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It was my final year at Westland Hall. I had started there, a rather shy and academic boy, fresh from my preparatory school, just thirteen years old. Now five years later I was on the verge of manhood, six feet tall, broad shouldered and full of vitality. The shyness had long since evaporated, but the academic bent had continued which had had the very pleasant result of my rising to the elevated position of Head Boy.

Head Boy. How I had looked up to that exalted creature when I was a fresh faced junior. How strange, but how wonderful, it now felt to be on the receiving end of that awe and admiration. The position was not merely an honorary one - it brought with it some very real power. I had the ear of the headmaster at all times, the right to impose a large range of sanctions and punishments on my fellow pupils and the privilege of my own set of rooms apart from the other prefects.

Westland Hall was an ancient institution, dating back to the second half of the seventeenth century. In many ways it was a very traditional place, but that autumn of 1961 it was at the forefront of innovation. For the school's board of trustees had decided, in full agreement with the headmaster, that for the first time in the school's three hundred year history, girls were to be admitted as pupils. Not that the school was to go fully co-educational, but that a select group of thirty young ladies would be allowed the benefit of education in the Westland Hall sixth form.

It had been a cause of huge speculation and interest throughout the final weeks of the previous term, and opinion was evenly divided between those who thought it a jolly good thing and those who saw it as the end of civilization as we knew it. The argument was most hotly contested in my own house, Dalton's, for we had been chosen to be the only house where girls were to be admitted. The reasons for this choice were fairly clear. As the largest house we had plenty of accommodation that could be adapted to female use, and indeed over the summer vacation the whole upper story had been converted for just that purpose. And secondly in Mrs. Thompson, wife of our own housemaster and a teacher in her own right, we had a ready-made housemistress.

So it was that Dalton's admitted the first girls to Westland Hall, and so it was that on that first day of term I encountered Pippa Hamilton.

Pippa Hamilton, eighteen years old, straight blonde hair held back in a shiny pony tail. Pippa Hamilton in her navy gymslip, her maroon blazer and her straw boater, standing beside an oversized trunk looking around her at the old school. I had never in my life set eyes upon such a gorgeous creature.

---oOo---
I had never intended to end up at Westland Hall, I had been very happy at Roedean and confidently expected to progress into the sixth form there.

The Spanking Tent
Miss Fanny Frobisher rapped briskly on the door of the 6th form common room and entered. A large lady wearing floaty clothing, she moved like a galleon in full sail, dropping anchor against a worn leather armchair. Depositing her plentiful bottom onto the chair, she sat, with a wave of her hand.

"Your attention girls, if you please. As you know, this year the school is short of funds for musical instruments. We have a shortfall of £3,000, so I would like you all to put your thinking caps on and come up with some fund-raising ideas."

"What sort of ideas?" mused Heather.

"Anything at all that is practical and can be easily implemented. Now - who is going to start the ball rolling?"

The common room buzzed as the girls began shouting out ideas. Audrey the prefect grabbed a pen and began writing the ideas down on a flip chart. Before long, they had quite a list, and Miss Frobisher nodded in approval.

"We will organise a fund-raising day to be held a week on Friday. Naturally, there will be no school lessons that day." This statement was greeted by rapturous applause. "As we have so many good ideas, I suggest you split into teams of four. Each team will be responsible for planning and implementing one fund raising idea. Now ..." she glanced at the flip chart, "... who is going to bake the cupcakes?"

"Me!"

"Me!"

"Me!"

"And Me!"

"Good. That's Clarissa, Beatrice, Judith and Heather. Next, I need volunteers to make and sell jam and chutney."

Another four hands went up. Audrey the prefect diligently made a note of all the names assigned to the various activities - cupcakes; jams and chutneys; home made lemonade and ginger beer; a white elephant stall; a game of 'Splat the Rat'; a coconut shy; a gypsy fortune-teller; a tombola; and a second hand book stall.

"Excellent," said Miss Frobisher. "We have four girls left to make up the tenth team. Heather - I leave it up to you and Gemma, Marigold and Martina to think of another idea. And I would like you all," she looked round the room, "to collaborate in the design of flyers and posters. I charge you all with the marketing and promotion of this splendid event. Use your imagination to get the message out to as many people as possible."

"Even local radio?" asked Porky Spalding.

"Even local radio," smiled Miss Frobisher. "What a very good idea." She rose from her chair and smiled beatifically. "I have a very busy schedule which will sadly preclude my further involvement in this initiative, but I know I can rely on all of you to turn this into a splendid event for St Agatha's School For Girls."

---oOo---
The appointed day dawned clear and bright. Thanks to the combined efforts of the sixth form, there were crowds of people milling around the school grounds, eating, drinking, browsing and participating in everything on offer.

Creatures of Light and Darkness
The ESA office was at a pretty good address, high in the Clinton Towers on the corner of Walmart and Barracuda. Overhead a Zeppelin blocked the sun and Karen resisted the temptation to look up. After all, this was Nuevo Jork. Only the tourists looked up. The natives were all strangely incurious, or pretended to have seen everything before. In the lobby the guards were armed and nervous, but when they saw her appointment pass they pointed to a gravlift without a word. Respect for the Sorcerers, perhaps, or maybe superstitious prejudice against them. It was hard sometimes to tell just which.

The gravlift decanted her all too quickly on the thirty third floor. There was a sign. Ethical Sorcerers' Association, Suite 3310. She spent a queasy moment wondering whether she hoped she was positive or negative. At least the uncertainty would be over, and that was something. She opened the door. The office had a nice view of Prosperity Park, but it wasn't all that large. There was just this guy behind a desk, looking slightly rumpled and very ordinary. They didn't go in for flash. They always seemed less than what they were, while most of society tried always to seem more. He rose as she entered and took her hand. She felt a little shock, almost of recognition.

"Karen Groth? Hi. Welcome. Please have a seat."

She sat, feeling disoriented. No point in trying to read him. He was a trained Sorcerer, after all. The first she'd probably ever seen. "Well," she said, "am I one or not?" The answer mattered. Small talk didn't matter. The answer mattered. She found herself holding her breath.

"Good news and bad news, Miss," he said. "The good news is you're a latent. I'm amazed we missed it in the screening. If we'd found you when you were ten, you'd be a rising star among our number by now. The bad news is we didn't find you when you were ten, and while teaching an adult isn't impossible, it's difficult and dangerous. I doubt you'll find anyone willing to attempt it."

But what about the headaches, the weird dreams. "Independent study?" she asked. "After all, someone must have been first. He wouldn't have had a mentor, so it must be possible."

"Not recommended, Miss Groth. Once you open to the Arcane, you'll be a magnet for the Forces of Darkness, and they'll try to tempt you, and failing that, they'll destroy you."

"And if they succeed in tempting me?" Her voice cracked. She was under more strain than she admitted. Sorcery. She'd dreamed of Sorcery when she was little, but everyone told her not to bother. A one in a million chance. Don't bother.

"We'd have to kill you," the Sorcerer said. He frowned.

She blinked back tears. "Oh," she said. "Are you sure there's no one who would risk it? I have some money. I'd give almost anything."

"Your soul, Miss Groth?"

Eater of Dreams
The bowl was unglazed pottery, the knife of meteoric iron, its handle wrapped in sinew from an animal long extinct. The water was from a mountain stream, still chill with the memory of last year's snow. The moon was full. Puffs of an unwelcome breeze raised goose bumps. Nina drew the blade across her palm.

It was always a bright little painful shock. Her body longed to heal, but she needed to stay vulnerable to the ritual or it would not work. A little blood. Three drops, down into the still water. She stirred it with the knife. The water stilled once more and its surface captured moonlight. Moonlight made liquid shimmered, threatening to reveal secrets. It was a time for visions. Nina watched water tainted with her essence and the essence of the moon.

