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Grace stared in horror at the man groaning on the floor.

"My God Grace, you've killed him! We've barely had this one a day. You're in SO much trouble!" Becka giggled, then knelt to check the body, which was starting to mutter and trying to stand up, "Come on, here we go, up you get, just sit on this chair and I'll get the First Aid kit. We always keep it handy." She bustled out of the office, leaving Grace alone with her victim.

"I - I'm so sorry, I just - I opened the door - I didn't know you were behind it..."

The moaning got louder. Grace stood, helpless and useless, wishing the floor would open up and swallow one of them.

"Here we are, now we'll set you right," Becka scurried back in. As she often pointed out, twenty years of marriage to a DIY 'expert', and four sons navigating through the dangerous waters of the teenage years, meant she could deal with almost anything without turning a hair.

Oddly, twenty-eight years of creating havoc had left Grace totally unable to deal with the results, despite countless opportunities for practice. She watched her latest victim, her blue eyes mournful.

"I just opened the door..."

Two dark eyes glared at her for a moment, then refocussed on Becka as she held a coldpack to the egg-sized swelling on his forehead.

This was a new record. Usually they lasted at least a week.

They were called Administrators, or Co-ordinators, or Managers, but the job was the same, whatever the title. They were the constant effort by the company to keep control of the crazy geniuses in the Research division. The exact proportion of craze to genius was under debate, but the labs kept producing, bringing in the big contracts, including certain work done for the government, involving terms like Top Secret, and High Security. Which meant that someone had to supervise, and check, and make it look like there was some sort of control over the brilliant, lucrative lunatics.

There was a ferociously high turnover in the job. Currently the new Administrative Supervisor was slumped in a chair, seeing double.

"Gracie, what have you done? Oh you poor man, let me look after you!" Gina swept into the room in a cloud of concern and expensive perfume. She fluttered over to her target and scooped the coldpack out of Becka's hand, deftly elbowing her out of the way at the same time. "What happened? Has Gracie been clumsy again? Honestly, she's a disaster, isn't she! We should call her Grace-LESS!"

Becka shrugged and stepped back. Grace stood there hating Gina for being taller, slimmer, blonder and totally NOT clumsy. Any one of those was hard to forgive, but all of them together were nauseating. And calling her 'Gracie' was almost grounds on its own for justifiable homicide.

Gina made a few more soothing noises over the sufferer, took a few steps towards Grace then hissed softly, "Haven't you done enough? He won't want to see you right now, will he? As if he ever would. Now why don't you run along and try to keep out of trouble, if you can, you clumsy oaf. And remember, I saw him first!"

That First Punishment
We'd met online. I was a virgin (in the spanking sense); he an experienced Dom. In spite of it, we'd' 'clicked' immediately. He loved my feisty humour, my quirky sense of fun; I admired his tremendous intellect; laughed at the sometimes outrageous 'rules' he imposed when we played on Messenger. Coincidentally, we had spent our childhood in the same village, our early youth frequenting many of the same haunts. It seemed almost certain that our paths had crossed at some point.

From on-line to real life. We'd exchanged telephone numbers, and spoken frequently. After a few months we met socially ... lunch and a few drinks, before going home to our own beds.

Eventually ... inevitably ... he had spanked me, helping me to overcome my initial fears and uncertainties, pushing me a little further each time, testing my limits and my tolerance.

Now, almost two years after our first Internet encounter, we were married. And although there was seldom a day when my bottom wasn't reddened and sore, I was happier than I had ever been.

Until today. Today, I was terrified. Because today I was to be punished for the first time.

Oh, I'd been spanked to tears on many occasions, welted so that I couldn't sit ... but those sessions had always ended in laughter and love-making, with me giggling through my sobs, and him carting me off to bed for our mutual carnal pleasure.

This was different. This time I had embarrassed him in front of a whole pub full of people, including his best friend. I'd let him ... and myself ... down badly.

At the beginning of our relationship, I had been surprised at how few restrictions he'd actually imposed on me. From what I'd read in stories and gleaned from chat-room conversations, a submissive's life was one endless struggle, trying to keep in mind the thousand-and-one petty rules and regulations set by the dominant.

The reality was quite different. In truth, I was able to do pretty much as I pleased, within the bounds of common sense and propriety. James didn't spank me if dinner was a minute or two late, or the particular shirt he wanted wasn't ironed; he didn't punish me for spending a couple of extra pounds at the sales, or for neglecting the dusting for a day or two. Of course, he often spanked me for nothing, or for the breaking of some arbitrary rule he'd made up on the spur of the moment as an excuse to take me over his lap. But that was all part of the fantasy role-play we both enjoyed.

Not today.

The day had started well enough. I had been up early, hoovering and polishing, and getting the spare room ready for Martin, a mutual friend who was coming for the weekend. He was a member of the same site on which we had met, and we liked to get together a few times a year.

Charlotte's Story
I had been married a month. Well-trained as I was in household affairs and the management of servants, I had not found my duties onerous. Nor, despite Mamma's gloomy predictions, had I found the marriage-bed too unpleasant. Edward was gentle and kind, and had been patient with my initial shyness and inexperience. As I said, it was not unpleasant, but neither was it particularly thrilling, merely a duty I fulfilled whenever Edward wished it.

So, life was tolerable enough, if not exciting.

One morning as we sat at breakfast, I made a request. "Edward, I should like to go into town for some errands, if I may?"

He smiled at me indulgently. "And what errands have you in town, Charlotte? More ribbons and furbelows?"

I blushed. "Well yes. And some lace and embroidery silks."

"I see no reason why not," he replied. "You must take the carriage, of course, and your personal maid."

"Oh, but Edward," I said. "I should so like to go alone, to take my time, and ..."

"No, Charlotte." He frowned warningly. "A lady does not go shopping unaccompanied. End of discussion."

So it was with some trepidation that I left the house - alone and on foot - some hours later, after Edward had gone to attend to business matters.

I took much pleasure in my own company as I visited the shops, buying little feminine luxuries which took my fancy. The time passed quickly, and great was my surprise when I left the haberdasher's and came face to face with Edward!

There was a hardness in his expression I had never seen before, but he merely bowed and bade me take his arm. No words were spoken as he handed me into the carriage and took me home.

He led me straight to our bed-chamber and I sat on the dressing stool, waiting - with no great feeling of concern - for what he might say.

