LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

"This can't be it." Abigail stared in disbelief at the solitary structure on the beach. It's not a hotel. It's just a ... tent."

"Nice tent, lady. Good beach tent," said the taxi driver as he strode effortlessly over the sand with a suitcase in each hand.

Abigail stumbled after him, pausing to take off her high-heeled sandals that kept sinking down deep into the silken sand. "Wait! There must be some mistake. I can't possibly stay in a tent."

The taxi driver turned his head, smiling reassuringly. "No mistake, lady. Follow me."

"Damn and blast," muttered Abigail as she reluctantly followed.

The large white canvas tent was fronted by a wide wooden veranda. Inside was a living space of sixteen square metres, divided into three 'rooms' - a bedroom complete with double bed and storage space for clothes, a small bathroom with a chemical toilet and a primitive cold water shower hooked up to a water cistern round the back of the tent. There was also a space that served as a sitting-room with a small kitchenette diner at the far end.

The taxi driver put the suitcases in the bedroom and beamed at Abigail as he waved his arm wildly and spoke rapidly, his face animated.

"I haven't a clue what you're saying. I don't speak Creole. Can you speak in English please?"

"Not much English, but some French, oui. Very nice here for holiday," smiled the driver.

In his eclectic and impassioned mix of English and French, he proudly told her all about the island, and the interesting places to go, finishing off by saying he would inform Leila of her arrival. "I go now to fetch Leila. Leila is clever. Leila knows everything. She is expecting you. Welcome to Haiti, lady."

"Thank you," said Abigail, and plonked herself down on the sofa. It had been a long day. Her feet ached. She was tired. And upset.

--oOo---

It had seemed such a good idea at the time. Having booked ten days off work to go on a romantic holiday with Tom, only to find the day before they were due to depart to Paris that the no-good sack of shite had been screwing around, Abigail had taken herself down to the nearest travel agent and demanded to go somewhere - anywhere - at once.

"Just get me on a plane. I'll go anywhere. I don't care where," she had told the bemused travel agent.

When she was offered a last minute cheap deal to Haiti, she snapped it up, and three hours later was on a plane. So here she was - stuck in a tent on a secluded beach on the other side of the world. The travel agent hadn't said anything about staying in a tent. Still, she had to admit, it wasn't a regular tent; it was really quite luxurious - spacious, clean and bright, and furnished.

All Aboard the Lady Bountiful
"All aboard the Lady Bountiful!" the skipper cried with glee
His arm around a curvy wench who was sitting on his knee
"You will not get a better deal - my trips are tried and tested
No one undercuts my price and my "extras" can't be bested
This isn't an ordinary fishing boat, its something quite enchanting
And whoever gets on board with me is bound to get a spanking!"

And so the Lady Bountiful sailed serenely from the dock
And immediately the bosun did the cupboard door unlock
It was quite a treasure trove, piled high with crops and paddles
He puts them in a great big sack and to the poop deck waddles
The implements are spread out in the warming summer sun
"Come on now ladies, get in line, its time to smack yer bum!"

With cries and squeals of girlish glee a queue is swiftly made
And while they're waiting for their turn they drink some lemonade
The skipper spanks with practised art and turns white bottoms pink
Its very thirsty work indeed so he stops to have a drink
And while he rests his spanking arm a wench winks at him lewdly
"Aye aye, what have we here?" he thinks, and leers back rather rudely

"I've got a thing for sailors," the curvy wench confessed
"I'd enjoy some rumpy pumpy, believe me, I don't jest
And if you take me to your cabin and ravish me for your pleasure
I promise I'll cooperate - you won't get a short measure."
The skipper thought his luck was in and grabbed the curvy wench
He took her to his cabin and draped her o'er the spanking bench

He raised her skirt and felt her thighs clad in stockings black and sheer
But as his hands roamed higher he discovered something queer
The wench had very solid legs and the backs were rather hairy
"Get stuck in!" she cried with glee. "And you can call me Mary."
But when Mary's knickers were pulled down the skippers face turned wan
For the curvy wench called Mary was in fact a man!