Eyes. Red eyes, filled with malice. They were the Eater's eyes. The water steamed and began to boil. Nina cried out and struck the bowl and it cracked and spilled its contents out on the ground and an unwelcome breeze made steam. Her heart pounded in her throat and she could barely breathe.

The Eater conquered by exploiting weakness. But it could not be the lack of skill. Nina had called visions before when the old witch was still alive and had succeeded without supervision. The figure of the Eater of Dreams had always been there, on the periphery, malign but not actively threatening. But it was an active menace now, and anywhere she went in the safety of these hills it could find her.

The safety of solitude was danger now, for here she was the only person, the only witch. She must hide in a herd of her own kind, down in the valleys with the farmers and their horses and cattle and oats and barley and their new ways and their new God.

She had needed the luxury of silence so she could listen to herself, and hear the quiet song of magic. But now the quiet meant the Eater could hear her too. She must hide her clarity amidst the dark mutterings of other minds. At least until she found out her weakness and overcame it.

But she didn't remember very much about being an ordinary person. Not very much at all.

It was a good farm with well-kept fences. Contented cows stood in green pastures, re-chewing half processed grass. Tame nature, not like the real thing. But not completely unlike. Not near as hard on her as a town would have been, or a city. Too orderly a place, perhaps, but people liked that. It let them feel they were in charge, while the truth was more that sometimes they were, and sometimes they were not. Nina was loathe to choose, but where better? Ah well. Three men sat outside the main hall drinking a small beer. In an outbuilding a woman was cooking. Nina let herself be seen.

"Hello," she said.

The Housekeeper
At first, Martha dismissed the advertisement that appeared in the newsagent's window. It advertised the position of housekeeper, but given that the person who required a housekeeper had the surname Flemscrape, she initially thought the ad was some silly hoax. She filled in an application form anyway. Was Mr Flemscrape for real? Apparently so. He telephoned her two days later and arranged an interview.

Putting on her one and only suit, Martha adjusted her hair, applied a subtle touch of colour to her cheeks and a mellow peach gloss lipstick. The reflection in the mirror looked smart and businesslike. Inspired with a rarely-felt confidence, she smiled, straightened back her shoulders, and left her small apartment, arriving at Lavender Hill some thirty minutes later.

Lavender Hill. It sounded like an old peoples' home, but it looked amazing - being a large house, part of it dating from the Elizabethan period. It was situated in its own grounds at the end of a quiet leafy suburb. Martha's heels tapped on the flagged path. The house was quite beautiful, with mellow stone, wisteria-covered walls and mullioned windows. She reached the front door and rang the bell. From behind the glass panel of the door, she saw a shadow advancing, solidifying as it drew nearer, taking on the form and substance of ... a middle aged man. He opened the door, his face impassive, yet Martha felt herself being under scrutiny.

"Miss Waterstone?" His voice was well modulated, his diction perfect.

Martha nodded, wearing her best smile.

"Martha." His expression softened as he returned her smile. "How nice of you to come along. And how punctual you are." He looked at his watch. It was 2 15pm exactly. "I am most impressed." He smiled and opened the door wider. "Do come in."

"Thank you." She accepted graciously and followed him down the long hallway. He opened the door of a room on the left which led through to a comfortable sitting room, elegantly and tastefully furnished in shades of mahogany complemented by gilt-framed pictures and claret-coloured swagged curtains. A large sparkling crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling.

"As you see, this is a large house," said Mr Flemscrape. "I need someone who is discreet and trustworthy." He paused.

Martha nodded in tacit agreement. "Of course."

"I think you will find my terms are more than reasonable. You will be required to prepare breakfast, to be served promptly at 8 30am every day except Wednesday and Thursday. From 8 30 until noon you will engage in doing the laundry, cleaning the house, and preparing a light luncheon to be served promptly at 1pm. You may then take the afternoon off and resume your duties at 6 15pm, during which time you will prepare dinner, to be served promptly at 8 15pm. The rest of the evening is yours, and I do not object to the dinner plates being cleared away the following morning, providing the dining room is clean and tidy in time for breakfast. You will have Wednesdays and Thursdays off."

The Hazards of Smoking
It was a chilly November morning. The students of St. Luke's Academy for Girls stood outside the building, blowing on their hands and huddling together for warmth while they waited for the bell to ring.

Two of the girls had crept off by themselves away from the throng, hoping to stay out of sight. 18-year-old Alicia Poundstone, a slim, pretty brunette, fished inside her coat for the two cigarettes she had liberated from her mother's pack that morning.

"You don't think she'll notice, then?" asked her best friend Gracie, a slightly chubby but very comely blonde lass.

"Oh, bugger it if she did! She'll think it was my brother, and it will be great fun to see him thrashed for something he didn't do!"

Alicia wasn't a cruel girl, but her brother Robert had been a nuisance lately, and he had gotten away with stealing cigarettes before. She handed one of the purloined items to her friend, took out a book of matches, and lit it for her. Gracie, inhaling for the first time, coughed a bit. Alicia laughed.

"I thought you said you'd smoked before!" she teased.

"I have! I just never, well, you know, inhaled."

Alicia rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Gracie, you're such a goody-goody!"

"Am not! Take that back!" her friend demanded in mock indignation. Alicia just grinned and lit up, enjoying a long, deep drag.

"Ah, that's the stuff," she said, giddy at the thought of getting away with tasting forbidden fruit. Gracie tried again, and did better this time. It tasted awful, but it was a thrill!

"You girls!" a voice shouted. "Over here at once!"

The girls instinctively dropped the cigarettes and crushed them out under their shoes. "Yes, Ma'am?" Alicia said innocently as Mrs. Stanton, the schoolyard monitor, shot daggers at her.

"Don't 'Yes, Ma'am' me, young lady! I saw what you two were up to. It's a visit to the Headmistress's office for both of you!"

Both girls felt their tummies flip at the news. Headmistress Andersen was notoriously strict about what she called 'substance abuse' among her girls, and smoking definitely fell under that category for her. Mrs. Stanton stood resolute, beckoning the girls over.

"Damn that cow!" Alicia hissed under her breath. "We're for it now!"

Gracie felt a tear form in her eye. Less adventurous than her friend, she'd never been spanked or caned at school before. She had a sinking feeling that her bottom was about to pay for her misdemeanor, and she was right.

The bell rang, and the other girls looked on and whispered amongst themselves as Mrs. Stanton summarily escorted the two girls to the school office. She indicated the bench outside Headmistress Andersen's office.

"Sit down, girls. While you can." The big woman knocked on the door, and disappeared inside for a moment. She came out with an unpleasant smile.

"Go on in, ladies, Headmistress is waiting for you."

Gulping, the girls complied. They found Headmistress Andersen, a formidable woman with a reputation for being tough but fair, standing in front of her desk, her arms folded in front of her.

A Heavenly Job
by Colin Daniels
Diana settled into the comfortable leather chair. She was even tempted to put her feet up on the heavy oak table she sat behind. This is the life, she thought to herself. Two weeks with no rowdy teenagers and no assignments to mark. Surely this is as close to heaven as one can find in a teaching job.

Diana reflected on the circumstances that had given her a dream job for two weeks. The principal had suffered a mild heart attack at the same time as the deputy principal was on a holiday overseas. Diana was an English teacher, not that long out of college herself, but her reputation for strict discipline had seen her given the job of stand-in principal until the deputy returned.

Diana surveyed the room. St Gregory's was an up-market private school and Mr Clodfrey's office certainly reflected the school's high fees. Antique chairs and bookshelves added a plush, though turn of the century, feel to the room.