"I am disappointed in you, Charlotte." His voice was calm, though anger sparked in his eyes. "You have disobeyed me, and more - you have put yourself at risk. A lady alone is an easy target for thieves and ruffians and worse. What have you to say to me?"

With as contrite a look as I could muster, I glanced up at him. "I'm sorry, Edward. It won't happen again."

He studied me for a moment. "I don't believe you, Charlotte. I see no genuine repentance. Perhaps after you have been punished I shall receive a sincere apology."

I sighed and resigned myself to a tedious day or two confined to my room, which was how Papa had always dealt with my misdemeanours.

Imagine my shock, then, when Edward lifted me from the stool, seated himself and took my wrist, with the clear intention of turning me over his knee! Angrily I jerked myself free of him and retreated across the room. "How dare you, Sir! I will not be treated in such a manner!"

The Spy Who Spanked Me!
Hi. The name's Wantsmore. Kitty Wantsmore. I'm what you might call a trainee spy ... a sort of 002 and a bit. You know ... licensed to lurk round corners and write boring reports. I've been in the job two whole months now, and they've still not let me do anything even remotely exciting ... unless you count my very first week ... I suppose it was exciting in its own way. Let me tell you about it ...

---oOo---
I was up early that morning, determined that everything would be just perfect for my first day as a secret agent. Stepping out of the shower, I slipped on a robe and headed to the kitchen for breakfast. Hmmm ... chocoflakes didn't seem quite right ... just what did spies eat for breakfast? Champagne and caviar? Smoked salmon? A search of the cupboards and fridge produced none of these delicacies, so I settled for the next best things ... half a glass of rather flat cider and a tinned kipper. I admit I felt a bit queasy when I'd finished, but at least I was working on the right image!

And now to dress! I was on firmer ground here ... after all, I'd seen all the movies, and I knew what Lady Secret Agents wore. 'Sultry' was the keyword here ... and that's exactly the look I achieved. The red satin dress plunged almost to my belly-button, had a split which would have shown my knickers ... had I not decided against risking a Visible Panty Line ... and was tight enough to restrict my breathing. Sheer hold-up stockings and five inch heels completed the ensemble. Comfortable I was not; but my God, I looked sexy!

With my hair carefully arranged to look 'windswept and interesting' (a two hour job, I might add) and lips painted in a perfect scarlet pout, I was ready to go. Negotiating the stairs was tricky in those heels, as was driving ... and my seven year old rusting Ford Fiesta was hardly in keeping with my new image ... but I made it to Headquarters relatively unscathed.

I was greeted by a rather severe-looking secretary, who introduced herself as Miss Funnyfanny. She glared as though daring me to laugh, then lifted the phone. "Jim? Your new ... er ... assistant is here."

The scathing look she gave me as she uttered those words made me bristle, and I was just about to tell her that as a mere secretary, she had no right to treat an Agent like that, when I was stopped dead in my tracks by the arrival of the most gorgeous man I'd ever laid eyes on!

Tall, dark and handsome didn't even begin to describe him, though he was, in fact, all three. And more! His eyes were a deep, piercing sea blue; his hair was midnight black, cut short, with a couple of irresistibly unruly curls which made me want to reach out and brush them from that wide brow.

For All Eternity
He stepped out into the chill night just as the day was dying. The sun touched the landscape with blood-red fingers before slipping below the horizon to give light to a new dawn in another place. It had taken many years, but now he knew where he would find her - and this time he would not let her escape. His senses tingled with anticipation as he hailed a cab and directed it to the Hotel Royale.

His dark good looks and aristocratic bearing earned him a salute and a courteous greeting from the Commissionaire on the steps. Many female heads turned to watch him as he strode purposefully through the lobby and into the lavishly appointed lounge-bar, but he had eyes for none of them; his interest was in one person and one person only. He scanned the room. She was not yet among them, but she would come soon - he was as certain of that as he was that the sun would rise in the morning. He ordered a brandy and sat at a corner table near the restaurant door, commanding a clear view of the main door. Soon - very soon.

"You ok, Ellie?"

Ellen Marks started, and swore as the mascara she was applying smeared across her cheek. She grabbed a tissue to repair the damage, and tried to pull herself together to answer her flat-mate. "I - yes, thanks, Jenny. I'm fine - just a little nervous, I suppose."

"Oh, it'll be fine. It's just dinner with the boss - not an interview with God!"

Ellie forced a smile. "I know - I'm being silly. I just want to make a good impression, but to be honest I don't think I like him very much. He has clammy hands!"

"Well, tell him to keep his clammy hands to himself. This is a business dinner, and don't let him forget it," grinned Jenny. "Now go - your taxi's waiting. And good luck!"

But Ellie had told her friend only half the truth. Yes, she was a little nervous of Al Meredith with his clammy - and potentially wandering - hands, but there was something more. For days now, she'd had the feeling she was being watched. There was nothing she could put her finger on, nothing she could take to the police; she'd seen no-one and heard no-one. It was just - a feeling. A powerful, frightening feeling.

Pure paranoia, she admonished herself sternly, as the car pulled up outside the Hotel Royale. Resolutely, she tried to put it out of her mind and concentrate on the business at hand. This dinner could help her on the way up the career ladder, and she could not afford to spoil it by being nervous and abstracted. She paid the driver, took a deep breath, and marched up the steps.

And the moment she entered the lobby, the fear came flooding back. He - whoever it was - was here - closer than he'd ever been before.

The Courtship of a Goddess
My name is Tom. My last name is Jefferson. Please spare me the routine. I've heard them all, believe me. My mother really wanted me to go by Thomas and was crushed when I began insisting on Tom, but I was tired of all the ribbing.

I am 42 years ancient. Until a miracle happened a few months ago, I was miserably single. I had pretty much resigned myself to bachelorhood when I met Samantha. This is the story of our courtship, the improbable courtship of a geeky middle-aged wimp and a beautiful 28-year-old blonde goddess, and the miracle that bound us together. Literally.

First, let me tell you about myself and my history. It's really boring, I know, but you won't really understand what a bombshell Samantha was in my life if you don't know how miserable and alone I was before.

To put it bluntly, I'm a geek. I'm a nerd, a social incompetent. I almost always was, too. I'm not really bad looking, but I'm awkward and I don't carry myself well. For instance, I'm very tall, 6'5", but I'm useless at sports. Too clumsy. I'm also extremely thin and frail, though lately that's changing.