He ducked his head as he came out of the low door of his cottage - one of a row of brightly painted, red-roofed fisherman's cottages that nestled shoulder to shoulder, flanked from the northern gales by the lofty crag above. From a distance the cottages appeared to tumble down the steep cliff side to the seafront below.

The late afternoon September sun shone on the sweep of golden sand and glinted on fossil filled pools. He never tired of wandering along the tide line of Runswick Bay, especially off-season when the tourists had fled from the blustery north Yorkshire winds to find warmer climes down south.

It was low tide, and the beach was deserted save for the gulls as they wheeled through the sky and skimmed the surface of the sea to bob comically on the eddying waves.

He set off along the mile-wide bay, a fossil-seeker's paradise. Head down, his honey blonde hair topped with a baseball cap, he walked on the damp sand, leaving a trail of solitary footprints in his wake. Anything of interest or possible use found its way into the big canvas bag on his shoulder. One of his more satisfying finds on a previous occasion had been a large rubber-soled gents slipper. He had pounced on it, cleaned it up, and dried it out on the top of his wood burning stove, and tested its stinginess on the derriere of a former girlfriend. But there were no spanking related finds today, so the canvas bag began to fill with an assortment of unusual shells, ammonites, and a curiously shaped piece of driftwood.

It had been raining heavily earlier, and the force of the downpour on the shale and clay land had caused the cliffs to crumble a little, revealing more fossils. He prized them out of the rock carefully with a rock hammer and pocket knife, and added them to his growing collection.

Moving further down past brimming rock pools, he noticed something at the waters edge and set off towards it, thinking it might be more driftwood. But as he drew closer it became apparent that the driftwood was in fact a figure crouching down in the shallows. She was hugging herself, rubbing her arms as though she were cold. Indeed, if she stayed in the water for much longer she would more than likely get hypothermia.

"You ok?"

He moved closer. She had long dark hair, plastered around her shoulders in wet clumps.

"Y.y.yes - I mean n.n.no."

Her teeth were chattering with cold and her lips had a faint bluish tinge.

"Get the hell out of there, woman! You'll freeze to death."

"I c.c.can't," she said, and gave him an anguished look.

"Why not?"

"Because ... because ..."

"Because?"

"I daren't come out. I lost my bikini bottom."

Greg snorted. He tried hard not to laugh, but couldn't suppress a big grin. The woman scowled at him. Poor thing. She must be frozen stiff.

She struggled up the hill, head down, shoulders hunched against the biting wind and icy rain that battered her face. Her hands were numb with cold for no sooner had she put them in her pockets, the wind tugged off her hood, forcing her to reach out with frozen fingers to secure it again. The rain pummelled her head, and the sopping wet strands of her hair blew wildly, obscuring her vision. Her feet began to ache. Water spurted and squelched out of the flimsy court shoes with each laborious step.

Not that she particularly cared. No job. No money. No husband. Nothing really mattered any more. Her spirits matched the grey November afternoon, paltry sunlight already fading, sinking behind the great wood. She passed a cottage or two, shuttered windows hiding the warmth and light within, giving a bleak and forbidding external appearance to passers by.

A dog shouldn't be out in this weather. She smiled grimly, and continued battling against the wind, neither knowing where she was bound, nor caring. The wind became stronger and began howling like a raging beast. Trees by the roadside creaked and bent in a mad dance, branches arching, contorting, snapping, screaming as they were whipped by the wind. She began to feel a sudden elation as the wind changed direction and blew her up the hill with huge force. She became a matchstick kite, fragile and insignificant, tugged and hurled at the mercy of the elements.

She laughed as the wind caught her and whirled her uphill. Up she stumbled, tumbled, bumbling along at a staggering pace. And all around her the world shrieked as the wind blew and the rain pounded. Up and up she went. Gasping, spluttering, blinking through water-logged eyes, water cascading down her cheeks, trickling down her neck, soaking her skin.

And then it quieted, hushed, stopped, leaving her panting, saturated, exhausted. She found herself clinging on to an old stone gatepost at the edge of a field by the road, embracing it as though it were a lover. She appeared to have lost a shoe and her coat was saturated, wrapping and blanketing her in its sodden folds. It felt comforting, inviting her to sleep in its chill grasp. Her eyes closed as she rested her frozen face against the pillar of wet blackened stone.