Suddenly, Diana spotted something above one of the bookshelves that sparked her curiosity - a cane. Diana reached up and removed the cane from the board that it was displayed on. The principal must have left it there to deter would be offenders, though its use had been outlawed by politically correct governments years ago.

Diana studied the cane. It was long and slender, with a traditional crook handle. Diana was amazed that something with such a reputation as a harsh implement of correction could be so light.

She'd never been caned herself and wondered how it would feel. Curiosity got the better of her and Diana tentatively put out her left hand and lightly brought the cane down on her palm. That didn't hurt, she thought. I'd better do it properly if I really want to find out. She lifted the cane again and brought it down with moderate force.

"Shit!" Diana cursed aloud. A thin red line formed across her palm. She shook her hand urgently, dropping the offending implement on her desk.

How did students take such a punishment? I wasn't even doing it that hard. Probably badly, she considered, rubbing her burning palm. They probably bawled their eyes out. No wonder students were much better behaved back then.

Diana visualised one of her cockiest students bending over the desk, bottom up for the cane. She visualised herself holding the cane high, then bringing it down hard across his pants while he begged for mercy. Those were the days, she thought.

---oOo---
Diana slammed down the phone in disgust. She knew her husband did not appreciate calls at work, but he didn't have to be so damn rude. Greg hadn't shown the slightest interest in how she was handling her first day as acting principal. He knew she was nervous about it, but had been more interested in writing some stupid report than hearing about how she was going.

Diana loved her husband, but he could be so inconsiderate at times, and especially so when he was stressed. Diana was so angry she could scream. As fate would have it, she looked down and spotted the cane, still lying on her desk where she had dropped it.

Spanking Miss Sylvie
Hello! My name is Carla, and I deal in the relief of guilt and the making of amends. That is, I'm a professional disciplinarian for adults. I'm not a dominatrix, but a mentor and provider of traditional discipline. I retired from a fulfilling teaching career three years ago, and for the last two years my new line of work has kept me quite busy.

Many adults carry an unnecessary load of guilt around for years, and it has a detrimental effect on them both emotionally and physically. I often thought that if these people only had someone who cared enough about them to give them an occasional good, hard bare-bottom spanking and some time in the corner, their burdens of guilt would disappear. I provided such services free of charge for a couple of friends who had been looking for someone to discipline them for years. They told their friends, who in turn told their friends, and now I have all the business I can handle! I work out of my suburban home, with my 22-year-old niece Amelia serving as receptionist and bookkeeper.

My house has a floor plan that works quite well for this sort of enterprise. When you first enter, you'll see a sitting room on your left that has been converted into a reception area. To the right is a kitchenette with a small refrigerator, stove, and microwave. Behind a door directly in front of you is a morning room (sometimes called a sun room, because three of the four walls - and the ceiling - are covered in windows), where I meet with clients and dole out their spankings. Clients are often surprised and a little unnerved by the openness of the room, but it is quite intentional, as you shall see.

Most of the time, the lovely Amelia is seated behind the desk in the reception area. Occasionally you may see a client standing in one of the corners in his or her underwear, looking very much like a naughty child. These are my tougher cases, those who require more than just a spanked bottom. They must also display their red, freshly-spanked bottoms in the reception area for a prescribed period. As you can imagine, it is a most humbling exercise - especially for people in their 30's and 40's - to stand in the corner with their bare bottoms exposed just a few feet away from a pretty 22-year-old girl! Their embarrassment is magnified considerably should one of their friends or neighbors enter the house, but then that individuals need for discipline is out in the open as well! I have found it works well to handle these matters in a forthright, matter-of-fact way. "Yes, you get to display your red bare bottom in reception today, because you fought Miss Carla and tried to weasel out of your proper punishment." That sort of thing. One might think that adults, so treated, would run for the door and never return! Counter-intuitively, perhaps, they are typically the ones who become my regular clients.

Sky and Tiger
Mother was knitting. Anna mended socks. Typical Sunday afternoon. Father put down his ledger book, took off his spectacles, and massaged the bridge of his nose. He sighed.

"I've heard from Nickelovsky," Father said. "He's interested in a marriage."

Anna bristled. Nickelovsky was a drunk. "How nice for you," she said. "But aren't you already married?"

"You're not," Mother said. "And it's high time. You're being selfish, girl. Think of someone other than yourself."

The twins breezed in begging for a snack. They were told to go outside and play in a tone they recognized, and left without complaint. They were even careful to shut the door. Anna's back was up, though. She wasn't listening to verbal cues.

"This is the third time you've refused me," Father said. "You know what I told you would happen if I found three suitors for you and you refused them all."

Anna's blood turned to ice water. The Slut-peddlers. "But you wouldn't," she said. "It was just a bluff."

"There are bills," Mother said. She put down her knitting and was wringing her hands. "And I have three other children to consider."

Three? There were the twins and ... the knitting. Mother was knitting baby things. This was bad. Father might sell her because she had disobeyed. Mother would have been her champion, but not with a baby in the picture. In her world, new life always took precedence over old.

"Don't do this," Anna said.

Father rose. There was something in his hand. Shackles. "Choose quickly," he said. "Nickelovsky or the Slut-peddlers."

Anger trumped fear. They just cared about the money. The money they would be paid in return for signing a marriage contract, or in this case a bill of sale. "You can go straight to Hell," she said. "And you can take Nickelovsky with you."

He came across the room and jerked her to her feet. A shackle clicked around one wrist. She screamed and tried to wrench free. He pinned her arms behind her back. The other shackle clicked. She screamed. He stuck a sock in her mouth.

Mother approached with a scissors. She wouldn't look Anna in the eye. She touched a spot about mid-way from crotch to knee. "About there?" she said.

"A little higher," Father said. He was looking. His hard look, after his mind was made up and he wasn't going to change it.

"They can always take off more," Mother said.

"All right then," Father said.

Anna tried to spit the sock out. The scissors did its dirty work, making her dress too short to belong on anyone but a slave. At least it was all one color now. The generous hem which had been let down over the years to expose more fabric as she grew was all down on the floor. Mother retrieved it for her rag bag. Waste not. Anna tried to spit out the sock, just so she could curse.

"You were always too willful," Mother said. "Now look where it's got you."

A Brat for Demons
Ysabet seldom fretted. Just figured out what needed doing and did it. Not much self-reflection in Ysabet. But she sure was fretting now, which is why she found herself in this fusty room in this fusty old house speaking to Old Cadwallon who, beneath his fustiness, was also fairly wise.

"I knew it would happen someday," complained Ysabet. She didn't like her voice right now. It sounded whiny. She didn't like whiny. Why was this so hard? "Sooner or later every magegirl puts on the short-short skirt so guys know she's safe to mate with, as long as you spank her first. But I always figured that was for later, when I'm ready for making babies. This isn't the time for babies. I'm way too young. I should be out having fun. Having adventures."

"But sex is fun," Cadwallon said. "And learning to be friends with a boy can be a great adventure. There's more to it than babies."

Sex is fun? Well, maybe. But it's also very naughty, which is why she was so conflicted. "I don't second-guess myself much," said Ysabet. "Just make up my mind and do stuff. But now I'm absolutely sure I'm going to do this thing, and I'm also sure it's naughty. And I'm not even sure why I'm going to do it. I mean, which is the really important part? Do I have to let some guy spank me hard because that's what it takes so I can feel what it's like to mate, or do I have to let a guy mate with me because that's what I have to do to make sure I get spanked hard? What's wrong with me, Cadwallon? Why can't I figure this out?"

"You were so single minded in your studies," the old man said. He moved aside some clutter so he could find a place to sit. "So intent on practicing your magic that you pushed other things aside. Things about growing up. Things about your past." He sank heavily to his seat. Sighed. "Now your heart is full of unfinished business. Luckily a nice affair is exactly what you need to start getting things sorted out. You're going to make some lucky boy so happy."