I wear glasses, of course, and I'm extremely studious. I'm an engineer for Boeing. My work is really my life, or has been. Sometimes I'll work all night on a particularly tricky problem, trying to come up with a solution. Most people just use technology and have no real appreciation of how truly difficult the design and engineering is.

My lack of social skills isn't all my fault. My father was a Colonel in the Army. Our home was run like a military camp. Order and formality were the rules. At school when the other boys would be running and playing and pulling the girl's pony tails, I'd be inside helping the teacher dust the erasers and wash the blackboard. Needless to say that didn't help my social standing.

Just before high school my dad got a promotion of some sort and we had to move to Brussels, Belgium. We thought it was going to be for a year, but it turned out to be just six months. Then we were in Spain for four months, and then we moved to Washington, D.C. for almost a full year. It continued like that all during my high school years. We moved eight times in those four years, including my senior year, just three months prior to graduation. I had to graduate with a bunch of strangers.

I'm not blaming everything on my dad. He was a good man, a very good man. He loved me and cared for me, but we were never very close. I could never discuss something intimate with him, something like my social troubles. Besides, he would have just ordered me to ask a girl out or something, not advise me on how to do it.

Miss Tight Brown Pants
When the woman walked past me, my head rotated to follow her. I couldn't believe her. She was probably in her late-twenties or early thirties, very attractive, with the face of a model. She was dressed casually in a plain brown sweater and pants, but with a certain elegance that said she was well off. But those pants!

They were a light brown (slightly darker than tan), the fabric thin and very smooth. The cloth positively clung to her body. And what a body! Slender legs a mile long, topped by one of the most perfect bottoms I've ever seen. We're talking twin rounds of glorious woman flesh pressed together like two cantaloupes side by side. The globes jutting out invitingly, the seam between tight and thin. The pants were so tight I could easily see not only the succulent underhang of the pert bum, but I could detect the distinct bulge of the woman's cunt!

I couldn't help but stare as the cheeks wobbled down the sidewalk. I looked around, half-expecting a riot of lecherous males, tongues hanging out as they followed the woman, but no one gave her a second look. Dressed like that she might as well have pranced down the street naked, yet in this sinful city such a sight was not even worth the trouble of bothering to look. Lord in my day a woman would be horsewhipped to go out in public like that!

The slut deserves a good whipping, I thought, my feet moving without me telling them, and I'd gone three blocks before I realized I was following the woman. By that time I figured I might as well continue. Besides, it was rather entertaining, watching those firm cheeks shift up and down as she walked, and imagining what discipline a long willow switch could do to those hams. Why my mother would have whipped that slut into next week!

I remembered all too well the welts left by my mother's willow switches, both on my own ass and my sister's sitter, and as I watched the brown-panted woman I thought to myself that those pants were so tight and the material so thin that a weal from a switch would probably be visible through the cloth.

Now I might be approaching the century mark, but I ain't too old to know a pretty woman. This girl was sexy and imagining her getting the tanning she deserved had me functioning in no time. No Viagra for me!

The woman turned into a large brownstone. She marched up the stairs and disappeared inside. I wandered to the foot of the stairs, suddenly a ship without a sail. I hadn't been thinking about what I going to do or even why I'd followed the woman, but now I found myself lost and strangely disappointed. I couldn't bear to leave, yet I couldn't go forward.

Suddenly the door opened the woman was there. She was staring right at me, huge brown rabbit eyes so soft and beautiful, yet there was an edge to her. "Do I know you?" she asked.

The horse galloped on tirelessly and Cindy laughed, elated to be on horseback, feeling the sun on her face and the wind in her hair. On and on they hurtled, before slowing pace a little.

Half way up the slopes of a hill, Cindy reigned in her mare and peered down into the valley below. She could see the bright sparkle of a stream as it ribboned its course through the gully. With a flick of the reigns, horse and rider proceeded down the slope.

As the mare drank, Cindy sat and pulled off her boots and dangled her feet in the cooling stream. Her feet submerged in the bubbling waters, she lay back and closed her eyes against the heat of the afternoon sun.

The mare came close, inclined her head and snorted warm breath from her nostrils down onto Cindy's face. Giggling, Cindy sat up, petting Savannah as she nudged against her arm, seeking affection.

"You're lovely. I know it. You know it. Ok - off you go and eat some grass while I take a little nap."

Savannah obediently munched on the lush grass by the edge of the stream. Meanwhile, Cindy lay down again; relaxed and happy she dozed, oblivious to the time.

It was after three in the afternoon when the first drops of rain began to fall. Cindy blinked and sat up, rubbing the remnants of sleep from her eyes. The day had changed. The sun had disappeared behind a bank of thick grey cloud and in its shadow, the once sparkling crystal waters of the stream now appeared dull and murky.

Getting to her feet, Cindy glanced at Savannah. The horse was edgy and tense and wouldn't come when Cindy called. Ignoring the mare for a moment, Cindy bent to put her boots back on. The splats of rain came faster now, and in less than a minute, she was thoroughly drenched, the folds of her clothes plastered to her body.

Glancing up at the heavens, what she saw there sent a spine-tingling chill of fear coursing through her body.

The sky was neither blue nor grey, but an ominous sickly greenish colour, punctuated by large, dark and low-lying clouds.

"Oh shit!" she gulped, ineffectually wiping her eyes as the rain hurtled down in torrents so thick she could barely see through the amorphous curtain of water. "Savannah! Here, girl!" she called through the din of the lashing rain.

Savannah's ears went back, and a moment later she turned and bolted.

"Savannah! Savannah! Come back!" yelled Cindy. Her voice cracked as desperation bit and she struggled to keep calm and rational.

But the horse was off in a panic, racing away through the increasingly boggy ground, and was soon out of sight behind a ridge of trees.

"Oh no!" wailed Cindy. She was beginning to feel really frightened now. The little hairs on her arms and the back of her neck were standing to attention and a coil of terror began to unleash itself from the pit of her stomach.