He saw her through the glare of his headlamps as he rounded the bend in the Land Rover; she was a moulded shape in the greyness, her contours melting into the stone, gradually being enveloped by the encroaching darkness. He stopped, approached her, concerned. She barely had the energy to look at him. No words passed her lips, just a sigh and a look of hopelessness and utter tiredness. He put her in the Land Rover and took her home to High Moor.

When she woke, it was to find herself wrapped in a snug robe and settled into the comfortable depths of a wing chair by the fire.

Chapter 1
"If you don't knuckle down and pull your socks up, young lady, I see a dismal future for you," glowered Mr Topping over the top of his spectacles. "Exceedingly dismal."

Polly flicked her pony tail and grinned cheekily at her form tutor. As today was the last day of school and she was taking a whole year out before getting a job, she didn't care about anything the old goat had to say.

Mr Topping frowned and gave an exasperated sigh. Of all the class, this girl was the sharpest and could have excelled at anything she chose to. She had real talent, yet preferred to waste her time doing anything but schoolwork. Well, he had done all he could for her; and now it was all down to her. It was a pity that corporal punishment was no longer allowed in schools, as many of his more recalcitrant pupils would have benefited from a good bottom warming. He deposited a maths exercise book on Polly's desk and moved on to the next pupil.

The whole class were euphoric and the atmosphere was electric. It was tradition to finish school at lunchtime on the last day. Everyone was busy swapping emails, phone numbers and addresses.

"Got any plans, Pol?"

"Nothing definite. I'll just hang around for a while, then maybe go abroad - Spain or Greece - somewhere nice and hot with plenty of nightlife."

"Cool," said Ben.

"Bloody brilliant. I can't wait to get out of this dump."

"Send me a postcard." Ben handed her a card with his address on.

"Sure will."

At twelve noon, the class piled out of the form room for the last time. Some of the girls cried with emotion, but not Polly - she was first in the queue out of the door.

"Bye, Toppy!" She turned her head and waved cheerily at Mr Topping.

He smiled at her and raised his hand in a wave. And when the last pupil had left the room, he moved to the window and watched them congregating outside the school gates, before going their separate ways.

Polly was in the midst of a throng of excited girls. There was much hugging and kissing, and then the group broke up and dispersed in different directions. Polly strode ahead on those wonderful long legs, the June sun shining on her blonde hair. Mr Topping watched until she was out of sight and wondered just what her future would be. It was clear that air-headed mother of hers would give her no encouragement other than to lavish money on her and leave her to her own devices; and as the girls father had walked out some years ago, there was no authority figure to curb her wilful ways. The girl needs discipline, thought Mr Topping. Good, old fashioned discipline. He sighed, shook his head, gathered up the pile of papers from his desk, and left the room.

Agnes and the Burglar

Agnes swung her arms briskly as she walked home. As a retired physical education instructor, she liked to maintain a regular exercise programme. There was a youthful bloom on her cheeks and her figure wasn't bad at all considering she was almost 65. On reaching the top of the hill she was barely out of breath. She felt marvellous. Life was great - and it was about to get a whole lot better.

On reaching the back door of her house, Agnes frowned as she put her key in the lock, for the door was not locked. She always locked the door. Could there be an intruder? Immediately on her guard, Agnes grabbed the rolling pin from the kitchen drawer, and walked softly down the hall.

There was no sign of anyone in the downstairs rooms, so she crept quietly upstairs, pausing frequently to listen for any signs of disturbance. Ah, yes - there was something - a rustling sound as though someone was going through her dressing-table drawer.

Grim faced and steely-eyed, Agnes stepped into her bedroom. The intruder had his back to her. He was standing by her dressing table, partially bent over as he ransacked her drawers. Without a moment's hesitation, Agnes sprinted forwards and gave him an almighty whack on the behind with her rolling pin.

There was an anguished screech as the intruder toppled forwards. Agnes grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him effortlessly onto the bed (well she was 6ft 1 and built like a bulldozer).