Boy? Ick. "Not a boy, nuh uh, no way. They just do it so they can brag about it to their friends. No way I'd do it with a boy. And not a girl either, you dirty minded old coot. I know how your mind works. No. It's got to be a man. If I'm going to let myself get punished until I promise to obey, it's going to have to be a man."

Cadwallon shrugged. "It's your adventure, dear. Have it any way you'd like. But I feel I have to warn you. A boy would enjoy it mostly because you're cute and it's always fun to turn a cute girl fuckable when you get the chance. A man will also enjoy it because you're such a brat."

Brat Tamer
"Don't you think it's about time?" Lady Janet said. Her red gown rippled as she walked, a gauzy thing which gracefully accented her studied movements. Humanity and artifice in synchrony. Quite pretty, in a daunting sort of way. "I mean," Lady Janet said. "It was on your sixteenth birthday I distinctly told you you were old enough to fall in love, and now it's nearly two years gone. Don't you think it's high time you got on with it?"

"I heard it as permission, Mother," Caroline said. "Not a commandment." Caroline's gown was given to metallic hues and pointy edges, as prickly as Caroline herself. She could be pretty when she smiled, but a little pout was much more common. She only smiled when wreaking mischief.

"But it's so fun, my sweet," coaxed Lady Janet.

"Hmpf," said Caroline. "Men are fun to flirt with. It's fun to get their hopes up and then tell them 'no.' That's the part that's fun. Actually letting them do stuff? I'd have to lose control. You know how much I hate to lose control."

"That's rude," said Lady Janet. Her gestures were abbreviated and abrupt now, and her gown swished angrily. "The boy must always be given reason to hope. Flirting and always saying 'no' is cheating. Considerable reluctance with occasional giving in is what you're wanting. It brings out the very best in them. Their ardor. Great poetry. Feats of daring. Being courted can be so very nice if you'll only do it right. Learn from Helena, why don't you? I think she's got the hang of it."

Caroline stood stock still, all pointy and prickly like a thorn bush. "That slut," she said. Helena was beautiful, while Caroline was only pretty. Helena was voluptuous where Caroline was merely elfin. Yes, Caroline was jealous. "That slut says 'yes' to everybody. She'll trip a man and hit the floor before he does."

"I said don't be rude," snapped Lady Janet. "Would you like to be short-skirted?"

Caroline's head snapped back. She felt doubt, if not exactly fear. The threat was probably not meant in earnest, but if Caroline turned this into a battle of wills, it was a battle she would lose. And if she didn't want to lose control, then being short-skirted would be her nightmare. Total, abject helplessness.

"Your pardon, Mother," said Caroline. "I meant no disrespect to you. Only to Helena."

"Whose only fault is being a bit more friendly," said Lady Janet. She sounded less angry now, more willing to smooth things out. "You really ought to try and be less prickly, dear. Before the boys give up. You just might learn to like it."

Now Caroline must be careful. She hated to give her mother the last word, but anything incendiary might put her in a terrible pickle. But then with unaccustomed clarity she realized it was not nearly so much what she said that would get her into trouble, but how she said it. Bombast, even mere hyperbole, must be restrained.

Showing Him Who's Boss
(This narrative is from the "Letters to the Editor" feature in the summer 2010 edition of Matrons' Domestic Disciplinary Digest.)

Dear Madame Matron,

I'm a newlywed who is now embarking on my own domestic disciplinary journey as a wife, although it's the marital status rather than the relationship itself that is relatively new since my husband Colin has been subject to sound bare-bottom blisterings at my hand - wielding various spanking implements - since he first became my boyfriend almost a decade ago. However, what I'm writing to you about is a change-in-situation rite of passage that I was generously included within by my wonderful Aunt Barbara.

Although I've always referred to her as Aunt Barbara at her request, she's actually the wife of my mother's first cousin, Paul, so technically she's my first cousin 'once removed' by marriage-but the affection and admiration that I feel for her certainly justifies my considering her to be at the very least my favorite aunt.

This past January, in the middle of the month, Aunt Barbara reached her fiftieth birthday and had invited some of her close friends and relatives to a modest Saturday night celebration at a moderately upscale restaurant, a 'pay-your-own-way' meal. Most of her female friends are fellow members of an organization called the Sisterhood for Spousal Correction, whose 'sisters' practice regular corporal punishment - meaning frequent emphatic spankings on their husbands' naked buttocks, within their respective marriages and sometimes with other married couples as well.

Since the guests included a few of Aunt Barbara's professional colleagues from the university who were unaware of her domestic disciplinary relationship with cousin Paul, there were no CP-oriented gifts given that evening and no references to birthday fanny-tanning traditions at the time either, but all females present who possessed 'spanking privileges' over Paul were privately invited to stop by at Aunt Barbara's house at three o'clock the following afternoon for a spanking ceremony commemorating her birthday. All the invitees managed to make it there on time, in fact I'd say that altogether we were an eager bunch of witnesses for the impending pants-down paddling that was anticipated-because even though it was Aunt Barbara's birthday that was being celebrated, by longstanding Sisterhood practice it was Paul's exposed posterior that was going to be walloped quite extensively.

I won't go into the details here, suffice it to say that my beautiful honorary aunt received a loving birthday gift from my mother and myself - an acrylic Lexan paddle with a transparent heart-shaped striking surface dotted by numerous small beveled holes, both its no-slip rubber handle and the trim around its edges colored a bright crimson.

"It's for double duty, Aunt Barbara," I pointed out proudly, since its purchase had been my idea. "To administer your birthday spanking today and your Valentine's Day whomping of Paul's bare behind next month too."

She kissed my cheek and hugged me tightly. "Thank you, that's very thoughtful of you, I'm certain that Paul appreciates it too since he'll be getting as much benefit from it as I will. Isn't that correct, honeybun?"

Three Merry Maids
Two months after finishing their degree courses, Abby, Meg and Katrin were still without a job and money was getting desperately short.

"We have to find something soon, or we'll starve."

"And the rent's due next week."

"And then there's the phone bill - and the electricity ..."

The three of them looked glumly at one another.

"We need a miracle."

"Miracles don't happen to people like us," said Abby disconsolately. "Do they, Meg?"

But Meg wasn't listening. The idea came to her in a flash of inspiration. Yes! It was so simple. Why hadn't they thought of it before? She jumped up with a jubilant smile on her face. "We make our own miracles! And I know how."

"How?"

"We start our own business." Meg's eyes glinted with excitement. "We set up in business and we make loads of money."

"Doing what?"

"Cleaning."

"Cleaning? Ugh!" said Katrin.

"I detest cleaning," said Abby.

"Um - well so do I," confessed Meg. "But beggars can't be choosers. Seriously - this offers us a way to make money, pay all our bills, and have plenty left over to spend on us.

"So - how will it work?" asked Abby grudgingly.

"It's easy. We churn out a load of fliers and shove them through letterboxes in the posh end of town. People who live in Highgrove have heaps of money to pay for their houses to be cleaned. We'll need a name for ourselves. Something snappy and inspiring."

"The Cleaning Company?" volunteered Katrin.

"No. That's too dull."

"How about Mops 'n Dusters?" suggested Abby.

"A bit better, but still not right." Meg frowned in deep concentration, and then beamed. "I have it - Three Merry Maids."

"Hey, that's not bad," said Abby.

"It's more than not bad. I like it," grinned Katrin. "Three Merry Maids. Yes, that's us."

They spent the next few hours arguing about the wording and layout for their publicity flyers, and when they eventually reached agreement, printed off several hundred copies. These were then packed into three shoulder bags.

"Well, this is it. I think we're ready to deliver them," said Meg.