"Regardless of what we do - it's always good with you.
Our laughter ... our words ... the simple pleasures that we share.
The delight when we discover something new.
Exploring depths lain dormant since before ...
I don't remember when.
Was it in another time and place?
A different body?
I think our souls have remained the same
A continuous inner substance - passing through the universe.
Passing through and recognizing you.
Remembering our union
and how we played among the galaxies.
Or, was it in the ocean's depths - behind a crater
where we knelt and pledged our souls into eternity?
Somewhere, in my mind's eye
I remember you and the stars and the sea."
---oOo---
He stood in front of the wall of windows overlooking the tarmac, his arms folded across his chest, lips slightly pursed, teeth briefly catching his upper lip. There was a hint of moisture on his brow.

Will she really be on that flight? Maybe, she's changed her mind. She sounded so unsure when we talked last night. Lexi, Lexi, Lexi, he chanted her name in his head. Be on that flight, sweets. Please be on that flight.

The airline's representative watched the tall man pace the length of the windows, return to his seat, settle in, then stand again. She watched him run a hand through his hair, then slip both of them into his jeans' pockets, and pace again. Trying to be unobtrusive, she stared at him, but it was no use. He was far too attractive to ignore. Mostly gray hair mixed with brown. I love that look. Must be over six foot. Nice hands. Lord, I love to look at a man's hands. Sure looks anxious. Bet he's meeting a woman and they kiss right away.

---oOo---
They met online in a spanking chat room, sharing bits and pieces of themselves, checking each other out as newbies do. And when they discovered they both had written spanking stories, they made their way to the spanking sites that carried their tales. In the beginning, they posted feedback as others did - polite words, stingy with emotion, but lots of 'wonderful' and 'intense story' and 'more soon, please.' Then she wrote him a longer private note, telling him how uneasy one of his stories made her feel - how she wanted to smack him for treating his story lover the way he had - how she got scared and excited at the same time.

He was polite, but only to a point, maintaining his reserve, mouthing a cliché - different strokes for different folks.

"But she was so exposed and vulnerable," Lexi complained, and Scott laughed, enjoying her reaction and the indignation she showed.

---oOo---
He inhaled sharply when they announced her flight's arrival, and slowly stood. This is it. She's either on this flight or it's over. Lexi, please ...

Halfway across the country, she got cold feet. What if he doesn't like me? What if he's just being polite? What if we don't hit it off in person the way we do online? What if...?

Matched Set
"Can you read each other's minds?" That's the second question they always ask.

No, but I always know what she's thinking - everyone does, her emotions are always clear on her face.

But the big one is, "Are you identical?"

There's a certain kind of male who drools as he asks that question. No, we're not identical, we're fraternal twins. That's when they look disappointed and lose interest; we're definitely second best in the twin stakes.

Oh, and we don't have our own language, unless you count the meaningful nods, winks and raised eyebrows that every woman uses in wordless conversation.

And then there's the rest of it - the opposites game. "Which one is the good one and which is the naughty one? The quiet one and the noisy one ... the mean one and the nice one ... the hardworking one and the lazy one? The smart one and the dumb one?" As if we have to be totally different from each other.

And the answer to that is ... neither of us is the 'one' of anything. We can each be quiet or noisy ... mean or nice ... hardworking or lazy ... smart or dumb ... as the mood takes us. And definitely naughty AND good. Or, as our mother used to say, 'good and naughty'.

So, we're twins. Rosemary and Jasmine (Two of our mother's favourite plants in the garden. Could have been worse - we could have been Pansy and Geranium.) ... Rosie and Jazz to our friends.

And right at this moment I could answer 'Yes I can read her mind.' But then so could anyone within hearing range.

"They'll hate me!"

"They won't hate you."

"They'll say I'm not good enough for him!"

"You're perfect for him."

"They'll ... they'll ... they'll look at me!"

"We'll charge admission. Put it towards the wedding reception."

"You don't understand!"

"I've got a pretty good idea. And please stop squeezing my throat."

Rosie released her death grip and stepped back a little. I tried to edge her away from the knife drawer. "Look, you're just meeting his relatives. Of course they want to see you, you're joining his family. They'll welcome you with open arms. You're sweet and lovely and unarmed. What's not to like?"

"I'm NOBODY. They're big and rich and important, they'll think I'm some cheap gold-digger!"

"That's better than an expensive gold-digger, surely." Nope, levity didn't help. "Ok, look, this is simple. You pick out a sweet, demure outfit. You make reservations at a nice restaurant. You eat a meal with them and prove that you can use cutlery and don't chew with your mouth open. You stay reasonably sober, laugh at their jokes, and look adoringly at their son. And they'll love you."

She hurled herself towards me. I tried to fend her off, but she clung to me like a demented limpet and wailed like a banshee. "Noooo they want to come HERE! They want me to cook a meal for them! And it's not just his parents, it's ALL of them, the whole family! His parents and grandmother and brother and sister and her husband and children and probably their pets as well!"

Alice Oakley was puzzled and confused, not to mention having feelings of guilt. Married to Charles and with two lovely daughters, Matilda (known to everyone as Tilly) and Anne, there was on the surface at any rate, absolutely no reason why she should be experiencing any of these emotions. Money was not a problem ... Charles was qualified in both law and accountancy, had risen rapidly through the ranks of one of the major accountancy practices and had been in a perfect position to take advantage of the explosion in business consultancy. He was ten years older than Alice and came from a wealthy background quite apart from the money he earned professionally.

Earlier that year they had celebrated their silver wedding. Tilly was spending a year at a college in Switzerland prior to going up to university in the following autumn while Anne was in the sixth form at a small but exclusive boarding school and both girls were clearly highly intelligent as well as attractive. The whole family was healthy and there seemed no reason for anything to be disturbing Alice. And yet somehow she felt dissatisfied in a way she found difficult to explain to herself never mind articulate to anybody else. Indeed part of her confusion related to something she did not want to articulate to anyone, even Charles.

"Get yourself a job dear! Or take a lover! Or better still - both!"

She had, probably mistakenly, partly confided in her good friend Caroline Farningham who she met for lunch each Tuesday. Alice smiled - Caroline was always quite dramatic.

"I mean it! The alternative is to go nuts! You just said that yourself."

"Oh for goodness sake, Caroline, what on earth would I do?"

"What ... with a lover? My God, Alice things must be much worse than you've told me if you don't know that!"

"Behave yourself, Caroline! You know what I mean. I've never had a paid job in my life. What on earth could I do?"

