The Razor Strap
& The Red Rose
I knew the bookstore well. I’d probably passed it a dozen times. On the corner of a busy street, it was a quaint relic of time passed. Looking at it now, however, I couldn’t imagine what secrets it would hold for me inside.
He’d answered my ad, a spur of the moment idea to advertise my plight in a spanking publication. Just reading the ads in the magazine excited me. And when I submitted my own, I never expected the number of replies that appeared in my post office box. There were dozens, some sweet, others I threw away immediately, and then there was Geoffrey’s. Short and to the point.
“I’d be delighted to discuss your needs. Please call.” He included a card with his name, phone number and the address of the bookstore. I appreciated his openness.