"Highgrove here we come! Hang on, let me put some flat shoes on," said Abby.

"Good idea." Katrin stuffed her feet into a pair of low heeled pumps. "Ok, Merry Maids - let's go!"

Three hours later then they arrived home, hot, tired, and thirsty, to find three messages on the answerphone. The girls played them back and jumped around in a state of euphoria. They had three jobs already!

Meg called the clients back for further information, and made a great show of saying stuff like, "I'll just check our appointments diary," and "We are heavily committed, but we can fit you in at 3pm tomorrow," and "Yes, we have excellent references from our satisfied clients."

Katrin and Abby stifled a giggle, and then the three of them decided to celebrate their new found good fortune by ordering a Chinese takeaway and opening a bottle of wine.

Every Schoolgirl Needs Discipline
Nothing embodies wholesome feminine charm so much as the English schoolgirl. The girl who walked down Abbott Close in Merseyside that autumn day was a perfect example. She was wearing a navy blue school blazer over her white school blouse. Her short skirt was grey and red tartan. She wore black Mary Jane shoes; her slim calves were covered with thick white stockings.

Her face was a picture of youth and innocence, from the rosy glow on her cheeks to her deep blue eyes that peered out through oversized tortoiseshell glasses. A beret, whose colour matched the school blazer, sat atop her head. From it spilled her chestnut hair, trimmed in short bangs on her forehead; she had woven part of her hair into two shoulder-length braids.

Carrying her canvas book bag by a strap across her shoulder, the girl mounted the steps of a semi-detached and rang the doorbell. The door opened to reveal a middle-aged man, with thinning dark hair that was grey along the sides.

He was well-dressed, wearing a white shirt beneath a sleeveless cardigan sweater. His trousers were dark wool, his shoes brown, of wing-tip design. The man had about him an air of authority; a man who was fair-minded yet stern, with no tolerance for misbehaviour.

"Well now. Hello, Pamela," he said in an even voice.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Bishop," the girl replied. The mere sight of the man brought a faint blush to her cheeks, a slight tremor to her voice.

"Come in, young lady."

Pamela did so, removing her beret and placing it, along with her bag, on the divan when Mr. Bishop instructed her to do so. "You're five minutes late," he remarked.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Bishop."

"Ah well, it's the way of young people these days. I've laid out some tea and biscuits on the dining table. Shall we have some as we talk?"

"Yes sir."

Mr. Bishop poured Typhoo tea for them both. Pamela nibbled on a Bakewell tart as the man took a sip of tea and began to speak.

"Pamela, I called you here today to discuss your problems. I can't begin to say what a disappointment you've been to all of us at Charters Academy."

"I'm sorry, sir," she murmured.

His grey eyes now cold, Mr. Bishop went on, "You neglect your studies; you're insolent to the other teachers. And I've heard shocking, scandalous rumours about you. I pray they aren't true."

The girl's blue eyes were now wide with anxiety. "What rumours, sir?"

"If you must know, one involves Lesley Collier. I'm told that you and she ... well, I can hardly say it. That you and Lesley were caught kissing each other in the art class storage room. Kissing rather passionately, I'm told."

The young girl, now blushing intensely, bowed her head but said nothing.

"Well," said Mr. Bishop, "is there any truth to this?"

The girl heaved a sigh. "Yes sir, it's true."

The Slut Within
The vid pick-up was in her hair, disguised as a dragon fly jewel with crystal eyes, so Brenda must look straight at the official, feigning rapt attention.

"Welfare and crime budgets were going through the roof," the official lectured. "We couldn't build prisons fast enough. Something finally had to give, and what finally gave was the paradigm. There had to be a different way."

Brenda knew all this, but it would play better in the words of the official than if she tried to put it in narration. "So we went back to an even older paradigm," she said. "Slavery. One that had been completely repudiated."

The official smiled. "But we're not repeating the mistakes of the past," he said. "That slavery was based on ethnic prejudice and was hereditary. This is based on the individual's ability to correctly run his own life. And slaves are not given childbirth licenses. There will be no permanent underclass."

"We used to be all about freedom," Brenda said. "Then suddenly this abrupt right-hand turn."

"Competing goods," the official said. "Freedom is a good. But so is food and shelter and medical care. And so is low taxes. Slavery cures homelessness, since the responsible party is obligated to provide. Slavery instead of incarceration for non-violent crime keeps taxes low, and provides labor for domestic service, child care, elder care, agricultural. You name it."

"Factories," Brenda said.

"No," the official said. "We stay away from occupations where there are still strong trade unions. It's a sort of an unspoken bargain. We don't compete with union labor directly, and in return they keep their opposition muted. What's your intended slant on this piece, Miss Smith? Op-ed. Expose, what?"

Her business suit was a tad uncomfortable in the warmth of the room. "Sort of something for everyone," Brenda said. "Mainly human interest. Lurid details to titillate those who want to be titillated, and to offend those who would rather be offended. But I need this background to frame it. Put it in context."

"Sort of entertainment masquerading as hard-bitten reportage."

A bit cynical. A bit too close to true. Brenda squirmed. "I can do social commentary with a message underneath as long as I'm entertaining about it," she said. "We all make our Devil's bargains. You have yours, and that's mine. My hardest job is going to be getting inside the slaves' heads. Making friends with them so they will trust me with their private truths."

"Unless you would like to report from personal experience," the official said. Was there just the slight hint of a smirk?

Fear knotted in her belly. She hoped she'd failed to understand. "I beg your pardon?" she said.

"Let us put you through slave training, Miss Smith. We couldn't let you wear your vid pick-up of course. But when it was done we'd have no objection to however you chose to portray your subjective experience. What do you say?"

The Lady of Hillcrest Manor
Pride and dignity. To Miss Patricia Appleton, those qualities defined a woman. In the designer clothes she wore, in the proud, aloof look she gave the world, she was the very image of a dignified lady.

Patricia was descended from an old, storied New England family. The current recession, however, had dealt her a cruel blow. Forced to sell her Manhattan penthouse at a loss, she had no choice but to move to Hillcrest, the ancient, decaying family manor in the Berkshire Hills of western Massachusetts. Along with her maid Dorothy, she determined to ride out this latest reversal of fortune with, of course, pride and dignity.

The lady had just turned thirty, but that was a well-kept secret. She had briefly tried marriage, to a Saltonstall of Boston even, but found it disagreeable. To Patricia, men were, on the whole, coarse and not very bright. Like bubble gum, they soon lost their flavor. Worst of all, it was impossible for Patricia to feel dignified and ladylike while lying flat on her back with a hot, perspiring man atop her.

So it was that she had become a confirmed bachelorette. On a brisk autumn morning, she and Dorothy arrived at Hillcrest Manor. After the movers had brought in their furniture, the maid then set to work dusting and mopping. Toward the end of the day, Patricia invited a distant cousin for dinner. Dorothy commenced preparing the elegant meal expected by people of Patricia's social class.

The lady herself took a shower and began to dress for dinner. She had just put on a silk slip, trimmed in lace. Quite suddenly Patricia noticed a chilling of the room, a coldness that seemed to seep into her bones. "Oh dear," she murmured, closing a casement window that was slightly open.

She returned to her dresser, touching the ends of her perfectly coiffed auburn hair; then, leaned forward and began to apply her lipstick. Without warning, Patricia's derriere was slapped with such force that she nearly lost her balance. Along with the sharp sound of the smack came stinging hot pain that spread throughout her buttocks.

"Ooh!" she yelped. There could be no question. Someone had hauled back and smacked her bottom.

Patricia whirled around, but was quite alone in the room. She ran to the door and looked down the hallway. Again, no one. She continued on to the head of the stairs, now realizing that there was not the least sound in the house. It was as still as a tomb.

"Dorothy!" she called out.