"Lots of things. You've a good degree. And you've been organising Charles's home life for over twenty five years now, not to mention the whole family. That doesn't just happen, you know. You must have plenty of skills. You're attractive. You could probably work for any professional firm. Receptionist would be ideal, to start with at any rate - or something like a job-share with somebody similar. I'm sure there are a number of opportunities if you want to look for them. For example I'm sure you could be somebody's PA with a bit of experience. And an office-type environment would mean that you got to meet lots of different people. That would be good for you. Might get you a lover that way too!"

"Oh yes! I can just see mousey little me doing that!"

"Well maybe, but at least you would be meeting people. The internet. That's another way. Get on the internet and find yourself somebody. I'm told that's the way to do it these days. Internet dating - that's what everybody is doing."

Friday evening, Norfolk Naval Yard
When she walked out of the makeshift lab, she muttered obscenities under her breath - words her momma wouldn't have liked. "Lord! Momma would've washed my mouth but good if she heard me talk." She felt slightly foolish that she had spoken out loud even though no one was around to hear her. There! I've done it. Missed my damn flight back to Memphis and I'm so tired, I'm talkin' to m'self. Need to get to a hotel, need to get to bed. I'm plum wore out.

She had flown into Norfolk early that morning, certain she could do what needed to be done and fly home again that evening. A Navy transport had brought her into Norfolk, but she had to take a commercial flight home. Naturally, the case was more involved than she had been led to expect and she needed to double check the autopsy results, repeating several procedures, running toxic screens, writing and rewriting her report. Her information was vital to the court case the military justice system had instigated against the Marine Major who had taken an unauthorized absence.

Commander Valentina Fletcher, forensic pathologist, wasn't surprised no one was about. The Navy Yard looked deserted and no wonder. The rain was heavier than she'd seen it in a while and the temperature was rapidly dropping. There was a good chance of sleet or snow, and she was relieved to get into her rental car and out of the weather. She groaned when the motor wouldn't turn over - the battery was dead.

"Okay, Valentina Jardine Fletcher, now what?" Grabbing her briefcase with a weary shrug, she reluctantly got out of the car. "Someone in this place has jumper cables," she muttered. "I just have to find him."

A shiver went through her as she walked back to the lab, and it had nothing to do with the cold or the rain. Someone was walking behind her, mimicking her footsteps - or so it seemed.

It's just the late hour she thought. Or maybe the rain or ... She couldn't remember the last time she had been scared, and stopped abruptly and turned around ... and slammed right into a hard chest. She dropped her briefcase and would have fallen if strong arms hadn't grabbed her in time.

"You okay?" a deep baritone rumbled. "Hope I didn't scare you. Just trying to get out of this damn weather."

"Ad-Admiral Willhaven? Sir?"

"Affirmative. And you are ...? Commander Fletcher!" he exclaimed, finally getting a glimpse of her face as she tilted her head up. "What are you doing here so late?"

She started to explain why she was still at the Naval yard at this late hour when he took her elbow. "Let's get somewhere dry; then you can tell me what you're doing here on this godforsaken night."

Pulling her into the sheltered doorway of the closest building, he put his back to the cold rain, shielding her from the weather.

Veronica Stuckey had it all. She was young, gorgeous and rich, all of which were very important to her. But had she been forced to choose one over the other two, she would have chosen wealth. She had been one of the privileged since the day she was born.

Her father was none other then Richard M. Stuckey, the self made Texas pipeline billionaire. Unlike his daughter, he had not been born to money. His own father had worked in the oil fields, not owned them. Richard had worked hard all his life to get where he was but had never forgotten where he came from. He tried treating all his workers fairly and had always paid them a bit more then the normal salary. Everyone liked Richard, it was his daughter they couldn't stand.

Richard had raised his daughter the best he could but he had been playing the role of both mother and father ever since the death of his wife ten years before and it had been hard. Veronica was his only child and he had denied her nothing. All she had to do was ask and it was hers. He knew now that he had been wrong in giving into her every little whim, but there was precious little he could do about that now that she was twenty one.

Even though Veronica was of age to be out on her own, she still lived at home and was given a generous weekly allowance. And much to Richard's disapproval, she came and went as she pleased answering to no one, not even him. There had been many a night where he'd stayed up into the wee hours of the morning just waiting for her to finally come home.

When he approached her about her lifestyle, and he had several times, she would just laugh and shrug him off. She never took his concern for her safety seriously and always thought him to be a bit stuffy.

However, Richard finally come to his senses and realized something had to be done. This realization came after he had returned home unexpectedly one Sunday, after being overseas for a week, to find his house totally trashed out! Booze, half eaten food, trash, and drunken bodies were just about everywhere you looked!

And when he confronted Veronica about it, she became very indignant about the whole thing. She'd said some very unkind things to her father and then proceeded to lock herself in her room refusing to talk to him for the rest of the day.

That's when he began looking for a solution. That's when he heard about Tom Evans.

Tom Evans was actually one of his executives that worked in the Employee Morale Department. He was in charge of making sure morale stayed high in all the Stuckey companies. Richard had been told the man was excellent and knew how to keep morale high among the employees.

Richard had also been told that Tom was excellent in straightening out wayward attitudes of certain disgruntled workers.

The phone call came at midnight. He had been expecting it, yet was still surprised to hear the appointment confirmed. He had been out of the scene for years - training the last sub hadn't amused him as it used to - he wasn't in love with them - just got a big kick out of being the Dom. The kick wasn't there any more. He was tired of all the rituals, the play parties - always the same, just with different players, and the signals passed back and forth between the Doms, and most of all, he was tired of the preening. He wasn't there to show off - just to enjoy himself, get some sexual satisfaction, and move on.

He was good at what he did, but knew that he wasn't a serious player. He had always been capable of inflicting pain - but his heart wasn't in it. He didn't get off on the kind of bondage and torture and humiliation so many wanted before they could find sexual gratification. It didn't hold any appeal for him. Jonas thought pain should be erotic, a prelude to pleasure, not humiliating, and gradually, he moved away from the lifestyle. He had topped both sexes over the years, but when it came to his own gratification, he couldn't resist a beautiful woman begging him to fuck her.

Roger Cavanaugh got his number from an old friend asking for a favor. The new Dom wanted his new sub to learn a lesson - she was too independent he had said - too sassy - too bossy - she needed to learn who her Master was. He wanted Jonas to teach those lessons to the uppity wench.