"Break into my house, would you?" She slapped him hard on the rump with the palm of her hand. "And what gives you the right to poke around in my bedroom?" Her hands reached round his middle and she unbuckled his belt. "You sneaky little burglar." She pulled the belt free and wrapped it round her right hand. "How dare you go rummaging in my drawers!" She raised her right arm and brought the belt cracking down on the helpless bottom. "Take that, you disgusting little thief." She whacked him again, and again.

"Owow! I'm sorry," said a muffled voice. The man's face was pressed against the pillow. He raised his head. "Please, please don't take my trousers down," he begged.

"Now there's an idea," smirked Agnes as she tugged down not only the man's trousers but his underpants too, revealing quite a pert bottom.

"Noooooo," gasped the intruder as his bottom was bared. "No - don't! Don't! OW!"

Agnes set to with a vengeance. The leather belt cracked and whacked on its pleasing target, making a very satisfying thwack as it contacted with bare flesh. What had been two white buttocks now glowed deep pink. Agnes was determined to get them a suitable shade of red and gave him another twenty stingers. He howled as his bottom burned and throbbed horribly.

---oOo---

"Oh thanks Agnes. That was a smashing session," said Jimi as he rubbed his red bottom.

June, 1868

"Silence! To your seats, girls." Miss Beatrice Underwood glared at the assembled throng, which in brief moments transformed itself from a melee of discordant voices and heels clattering on the stone-flagged floor, to comparative quiet and order.

Discipline prevailed in this establishment. The girls sat erect in dresses of coarse grey fabric and white pinafores. Each girl wore thick woollen stockings and ungainly stout shoes, fastened with brass buckles. All had their hair scraped firmly back from their temples, with not a single curl visible to soften the sobriety. Two rows of angular straw bonnets, their calico strings tied neatly in a bow under the chin, faced the all-seeing pebble eyes of the dour Miss Underwood.

Lessons commenced in the customary fashion. Miss Underwood paced the floor, a sombre figure in her swishy black taffeta skirts, her iron grey hair swept up into a top knot. She carried a heavy tawse and did not hesitate to use it most forcefully on the hands, thighs or buttocks of any girl who gave an incorrect answer. She was truly formidable, her gaunt pale face bereft of humour, her lips puckered in contempt when confronted with any semblance of stupidity. She was intolerant of unseemly behaviour and even the smallest lapse in concentration. Nor did the tiniest detail of personal appearance go unnoticed.

"Archer. You disagreeable, dirty girl! Your nails are filthy. Go and stand in the corner at once. Mr Underwood will deal with you."

Mary Archer blanched visibly, and walked reluctantly to the far corner of the room. Without further instruction she faced the wall, her hands clasped on the top of her head.

She was soon joined by another miscreant, Sarah MacDonald, guilty of the crime of gazing longingly out of the window instead of paying attention to the conjugation of French verbs. By the end of the afternoon, the far wall had the attentions of five wayward young ladies, all experiencing various degrees of fear, humiliation and a resigned acceptance of their fate.

When the five o'clock bell sounded, those girls fortunate enough not to be standing in the corner filed out of the room and made their way to the refectory for tea. The five remaining girls shuffled uneasily.

"Be still!" commanded Miss Underwood. "I am going to fetch Mr Underwood." She strode out of the room, leaving the five girls to wait nervously for the arrival of her brother, Mr William Underwood, a fine upstanding and moral pillar of society, and founder of Underwood Hall: Corrective Institution for Wayward Young Ladies.

His footsteps echoed ominously from the corridor. The girls began to fidget uneasily, their faces anxious. From previous experience, they knew what to expect, and it would not be pleasant. Mr Underwood entered the room, and closed the door behind him.

Yasmina was the adopted daughter of the town apothecary and his wife. She was found as a child, wandering the bleak moors on the edge of the wild wood in the cool mists of mystic autumn, her long copper hair blending with the red gold of the fallen leaves, her pitiful cries carried on the back of the north wind.