Her fifty-something maid soon appeared, wearing a black and white uniform which, combined with her pasty skin and salt-and-pepper hair, rendered her entirely without color. "Yes Miss Appleton?" she said, surprised to see her mistress only partially dressed.

"Who else is in this house?" asked Patricia.

"Why, no one, just you and myself."

"Are you certain?"

"Oh, for sure. The movers left an hour ago. It's been so quiet since then; creepy almost."

Blair was focusing on getting the packages to the car. As she walked through the mall, she could hear the rain pounding on the roof and wished she had parked a little closer. Now she was about to get drenched before she got to the car. As she reached the door she bumped into someone, causing her to drop one of the packages. As she bent to get it, she bumped heads with a great looking man who was trying to reach for her package too. He was about 6' 2" with blond hair and was dressed very casually in khakis and a blue Oxford cloth shirt with a sweater loosely draped around his shoulders. Blair could not believe how handsome he was, and when he handed her the package their fingers touched and she felt a jolt of electricity. She casually glanced at his hand to see if he was wearing a ring.

No ring, that's good, she thought. Blair tried to think of something to prolong this encounter. Her mind was furiously working to come up with a thought when he spoke.

"Hi, my name is David. Can I help you in getting these packages to your car?"

Blair was so tongue-tied she barely managed to introduce herself. "Yes, I really would appreciate another set of hands, but I don't want you to get soaked too."

"Want to get a cup of coffee?" he suggested. "Maybe by then the rain will have let up and neither of us will have to get wet."

Blair could not believe her luck. Here was a gorgeous man who just invited her for a cup of coffee.

Don't get too excited Blair warned herself. Just because he's not wearing a ring and he's offered to buy you coffee doesn't mean he's looking for a date. He could be just being gentlemanly.

They found a small table near the Starbuck's kiosk. David went to get the coffee as Blair deposited her packages.

David returned with the coffee. "I'm not sure if you take any cream or sugar, so I just brought it this way. I'll watch the packages if you need to get anything."

"No, I like it black," Blair replied.

"So do I," replied David.

"Good that's at least one thing we have in common," smiled Blair.

David could not believe his luck in meeting this girl. He was already smitten, there was something about her, he couldn't put his finger on it but it was smoldering just below the surface. She was about 5' 6" with beautiful green eyes and a smile that could light up a room. He had recently moved to the area, did not have many friends, and certainly had not dated anyone since his break-up with his last lady friend over three months ago. He wondered if Blair was married or in a relationship and figured the best thing was to just come out and ask.

"So, Blair, why don't you tell me about yourself? Are you married? In a relationship?"

Chapter 1
The light on Kim McConnell's answering machine was blinking red when she returned home. Threading her way through the jungle of moving boxes - some of which had yet to be opened - she checked the display and found that there were three messages. All from him, probably. She had a cell phone with voice mail, but she hadn't given him that number. The last thing she needed was him calling her at work.

With a sigh, she pressed the blinking red button and listened as the artificial voice of the machine confirmed that she had three new messages, then:

(Beep)... "Hey, it's Jack. Just called to see how things are goin' with the new place and all. Guess you must be putting in some long hours at the store. You're never home when I call..."

There was a long pause and Kim could just imagine the turn of his head and the slight curling up of one side of his mouth. She knew those pauses well enough. Knew too the face that always accompanied them. There had been at least one in every argument they ever had. In the last couple of conversations they had had before she moved out, Jack had spent as much time pausing and making that face as he had talking down to her.

When he continued, the pretence of civility was gone from his tone.

"Is that what you really want? Spending all your time working in that damn store? You know you're never going to get ahead. You'll be just like all the..."

The machine cut him off just as his voice was starting to rise. Apparently he must have gathered himself together before calling back, because when the second message started to play, he was once again the level-headed Jack of old.

(Beep)... "Look, I'm sorry about that. I miss you, you know? I just don't know what you think you're..."

This time Kim cut him off herself, hitting the Delete button before the message had finished playing. When the third message started to play, she didn't even let the beep finish before she deleted it as well.

She went into the bedroom to change, congratulating herself on the fact that she wasn't crying. She wanted to, sure, but she wasn't going to. Kim had already decided that she had cried enough because of him. But he was still getting to her, there was no denying that. After twelve hours at work, almost all of it on her feet, she should have been ready to just crash for the night, but instead she was changing to go out because she just had to. Tired as she was, she had to get out for a while, away from her new place, away from her boxes, and especially away from that damn answering machine.

So a few minutes later she emerged from the sliding glass door at the back of her condominium. The dress shirt and formal slacks she wore to work had been exchanged for a T-shirt and a comfortable pair of blue jeans.

A Certain Kind of Girl
The door said 'Housefellow' and it was open. Helen had this open door policy so we felt free to come in and talk. She's a grad student, Helen is, and cute and athletic, and I was a little in awe of her, even before I heard the rumors. That's why I was lurking just outside her door. Because of the rumors, and I was afraid they weren't true, or she would turn me down, but I was also afraid that she'd say 'yes.' Finally I just couldn't stand the indecision any more, and knocked on her door jam. She looked up and put her book down. Some Latin poet or something.

"Cathy. Hi. Is there something I can do for you? Come on in and sit down."

I came in, feeling little and embarrassed. I did not sit down. I felt like looking down and mumbling, but I forced myself to look at Helen. She was so pretty and so nice but didn't take shit from anybody. Reminded me of someone from my past, I think.

"I heard these rumors," I said, and yeah, I felt about as lame as that just sounded.

Helen waved her hand and went, "So? It's a dorm full of girls. Gossip is what they do. What do you expect?"

Did I want it to be false so my heart would calm back down, or did I really want it to be true? I was all bent out of shape about it, that's for sure. "Um, you know those two brats, Jill and Lisa? The rumor is they've stopped being a pain in the butt because they're getting one. The rumor is you spank them."

Helen shrugged, serene. "Which, even if it were true, would be something private, and absolutely none of your business."

I'd already asked both the brats, and they'd denied it, but when they did, Jill blushed and Lisa squirmed, and that kind of gave me hope. "I'm not trying to get them in trouble, Helen, and I'm not trying to get you in trouble either. I need to know for personal reasons."

"Well," Helen said. She sighed. "Speaking hypothetically ..."

Oh. Sure. Give her an out. "Yeah?"

"Well, all right. Let's say hypothetically that there's a certain kind of girl who needs discipline in her life and if she doesn't get it from a trusted person in authority, she'd have to get it from her boyfriend, and she fears that might risk getting pregnant and dropping out of school, or at least getting all messed up emotionally. Then maybe you could see how someone in authority could see her way clear to bend the rules, because there'd be more good than harm?"

Helen was saying it was true. I felt this heady mix of fear and joy. "Well, while we're speaking hypothetically, what if I've known that's what I've needed for quite a while. Could you see yourself clear to discipline me, too?"

Basement
"Okay," Mary said. "What is it?"

A black, square box with a power cord and an indicator light. Peg looked at it as it sat there on Mare's table. "The answer to all my troubles?" she asked. Just joking.

"Precisely," Mary said. "It's a mind field."

Peg blinked. "You mean, like a bomb?" She backed up a little.

Mare cleared her throat. "Don't be a dork, Peg. I didn't say 'mine field,' I said 'mind field.' You plug it in and it takes about a day before the field forms. Once it does, anyone who gets within about three feet of the thing, it sort of reads their mental state. If they're not holding onto much guilt, nothing happens. If they are, the box deepens the feeling, and adds a need to be punished physically."

Peg could think of an immediate use for the thing, and his name was Tim. It was almost too good to be true. "Who would even think of making a thing like that?" she asked. "And what's the market?"

