charm to it. “What the hell got into you?” he finally sputtered. “I mean, Pamela’s cut is cute, so I won’t fault you for suggesting it, but what you did to yourself…” Bartlett let his thought trail off as he lit a cigarette and looked at her.
“I thought you’d quit,” she said, causing Pamela to wonder how Amanda would know such a thing. In point of fact he had quit the previous winter, but had lapsed back during their honeymoon in Paris in the spring, an end result of waiting for Pamela to try on clothes in various salons while parlaying with their owners.
Ambrose ignored Amanda’s reproachful statement, though inwardly pleased that she seemed to care about him to this extent, and took Pamela’s hand. “I hope someone spanked you for doing that,” Bartlett said by way of farewell, leading Pamela away.
“I do like your hair,” he said to his wife, suddenly quite interested in getting her home immediately. “It would look even better if you put on a silk satin chemise.” Pamela owned many of these handsome, bias cut slips, along with the garter belts and panties to match, each ensemble luxuriously embroidered or smartly piped.
It was a good night for Pamela, one of the first in which she began to feel truly like a bride. Knowing she had a true Louise Brooks hair bob, she envisioned that silver screen goddess in her mind’s eye as she changed into the requested shimmy in her enormous, cedar lined walk in closet. Smiling into the middle segment of a triple mirror at one end of the room, Pamela fancied she saw a glimmer of Brooksian mischief sparkle from her normally serious dark eyes. The haircut really suited her!
Then she frowned, wondering how Amanda had known that Ambrose had quit smoking, fairly sure she had been present all the previous times Ambrose and Amanda had met, these being during fashion shows at the department store, in which Amanda had several times walked as a model. Had Bartlett seen Amanda some other time, alone?
Ambrose was already undressed and in bed when Pamela joined him and allowed him to enfold her in his arms, pressing her satin wrapped back against him and instantly feeling his full bodied arousal freshly sprung to life against her oval bottom cheeks.
“Did you really hate Amanda Sands’ hair or were you just teasing her?” Pamela asked, stretching her head up and back and exposing her throat to his lips.
He nuzzled her smooth neck for a moment before replying, “How could you let her do that?” he asked, caressing and squeezing Pamela’s small, pert, upstanding bosom while remembering Amanda’s voluptuous breasts with pleasure. His wife had an elegant body, but Amanda was a goddess.
“She said she’d cut her hair if I cut mine. I didn’t take her seriously. Then when they started on her, I tried to stop her from letting them go so far. But she was determined.”
“You’re older than her and have better taste, you should help her make better decisions.”
“I know,” said Pamela, relieved that Bartlett wasn’t opposed to a deeper friendship between herself and Amanda.
“I noticed that Anthony Newton bought that photo of you before he left,” said Bartlett, allowing his fingers to graze Pamela’s small triangle of dark pubic curls.
“That’s very flattering,” Pamela murmured, pushing her bottom back against his rigid cock, which was nestled between her satin clad cheeks. Ambrose reached down and pulled up the slip to bare her.
“It was a lovely photo,” Bartlett assured her; contentedly guiding his engine to her portal’s opening without inserting it. Reaching around in front of her again, he began to drum upon her Venus mound with his fingertips and then to slowly and delicately manipulate her to wetness before plunging deep inside her vagina to the hilt. Thus the beauty and her husband came together, as a newly wedded couple ought to do, though each one’s thoughts were focused on Amanda Sands.
Amanda got dropped off at Hugo’s house by Anthony and readied herself to enjoy the somewhat guilty pleasure of sleeping in Hugo’s bed. She had a perfectly pleasant room given over to her for her use at the top of the house, but Hugo’s master bedroom featured a large television screen connected to all the servers necessary to import every form of visual entertainment into the handsomely appointed room. Amanda had recently visited the vintage video store at the edge of the village to begin researching films for a course she planned to sign up for in the fall term called American Culture in the Depression. The helpful collector-owner of the shop with the walrus moustache had assured her that he possessed a viewable version of every preserved film from the 1930’s ever issued, though many of these rarities were only available on videocassette. Naturally Hugo still had a working VCR in his media set up so Amanda had asked the film expert at the shop to guide her in her cinema journey with suggestions, stressing an interest in pre-code productions. Enchanted to be charged with this duty, the shop owner sent her home with Dodsworth, Little Caesar, She Done Him Wrong, Professional Sweetheart and Five and Ten.
After tending and feeding Hugo’s three demandingly affectionate cats, Amanda changed into a white cotton wrapper, made herself a snack of tea, fresh peaches and buttered toast, and took the tray up to Hugo’s room, where she crawled in between the smooth sheets of his large, mahogany bed and began to watch the 1931 Marion Davies, Leslie Howard drama Five and Ten, from the Fanny Hurst novel. Amanda had only ever seen Leslie Howard in Gone with the Wind and had not quite liked the character of Ashley Wilkes, but the younger and more cynical Howard as the Manhattan book publisher who is pursued by the spoiled rich girl Davies was much more interesting and Amanda sat up and took notice, especially when he threatened to spank Davies. The movie had also virtually begun with a small, slapstick style-spanking scene on a train, wherein her older brother Kent Douglass as a finale to some mutual horseplay spanked Davies.
The two small spanking startles triggered immediate longings in Amanda and she felt her pussy throb to life under the bedclothes. But it had been a very long day and as much as she wanted to dwell on the thought of the beautiful young man with the beautiful name whom she had met at the gallery, she fell asleep before she could even complete a fantasy in which he featured.
The next morning dawned warm and overcast, with a summer thunderstorm about to begin. Amanda awoke, hastily remade Hugo’s bed, fed the cats and cleaned up after them, then quickly prepared a breakfast of coffee, granola and blue berries. She soaked briefly in a Caswell Massey peach bubble bath in the antique copper bathtub in the second floor guest bathroom, thinking all the while of Raphael Price, whose attractive image had filled her mind from the moment she awoke. He seemed a confident yet infinitely polite man, just the type who would know exactly how a young woman of sensibility might enjoy being treated. And she dared hope he was dominant too. After her bath, she showered off and shaved her legs in the thickly beveled green glass shower stall beside it. Finally she lavished a peaches and cream scented skin toner all over her taut, smooth bare skin, breathing in its delirious essence with delight. This is what she would smell like to Raphael Price if he took her in his arms and held her close that day. Back in her room she selected a sleeveless peach and white cotton seersucker shirtwaist dress with a chunky belt of the same material to accentuate her extremely small waist, a full skirt and notched lapel collar, which she artfully paired with pale green leather clog sandals that displayed her white tipped French pedicured toes flirtatiously. Around her neck she wore a golden locket on a gold chain and in her ear lobes hung small, gold-wired pearl drops. She frowned into the mirror at the image of a girl in a dainty dress with a boyish haircut. “Pixie do,” she told herself positively.
“Very smart. Very Jean Seberg,” the nice man at the vintage video shop had told her on seeing her thus shorn, while remembering having seen her earlier in the week with a gloriously full head of blonde hair. While on a clear day she would have walked the mile into the village or ridden Laura’s bike, the threatening storm called for more protection