The apothecary had roamed far and wide seeking out a secret herb for his medicinal preparation. On hearing the child's cries, he ventured closer and found her amongst the gorse and heather, barefoot and shivering, clad only in a thin shift. She held out her arms, and he picked her up and wrapped her small cold body in the warm folds of his cloak. Then, setting her before him on his horse he took her back to the town, where he raised her as his own daughter. Wishing to do the right thing by the child, he later married a woman of the town, so that Yasmina could enjoy all the benefits of two loving parents.

As the years passed, the child teetered on the brink of adolescence and grew into a beautiful young woman. Her body was lithe and strong and comely, her copper hair waved in abundance below her waist, and she had almond-shaped eyes of a vibrant green that sparked with the hue of emeralds when she smiled, which was often. But she was different, somehow, from her peers. There was an unconventional wildness about her, a hint of feyness. She would often sit by the bank of the stream, a glazed and dreamy look on her face, as though she were somewhere else.

And as Yasmina grew older and more beautiful, her stepmother became increasingly jealous and resentful, not only because of her step daughter's looks and blithe spirit, but for the high regard in which her father held her. Consequently, she took every opportunity to taunt and scold the girl for her slothfulness. Indeed, she would find fault with anything that Yasmina did, and took to beating the girl with a leather strap.

One day she deliberately spilt the churn of milk all over the kitchen floor, then stormed out to find Yasmina.

"Yasmina? Get in the house, now."

"What's wrong, stepmother?"

"You know full well what's wrong, wicked girl. The milk is wasted."

Yasmina surveyed the mess on the stone flags of the kitchen floor.

"I will clear it up, stepmother, but it was not I who spilled the milk."

"You lying bitch! Who else would it be? Your father is busy working in the apothecary shop. You shall be thrashed for your insolence."

Yasmina's green eyes brimmed full of tears as the strap lashed down heavily across her bottom, causing angry looking red welts.

"Get it cleaned up at once. Then bring me some bread and cheese, and a jug of wine."

Yasmina obeyed silently, trying to ignore the persistent pain in her burning bottom.

Five hundred years ago there lived an unruly child called Alysha who grew into a beautiful but tempestuous young woman. She ran wild and free and was beholden to no one, not even her step father. He was a good man, but since the death of Alysha's mother many years previously, he had become a somewhat abstracted character whose time was spent happily delving into his ancient books of lore.

Left to her own devices, Alysha tramped through the sweet meadows and over hills and dales until she reached the great wood - an ancient woodland, dense and mysterious. She learnt its ways by listening to the whisper of the wind in the grass and the rustle of the leaves in the canopy of trees; she became familiar with the ribboning course of the stream that wound its way through the wood, and her feet trod paths that had been forgotten by man for hundreds of years, though centuries were but a mere heartbeat in this place.

"Do not stray beyond the great wood," warned Alysha's stepfather. "There are tales of an even older place beyond it - the wild wood, full of strange things."

"What kind of strange things?"

Alysha's stepfather shook his head. He did not tell Alysha that her own mother once ventured into the wild wood, returning nine months later, subtly changed, fey, and with a babe at her breast - a babe that she named Alysha. "There are some things that are not meant to be disturbed. Do not try to find the wild wood. Stay safe. Now, my daughter, come and eat your supper. There is a fine stew of beef and barley simmering in the pot, and we have fresh bread and good strong ale."

But Alysha smiled and tossed back her head, paying no heed to her stepfather's counsel. And so, the very next day she left the house at daybreak and ran out into the dawn, and as the sun rose higher and the air became brighter, she danced through fern and over moss, leaping over the bubbling brook, treading lightly on the leaf strewn path that led to the great wood. It embraced her and she walked the familiar paths until the sun was high in the sky and she had ventured further than she had ever been before.

The trees became progressively less dense, and she was soon walking in a glade carpeted by wood anemones, bluebells and celandines. Spring was apparent in every flower, bud and unfurling leaf, and the air rang with the song of birds as they made their nests in thicket, bark and tree.

Alysha did not return home that night. Instead, she speared a trout from the silver stream, threaded it onto a green sapling stick and cooked it over the embers of a fire coaxed from dry kindling.