"Designed for use in Singapore's prisons," Mary said. "Imported by a guy who thought for sure it was a cure-all for rebellious teens, and then he found out how much sex has to do with the way it works. So they came up surplus. Want it? I picked it up thinking of you. You know. For Tim."

"Lying, cheating sack of shit," Peg said, almost reflexively. It would be tempting. "You really think I should, Mare?"

"Oh, definitely," Mary said. "Think of how he hurt you, how he broke your trust. Then set up the box someplace people won't stumble on it accidentally like the basement or the attic, and get him to stand next to it. Then beat him black and blue."

Oh God. It was a dream come true. "And he won't call the cops on me later, or something?"

"He'll think it was his idea," Mary said, "and in a way, it will be."

Peg felt a rush of excitement. A chance to get the bastard back. A chance to see him suffer as she had suffered. "Oh, jeez, Mare, I'm so damn tempted. But we don't have a lot of cash right now. Great idea, though. I guess it's the thought that counts."

"Like I said," Mary said, "it's surplus. It didn't cost that much, considering. And it doesn't cost you anything at all. A gift, from me to you. Let's just say it appeals to my sense of justice."

Peg looked at the lumpen metal box, so out of place in the middle of Mare's bright and cheery kitchen. But it would be right at home in a basement corner, maybe over near Tim's work bench. He'd be truly at her mercy, actually wanting her to hurt him. Oh God, it was so tempting. "Let me think," Peg said, but in her heart she knew. And when she stepped out of her friend's house that soggy Sunday in early Spring, she carried a surprisingly heavy metal box.

This story, based in the UK in the 1970s, is about a young man (well let's put him at 31) who lets himself fall under the influence, in more ways than one, of a 50 year old woman, who has not passed the flower of youthful exuberance and is still very much embroiled in eroticism.

---oOo---
We had been going out for a couple of months. Jo was lovely. Everything a man could ask for. She was tall (5'10 in her stockings), had a fabulous figure, with large well moulded and firm breasts (36D cup) and a full, rounded bottom. She was physically strong and fit (she worked out once a week) and was successful in business. She had long blonde hair, which she mostly wore loose down her back where it reached her waist, but occasionally it would invade her front, where, if she was naked, it tantalisingly attempted to conceal her ample, proud bosom. To cap it all she loved me and was a demanding and persistent lover. She was perfect for me, or possibly, if I dared to think about it, for most red blooded men. OK, she was 19 years older than me. OK, there were a few lines on her face, but they were mostly laugh lines and, in my mind, they made her more attractive. She did not look that older than me, certainly did not behave old, unless one counts dominance as a sign of age, and in any case what is 19 years between great lovers?

She had her own business, involving the distribution of fashion items within the fashion trade. It was a high powered enterprise, earning a good salary. But it also meant that she had to attend meetings or business lunches or dinners, and these would often impinge on our social life. But I was not worried by this. Being self employed she was able to take time off or adjust her schedule to suit herself.

She was very protective of her private life. There were strict rules by which I had to abide. I was not given a key to her flat. Whenever I was intending to visit her I would have to text beforehand. I was never to arrive at her flat unannounced and I could only visit her when she said it was OK to do so. "After all, darling," she had explained, "I may be involved in negotiating an important contract, and we wouldn't want you bursting in with your trousers down around your ankles and your willy hanging out!"

We both had our own flats in the town. Hers was spacious and light, with an entrance into a large, well decorated sitting room, which included a dining area. There was a well-found and modern kitchen, a large double bedroom and a small spare room. There was a separate bathroom, with a loo and modern shower. From both the sitting room and her main bedroom there were French windows leading out to an outside deck.

Eddington House
Jeanette Price had been late getting all her registration materials in for college, and now all the dorms were full. She'd never considered a sorority. Being an only child, the whole big sister/little sister vibe just wasn't her thing. Plus, despite the entire 'Greek' collegiate world's insistence to the contrary, she had a feeling those paddles on the walls weren't entirely decorative! She'd had enough spankings thank you very much. In fact, her last one had been at age 18, a humiliating secret that she guarded with her life!

Jeanette had always been a procrastinator, and this time it looked as if it was going to cost her. She hated the thought of living at home and driving 45 minutes to and from school every day. Most of her friends had either been accepted to out-of-state colleges or were living on campus at the local university. She'd miss most of the best social opportunities if she stayed at home, because her parents were old-fashioned and strict about her curfew. It would be a drag missing the best parties because she was expected to be home by 11:00 pm. on weeknights and midnight on weekends.

She wasn't a classic beauty, but she was quite cute. She stood 5'5'' barefoot and had red, shoulder-length hair that she usually wore in a ponytail. No one but a supermodel would consider her overweight, but she was curvy and filled out her clothes nicely. On this rather warm early September day, she was dressed in denim cut-offs and a tank top. She was lying on her stomach on the living room floor, waving her feet in the air as she pored over the classified ads in the local paper in search of a place to live close to campus. She was limited by what she could spend; her parents were paying her tuition, but hadn't counted on rent being part of the equation. There had been quite the dust-up when her parents had found out that no more dorm rooms were available, because they'd both been after her to get all her paperwork in on time. But it was the summer after her senior year in high school, and she'd been distracted by parties and other gatherings with her friends.

Suddenly, an ad caught her eye that read: Room available for female student. Breakfast and dinner included free of charge. Must be stable nonsmoker and nondrinker. Call Mrs. Eddington or Miss Stevenson for more info.

The rent amount quoted in the ad was incredibly low; it seemed too good to be true. Still, Jeanette felt she owed it to herself to check it out. She dialed the number.

"Good afternoon, Eddington House." The voice sounded like it belonged to a girl about her age.

"Hi, is this the number for the ad about the room?" Jeanette asked.

"Yes, it is. Are you interested in applying to live here?"

What an unusual way to phrase it, Jeanette thought. "Yes, I am. Are you ... Mrs. Eddington?"

Birthday Suit
"Carla, get down here! They're gonna be here any minute!" Maggie called up the stairs.

"I know! I'll be right there!" Carla called back.

Maggie went back to the last of the party preparations, shaking her head. "It's not like she has to get dressed or anything," she said to herself with a smile.

It was Carla's 30th birthday, and they were celebrating with some good friends who shared their particular lifestyle. In keeping with the same, the birthday girl would spend the party in her birthday suit, and receive over-the-knee spankings from each guest!

Upstairs, Carla was looking in the bathroom mirror and blushing prettily. She was basically a shy person, but being married to Maggie meant having her limits perpetually tested. She'd been to two of these birthday parties in the past year, but this was her first time as the guest of honor, and to say she was nervous would be a serious understatement!

Her shoulder-length brown hair had been styled for the occasion, and she was satisfied with the look. At 5'6", she was a petite woman with medium-sized breasts, a fairly flat stomach and an ample behind. "A bottom made for spanking," as Maggie often said. It was still a light pink and tingling from the private birthday spanking she had received earlier. At Maggie's behest, Carla had fully shaven herself in front, making her feel more than naked! This evening, she would be wearing nothing but her jewelry: a wedding ring, a silver belly button ring, a toe ring on her left foot and an ankle bracelet on her right. The thought of welcoming guests in her present condition made her tummy flip!

"Carla! Get your butt downstairs now!" she heard Maggie yell.

"I'm coming!" she called back. It was the moment of truth. Once she went downstairs there'd be no turning back. She stepped out on the landing, blushing like crazy. It was a cold December night in the Colorado mountains, and in her current state, Carla was certainly feeling the chill! She forced herself to walk downstairs, saying, "This is crazy, this is crazy!" to herself as she went.

"Well, it's about time, chica!" Maggie said in mock anger. "One more minute and you would have gotten yourself a punishment spanking for being late for your own party! I think it would be cute if you had to greet your guests with a hot pink bottom, don't you?"

