able to get off against a pillow before drifting off to sleep. A most disturbing day!
It was a cold, wet, windy winter morning, but to mitigate the gloom, Hugo Sands was enjoying a hot breakfast of poached eggs, grilled tomatoes, fresh baked biscuits, sliced melons, sugared strawberries and espresso, with his fiancée, Laura Random and her younger sister, Susan Ross, in Susan’s Victorian triple-decker, at the northernmost end of Shadow Lane.
Hugo had brought over the groceries, encouraged the girls to get out of bed and mildly reproached Laura for never being close at hand when he needed her. Ever since Anthony Newton had given Susan a house of her own to work in and spent one million dollars remodeling it for the artistic sisters’ convenience, Laura had been spending an inordinate amount of time away from Hugo’s own house in the woods and almost no time at all at his shop in the village.
“I need you to do me a favor,” Hugo petitioned Laura, who was sleepily pouring out coffee for them, her long brown hair down on her shoulders, her slim body wrapped in a white brocade robe. Her sister Susan, who’d quickly dressed herself in jeans, a cream wool turtleneck and ankle boots, was twisting and tying her waist length honey blonde hair into a high ponytail as she came into the room. “I have to go into Boston for the afternoon and I’m expecting a very important call at the shop on my private line. Could you be there today to monitor my calls?”
“Yes,” Laura replied, handing her sister a cup of coffee, with milk and sugar as she liked it. “But what’s it all about?”
“A source of mine in London has located a blue china vase that once belonged to Oscar Wilde. Apparently, there’s enough provenance to prove that the piece was seized from Wilde’s house and sold off during the execution on his goods which followed his conviction.”
“Not The Blue China?” Susan asked, in awe.
“Yes, The Blue China that Wilde always claimed it was harder and harder to live up to,” Hugo replied with excitement. “If I