"I'm not asking you to become her Master," he told him after Jonas agreed to meet him for a drink. "Just want to loan her to you for a day or two - let her know what it's like to behave properly. I'll bet she'll be more compliant when I get her back. Of course, you can fuck her. She's a beauty - a cocky one, but a beauty. I think you'll enjoy the challenge."

Jonas nodded. He hadn't met the sub he couldn't control and Roger was fairly new to the scene. Maybe he'd do this just to prove he still had it in him and if she really was as beautiful as he said, he might get some pleasure out of it.

"Only one condition," Roger told the big muscular man. "Don't hurt her too badly - don't mark her skin but feel free to make her beg, make her cry, make her ask for forgiveness. She could use a little humility."

"She's all right with this?" he had asked. "She's into the scene and knows you're giving her to me for disciplining?"

"She's my sub," Roger said, his gaze focusing on the drink before him, unable to look Jonas in the eye. "She doesn't have a choice."

Bella gritted her teeth as the coach hit a particularly large hole in the road, almost catapulting her into the lap of the leering salesman in the seat facing hers. She managed to avoid his grasping hands and gripped the looped strap at the side of her seat.

"Not much further now," the large, comfortable woman sitting beside her smiled. "I'll be that glad to get back to my Otis. Lord only knows what he's done while I was away; it'll take me a month o' Sundays to get the house back in good order again. The man doesn't know how to wash a plate. Or his own clothes. He'll be missing his Lottie, I know that. Ah, but he's a good man in other ways. And you can't expect them to be perfect, can you?"

Lottie nattered on comfortably about her Otis, and the ranch, and her visit to her daughter for the birth of her first grandchild. Bella nodded at the right moments and pretended to listen while her mind ran along the same path it had followed for the last four weeks.

Just one month ago Isabella Sophia Wincanton was living a perfect life. The only dark cloud was the loss of her mother when she was young, but she was the cherished only child of a loving, wealthy, and indulgent father. She was engaged to be married to her childhood sweetheart, Adam Majors, the son of her father's business partner. It was just three days to her wedding and the house was full of gifts and clothes and excited friends.

"... And the baby is such a dear little thing. Looks a little like Otis, but that'll change once she gets some hair..."

And then her world ended. Her father went to work one morning, sat down in his office, and died without a sound. The doctors said it was his heart -- it could have happened at any time.

"... Only in labour for ten hours, she was, which is good for a first..."

And suddenly there were problems - the business had lost a lot of money, and apparently it was all her father's fault. Joseph Majors, his business partner, tried to help, but it seemed the house and furniture had to be sold to cover the losses. All her treasured books, her mother's jewelry, even her fine gowns had to go. The wedding was cancelled - her father's funeral was held on the day that should have been her wedding day. By then Bella was numb to the disaster that had become her life.

"... I know he's been missin' me. He paid the schoolteacher in town to send me a letter tellin' me everything was doin' fine. Otis never had time to get any learnin' himself. But just sendin' the letter means he's missin' me somethin' dreadful..."

But it kept getting worse. Adam hadn't set a new date for the wedding, and he visited her less often. Her friends had all slipped away, too.

I have never been in a house as huge as Imogen's. It is three times the size of the orphanage and there were thirty of us living there. Imogen's house is not only large, it is beautiful as well. It is built into the side of a hill overlooking the Capitol and has rooms on many different levels. The room she has given me is lovely. It is decorated in shades of pale yellow and cream and it even has its own bathroom. The bed is soft and warm. My bunk in the orphanage was neither.

It is morning, I have just woken up. It is a week since the end of the Pain Games. Those two days left me elated but exhausted but now I am completely recovered. I lie back on the pillow and close my eyes, just enjoying the sensation of the soft cotton sheets on my naked body. I have never before enjoyed the indulgence of being able to lie in bed and daydream. The images and sensations of the arena are still very fresh in my mind. I think about Kimilly being punished after she had tried to run. The way they secured her, spread-eagled, the way Imogen caned her, showing her no mercy. In my imagination it is not her, but me, who is jerking against the ankle and wrist cuffs as the cane whips down hard across my bare bottom, everyone in the crowd looking on. I slip my hand down between my legs. I find that special place with the tip of my finger and start to gently stroke. I am so caught up in my fantasy and my excitement that I don't hear the door open.

"Lucinda," she says my name quite softly but it still makes me jump.

My eyes shoot open and I feel myself blush.

"Playing with yourself is a very naughty thing to do," she says with an amused smile.

"Yes I know," I say guiltily. In the orphanage it was very frowned on and if you were caught then it was a public strapping. 'Self-abuse' they called it.

She sits on the edge of my bed and strokes her fingers through my hair. She has been very gentle with me up until now.

"What were you fantasising about?" she asks.

"I was imagining I was Kimmily being punished for running away," I admit.

She gives a little laugh. "I don't think she'll be wanting to remember that do you?"

I shake my head.

"So it was rather wicked of you to derive so much pleasure from it. And what do wicked little girls deserve Lucinda?"

"They deserve to be spanked..." I say, the words catching in my throat as the arousal pulses through me with renewed strength. She hasn't touched me since I arrived here, but now I long for her to punish me again.

"Turn over," she orders.

I turn over onto my front. She pulls the sheet off me and I lie there naked to her gaze.

I stand in the crowd in front of the justice building. I am as nervous as all the other girls but there is no big sister to squeeze my hand, no anxious mother or father waiting and hoping with the other parents. I am alone, the oldest girl from the District Ten orphanage. My dress is a grey, drab, my dark hair lank around my shoulders. They are about to draw the names for the Pain Games - the two girls who will go up to the Capitol for this year's ritual humiliation. It is the first time my name has been entered, the first time I am old enough. I shiver, although it isn't cold.

I have watched the Pain Games on the big screen for the last three years and it has always been difficult to watch. I feel for those boys and girls who have to take part. I have a sense of what they are going through. I am no stranger to corporal punishment. I have never been a good girl, never been a biddable child and in the orphanage they don't spare the strap. Many times I have had to assume the position over the end of my bed, my dress raised, my knickers around my knees.

I think back to the last time. It was different to before. It always hurts but last time it got to me in another way. I feel myself blushing as I remember the feelings - the feelings of excitement and shame. It turned me on, that's the truth of it. I don't know what to make of that. Does anyone else ever get worked up like that? There is no-one I can talk to, no-one I can confide in. It should just be a punishment, I shouldn't derive any pleasure from it, so why does it do that to me? The thought of two whole days of corporal punishment is both scary and exciting, and that's why I shiver. Hopefully it won't be my name that comes out of the bowl.