"Umm, not so much," Carla replied, her hands automatically going back to cover her bottom.

"Well, it certainly will be a nice shade of red once everyone's had their turn with it tonight!" Maggie winked.

The doorbell rang, and Carla's stomach did somersaults. "Well," Maggie said, "don't just stand there babe, answer the door!" Carla groaned, but obeyed, tiptoeing towards the door in her bare feet.

When she opened it, there stood Dee, her good friend from the UK. Dee was a bisexual woman who had traveled all the way across the Atlantic for this very special 'girls' night.'

Country Loving
He had been in the house exactly three weeks. Three weeks of peace and quiet and luxurious solitude - and then he met Dorothy. In under an hour she managed to scrape his car, demolish his gate, and ransack his garden.

There he was, relaxing in the comfortable chair by the window, enjoying a cold beer while he read the Sunday paper. It was bliss. But then the tranquillity was shattered by a sudden series of loud cracks. Thinking someone had been shot, Grant put down the paper and looked out of the window. A battered red car misfired its way down the lane, accompanied by a huge cloud of thick black smoke from the exhaust pipe. As the lane was a dead end and his was the only house located there, he fervently hoped the occupant of the noisy smelly car wouldn't be visiting him. With any luck they would realise they'd taken a wrong turn, and head back the way they had come.

With a nauseating crunch of gears, the car pulled up outside his house. Grant winced. Who the heck was this? A woman emerged from the vehicle, pushed open his gates, ran up the path, and started hammering urgently on the front door.

"Yes?" he enquired, looking into a pair of green eyes beneath a mop of tussled red curls.

"Hi. Hello. Pleased to meet you. I'm Dorothy but you can call me Dotty - everyone else does. I'm your neighbour. I live up there - Gamekeeper's Cottage." She pointed to a low, grey stone building in the valley about two miles across the field. "Not that I'm a gamekeeper of course." She grinned. Her face was full of freckles. "But there used to be one living there, years ago. He had a big nose - a right whopper it was. He kept a goat. It was really smelly. I would have come round to say hello sooner, but I caught mumps off my nephew. You should have seen my face - it was all puffed up. I looked like a hamster. Anyway, I've lost George. I don't suppose you've seen him? Oh - did I say I was called Dotty? I'm a bit forgetful."

She paused for breath, grabbed his right hand and pumped it up and down enthusiastically.

"Dotty," he murmured, thinking she did indeed appear to be completely dotty. "Er, I can't say I've seen anyone else wandering this morning. Hopefully George can find his way back home."

"There's not much chance of that. Damn and blast." She cast an anxious glance round Grant's front garden.

"Who exactly is George?" enquired Grant, somewhat bemused.

"He's been up to his usual tricks, the dirty little devil. I'm afraid he's turned into the most frightful sex pest. He just won't leave my girls alone - he wants to be at it constantly. He's a damn nuisance."

"A sex pest? Surely not. Shouldn't you be calling the police and pressing charges?"

Amanda and the Policeman
Ryan pulled up in front of the offices of Bradley's Building Supplies. Thanks to his grandfather's direction and accounting skills, the company had grown considerably over the past 40 years and had established shops in eight major cities. Business was booming. As a family member, Ryan got 30% discount on anything he wanted, which was handy given that he had recently transferred his job from London and had just bought a property in the village - it was actually the old police station, redundant since a nice new modern one had been built further up the road. The old place had charm and character. He was very happy with it, though it needed some work including roof repairs, a new bathroom, and replacement fencing for the garden. He also planned to knock down the existing garage (it had been unused for so many years that there was an ash tree growing up through the roof!) and build a new one. Being a practical sort of guy, he wanted to do as much of the work as he possibly could, just for the hell of it. And why not, seeing as how there was no woman in his life to occupy his free time.

Women. After a bad experience with Sylvia, whom he discovered had been sleeping with not one but four of his colleagues, he decided to move out of London and return north, back to his Yorkshire roots. Here he would happily forget Sylvia Shagalot (the name he had coined for her, post separation) and his former friends and colleagues who had proved by their actions not to be friends in any sense of the word. Here he would make a new start and avoid looking at anything wearing a skirt. Women were off the menu.

Or so he thought, until he caught sight of Amanda Moore. She was a slender but shapely woman in her mid twenties, with a mane of tousled blonde hair that tumbled in glorious waves down her back. She had clear blue eyes the colour of a cloudless sky on a summer day. The first time he had looked into those eyes, he knew he was hooked. She had given him a warm and friendly smile, not in the least contrived, her lips curving prettily.

"Hi Ryan," she said, rising from her desk in the reception area. "You must be Bertram's grandson. I don't need an introduction - you look so much like him!"

"Without the wrinkles and the turkey neck, I hope." He smiled back. He couldn't help it. She had an infectious charm.

"There's not a wrinkle in sight, as far as I can see," she giggled. "Bertram is expecting you but he's still in a meeting. So can I get you some coffee while you wait?"

"Sure. That would be great."

"How do you take it?"

"Dark and strong and not too sweet."

"Hey - I like my men that way too!" She laughed briefly and then clasped her hand over her mouth.

Caroline's Secret Obsession
Knock on a stranger's door, and you never know what may unfold. Take, for example, an incident that happened to me in autumn of the year 1884. At Laurel Street, in one of the finer neighborhoods in Stamford, Connecticut, I opened the gate in a picket fence and walked up a flagstone walkway past well-manicured grounds. Arriving at the portico of a fine old Colonial-style home, I lifted the heavy bronze knocker and rapped several times.

A maid, well into her middle age, answered. "Yes?"

"I wish to speak with the master or lady of the house."

"Your name?"

"Arthur Whitlock."

Her eyes brightening, she said, "Yes sir, this way please."

She led me into the parlor and, to my surprise, reached out and took my derby hat I held in my hand. As mine was a brief, formal visit, it was a breach of protocol to take a man's hat. However, I let it pass. Almost at once there appeared in the doorway a handsome lady in her forties, bedecked in a stylish floral print day dress, all poufs and pleats and gathers, that covered her from neck to ankle.

"Arthur Whitlock?" she smiled.

"At your service, madam. I'm calling because my ..."

"Yes, yes, of course," she smiled effusively as she took my hands. "I'm Lydia Delaney. It is a pleasure to meet you, young man. A pleasure! Now, you are just in time for dinner."

"Dinner? Well really, I hadn't ..."

"Oh but I insist!" declared Mrs. Delaney. "My husband Henry will be here shortly. In the meantime, let me introduce you to ..." here the lady paused, her eyes twinkling, "...our Caroline."

Still holding one of my hands, she led me across and down the hallway into a library. Near a brick fireplace, in which burned a cozy fire, sat a young woman at her knitting. Only when she looked up, smiled, and then rose did the full effect of her presence manifest itself.

I gazed in awe at a creature the likes of whose beauty falls upon a man's eyes only a few times in his life. Caroline's hair was a thick auburn mane, massed in the back in the style of the day. Her long-lashed eyes were deep azure. From her brow came her nose in a straight classical line, like a modern day Aphrodite. The girl's white, lace-covered blouse, with a raised collar enclosing her long graceful neck, accentuated the rose blush on her cheeks.

"Caroline, dear," gushed her mother, "this is Arthur Whitlock. Mr. Whitlock, may I present our daughter Caroline."

Pleased that such an exquisite flower had bloomed here in Stamford, I gave a slight bow as the girl curtsied. When she extended her soft hand, I placed there a gentleman's kiss.

As was the custom, I turned to the mother, on whom one would lavish praise for rearing this angel. "Mrs. Delaney," I smiled, "your daughter is as pretty as a picture. May I offer my congratulations to you and Mr. Delaney. Both of you must be proud."