The man from the Capitol is called 'Melvin Hughes' and there is a nasty leer in his voice.

"Now ladies..." he smiles at us, "I won't keep you on tenterhooks for much longer. I am sure you're all dying to know who's going to have the privilege of representing District Ten in the 63rdPain Games! Which lucky, lucky girl is going to have the chance to appear on our screens to entertain us all? Let's find out shall we?"

He dips his hand into the glass globe and I watch as his fingers catch a single slip of paper. Even before he pulls the paper out I have a strong sense that it is going to be me. He unfolds the piece of paper and beams around at us.

"Lucinda Colquen!" he announces. "Lucinda! Lucy! Do come and join me on the stage!"

It is almost as though I have suddenly contracted some nasty disease.

Payment Due
"You don't have to do this."

"Yes I do."

"Mike said he'd do it when he got back."

"He's said that for three weeks. The goldfish can't wait any longer."

"Do you even know HOW to clean the pond filter?"

"Mike does it. How hard can it be? Our dear brother can't dress himself without help." Maddie surveyed the pond in the front yard. "Mike's been promising to do it for weeks. The waterfall stopped running two days ago - that filter must be totally clogged. And I don't want to be knee deep in dead goldfish."

Kelly shrugged. "Well, it's your choice. But don't ask me to help, I'm not going to end up covered in pond slime. I'm going out tonight."

Maddie growled and flicked the switch to turn the filter pump off, then advanced on the pond. Sharing a house with her younger brother and sister had seemed like a good idea at the time - when you live in a small country town you'll agree to anything to get the chance at life in the big city. Kelly was studying Fine Arts at university, and their brother Mike was enthusiastically pursuing a career as an assistant to the assistant to a sidekick to an under-something-or-other on the outer fringes of the music industry. He mostly seemed to get coffee and take messages, but they were very important messages for people further up the ladder.

And Maddie worked full time in the public library, and part time waiting tables in a nearby restaurant, and kept the house running. "Maddie is our little mother hen," her parents would tell everyone proudly, "always looking after the younger ones."

Maddie sometimes wondered why nobody ever thought she needed looking after, too. But somebody had to keep things going, and Kelly needed time and energy for study, and Mike was trying to break into the music industry... and Maddie worked two jobs, did all the housework, and cleaned the pond filter because Mike was too busy and she didn't like dead goldfish.

"And that's enough whining," she muttered to herself, "Nobody's listening to that. And the Cinderella routine got old a long time ago. Besides, fairy godmothers are pretty thin on the ground around here."

She uncovered the filter, small and barrel-shaped, buried in the ground behind the pond. Sitting on a convenient rock, she wrestled the fastenings open. "No no NO!" Two nails broken, and she'd barely started. Her nails were her one little luxury - and now they were ruined. She'd have to put up with it for a week until her next infill - she couldn't afford an extra visit. "Wave your wand and fix that one, Fairy Godmother." She carefully removed the lid. "Phew! Oh lovely, I'm going to smell like muck after this." A solid mass of stinking green algae oozed around her hands as she took the first spongy ring out of the filter. It was clogged solid.

The coach rocked wildly from side to side as it hit a particularly deep hole in the road. Della crawled back onto the seat and glared at her cousin. "Maggie, I told you this was a mistake. Father said we must take the coast road."

Maggie laughed as she bounced on the seat. "But this inland road is much shorter. We'll be home in time to get our hair done extra nicely for tonight's ball. It was your idea to go to the shrine."

Della blushed. "Well 'tis supposed to be good luck for brides to visit."

"As if you need luck! You've got the kindest, sweetest, most handsome man in the district making cow-eyes at you, and you want more?"

"Oh Maggie, he is wonderful, isn't he? I just hope you meet someone as nice."

"I'll be on the lookout tonight. I promise I'll meet someone special before the ball's over."

Della glanced out the window. "If we get there in time. 'Tis getting dark."

"Well, you were the one who wanted to pick all those flowers." Maggie grimaced as another large pothole almost bounced her onto the floor.

"I wanted an offering."

"I think the offering's supposed to be smaller than the shrine - oooff!" This time the coach came to a dead stop, the two girls falling to the floor together in a tangle of skirts and petticoats.

Della's father was Lord Malcolm Kincannon, one of the most powerful lairds in the region. He'd named his beloved daughter after his mother, a woman of great charm and wisdom called Magdelena. A few years later his sister and her husband died of the fever, and his young niece came to live at Kincannon Castle. She had also been named for Magdelena. Two cousins, two little Magdelenas. Lord Malcolm's daughter became Della, his niece became Maggie. Della was like moonlight with ash-blonde hair, soft blue eyes and a gentle nature that nevertheless hid a stubborn streak. Maggie was sunlight, with her bright golden hair, steady green eyes, quick laugh and explosive temper. The two girls were closer than most sisters, and had spent years getting each other into - and out of - trouble.

And then Bryan, youngest son of another local lord, came home after five years adventuring at sea. Maggie swore she heard the sound of bells when Della and Bryan met for the first time. Both fathers were delighted to ally two such noble families, and the wedding festivities began. Tonight was a ball for all the local notables, then there were three days of relative peace before the wedding itself.

Maggie grabbed for the door and half fell onto the road. "Donal, what's the matter now? Please don't say we've broken a wheel." She looked down as she righted herself. The wheels on this side showed no problems. As she looked up she realised they weren't alone.

Two men on horseback flanked them, each holding to Donal's throat a sword gleaming in the dying light.

Christmas in Australia - baking heat, cicada's shrill songs in the trees, and Christmas dinner round the barbeque, or a cold seafood platter with heaps of huge prawns and juicy oysters. And then January is perfect beach time - school holidays are on, with tribes of children loose everywhere you look; hot days interspersed with even hotter days; and everyone wants to recover from the pressure of Christmas fun. The beach. The perfect way to relax. And what could be more relaxing than a holiday house on the beach, with all the family having fun...

"Just what is that?"

"The coffee maker."

"You're packing the coffee maker?"

"Well, of course. You like coffee, don't you?"

"Becka, we're going on holidays to get away from it all. But we seem to be taking most of it with us."

"Just the things we really need."

"We really need the portable TV, the VCR, the laptop, the coffee maker...?"

Becka stopped wrapping the egg poacher in bubble wrap and looked at the love of her life, "Greg, for the next three weeks we're sharing a holiday house with your parents, your brother, his charming fiancee and her two interesting children. I NEED those things. For sanity. Ok?"

Greg frowned at her, his dark eyes serious. "For the next three weeks you'll behave perfectly, no matter what, ok?"

Becka tossed her long ponytail over one shoulder. "Sure. I'll behave. So long as I have coffee and my laptop."

Greg took her by the shoulders, turned her around towards the doorway and swatted the seat of her shorts gently. "Go. Pack. Get all the bags ready. And remember we have a car, not a truck."

Becka giggled at him and hurried off to finish the packing. She loved the beach, and three precious weeks to laze around were going to be wonderful. And she'd always got on well with Greg's parents, Molly and Frank. And with his brother Nick.

But Nick was engaged. To Melissa. The sister-in-law-to-be from hell. With two spoilt brat demon spawn in tow.

And three weeks of Melissa and her offspring were going to be a real strain.

Melissa was tall and slender. Becka was short and rounded. ("Full-figured" as the shop assistants said tactfully. "Built like a real woman" as Greg called it. "I need another diet" was how Becka saw it.)

Melissa had thick, wavy hair, black as midnight, with deep blue eyes and fine, fair skin. (She was probably an alien.) Becka had long, straight, fine, hair in an indeterminate mousy brown, and hazel eyes that couldn't seem to decide what colour they were meant to be. And skin that, according to Becka, went from sallow to muddy olive depending on the state of her tan.

Melissa was a model, most of her work consisted of waving at the latest product and looking suitably attractive and impressed while some hyperactive photographer tried for an even more flattering shot than the last one.

The Life and Times of Rachel Kent
Rachel Kent's bottom was a little stiff after sitting on the stagecoach seat for most of the day and she was about ready for any excuse just to stand. It had been three days since she had left Albuquerque and she was getting altogether very tired of the damn coach.

She shared the coach with two companions, neither she had met before coming aboard. One was a travelling salesman and the other, a schoolteacher heading out to her first position in a small town on the Colorado and New Mexico border. In the beginning, there had been some conversation, but the trials of the journey and the nature of the talk had soon discouraged further discourse.

"You have folks out here?" the woman had asked days before.

"In a manner of speaking. A distant cousin of my mother's and her family," Rachel had replied.

"It's a long way to travel for one so young, you'll be from the East I take it?" the woman suggested.

"I am near 21 and mother is dead," Rachel snapped. "I am to settle with kin out here somewhere."

"Oh my, a snippy one aren't we?" The woman pursed her lips in disapproval. "You'll find things very different out here."

"I am quite sure of that."

"My folks were from Virginia originally. I am all alone now myself. I know how it feels."

"Oh have you been forced upon distant cousins you hardly know also?" Rachel said, letting some surliness show.

"My we are sorry for ourselves aren't we?"

"Oh are you feeling sorry for yourself as well?" Rachel said sarcastically.

"If I had spoken to my elders and betters like that when I was your age, my mother would have taken a switch to my bare behind," the schoolteacher responded.

The salesman who had been pretending to sleep choked back his laughter causing his hat to fall off his face. He quickly doffed it to the women, took a swig from his flask and went back to dozing.

"Is that barbaric custom a southern practice or did your mother acquire it here in the West?" Rachel sniffed, turning back to address the schoolteacher.

"It's a tried and trusted custom in many places," the woman continued. "As the young ladies of my class will no doubt find when I take charge of them. A custom you would do well to keep in mind because if you speak so of my Mother again, I will stop the coach to demonstrate on your tender bottom for the edification of this gentleman and the men above."

The salesman began another coughing fit and after yet another swig settled down to sleep.

That had been some days before and neither had spoken much since.

At last the stage arrived at Benson, the small town nestled in sight of the San Juan Mountains, which was near the ranch that was to be her new home.

As she stood next to her trunk on the unpaved street opposite the small hotel, she suddenly felt more alone than she ever had in her life.

Beth lay curled up on the bed, flicking the pages of the book. She scanned the introduction.

"Is your love life getting stale? Is it the same old routine? Well it's time to spice things up before it's too late!"

Yes, she could definitely do with some spice. Same old routine was EXACTLY what she had - there used to be wild monkey sex in every room of the house just after they married, then all too soon it became 'Don't wake the baby', then years with toddlers sharing their bed after almost nightly bad dreams (How on earth did they manage to conceive the second and third kids? Osmosis?) Then a long, calmer time when all they had was a quick snuggle on Friday night.

"Did things just seem to slip away from you? Has the interest gone?"

And now the kids were grown and gone. Three months ago they waved their youngest off to college, and finally the house was their own again. And now that they had time, and enough places, and more than enough privacy (and sturdy furniture)... somehow they just didn't have the urge any more. What happened to the wild games, the inventive fun, the wonderful shivery Dom voice, the lovely hot spankings, and above all the totally intense sex? A few light smacks to her well-padded rear, a quick bonk and then he was snoring.

"It's time to take control! Get the interest back!"

Beth nodded. Interest, spice, fun - that's what they needed. She turned to Chapter 1 - "Find your lost passion - rekindle the flames."

Saturday, a great day for fun - and Mark was playing golf. Why wasn't he playing with HER?

She read on, carefully, then made a list:

Red nail polish Map Binoculars (might need to track him on the course) Perfume Legs waxed...

Fine. Passion. Rekindling. Beth was going to rekindle.

---oOo---
Mark frowned as the ball rose in the air, then moved in a graceful curve towards the greenery at the side of the fairway. He sighed as he trudged towards the spot where the ball disappeared. Now that the kids were off their hands he'd have time to work on his slice, and his handicap. Might knock off a few strokes by Christmas. It was good to have an interest, especially as you entered the more settled part of your life.

He pushed through the bushes, peering around, and then he saw it.

The foot.

A woman's foot, bare, with red toenail polish.

He froze, sick at the thought of a dead body being hidden on his favourite golf course.

The toes wiggled. His eyes tracked up the leg, to the very female form that lay half-turned away from him. The bare female form. He took a step back, "I'm sorry miss... madam... I ... er... I'll just play through."

"Can't you play with me?"

He froze. He knew that voice. "Beth? What are you doing here? You're not a member!"