LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

Blushing Bride
I have two sisters and three female cousins, all older than me. And all married. And I've carried a bouquet at all five weddings, so I know what I'm talking about: there's something about bridehood that turns a poised, sensible, capable woman into a shrieking, sobbing tyrant with all the self-control of a toddler on red cordial.

I was seven when I was flowergirl for my cousin. Sweet, gentle Maree, who taught Sunday School and sang in the church choir and screamed death threats at the dressmaker who put two buttons instead of three on the cuffs of her wedding dress.

By the time I was thirteen I'd recovered from that trauma, in time to be junior bridesmaid for my sister Cathy. I'd always been in awe of my big sister, who was assistant to a Managing Director, which sounded dreadfully important to me. She was always perfect, poised, never a hair out of place. And I watched her have a two-hour crying fit because the ribbons for the church pews were one inch wide instead of two.

At sixteen I watched my sister Toni break her engagement three times in one day, and then throw a vase of flowers over her fiancé the day before the wedding. At seventeen, my cousin Grace, who without any grace at all attacked a hairdresser with a curling wand because her hair was 'too ringletty'.

After that came a break of a few years. And then when I was twenty-two my cousin Louie got engaged, and asked me to be her chief bridesmaid. This is a responsible job. I realised how responsible when, in one memorable week, she changed the bridesmaids' dresses three times, commissioned wedding dresses from two different dressmakers because she couldn't make up her mind, stole flowers from a stranger's garden to show the florist what she wanted in her bouquet, tried to bribe one of the groomsmen to drop out of the wedding party because he was three inches taller than the groom and would make the wedding photos look wrong, and then threw a shelf-full of shoes at a hapless salesman because he brought her ivory instead of off-white to try on.

And a year later, it was my turn. Well, I'd seen it all, and I wasn't going to fall apart like that, or make such a display of myself. I was cool, calm and collected throughout. One bridesmaid's dress was three inches too short: I had them all cut up to cocktail length. The dressmaker put the wrong lace on my dress: I decided the new lace was fine anyway, and talked them into a discount as well. They double-booked the reception place: I organised a marquee in the grounds of my aunt's house, and told everyone that her award-winning garden was the perfect backdrop. The hairdresser cut my hair an inch too short a week before the wedding: I changed the style for the wedding, and decided it looked fine.

The Awakening
The first time she saw him he was leaning against a shop window on the opposite side of the road; and he was staring at her, eye catching in his black leathers. She put down her coffee cup and looked at him. The busy road separating them belched exhaust fumes, and the noise and clamour of traffic and pedestrians and coffee shop customers was a constant racket, only fading into a hum of insignificance as she began to focus on him.

Though his frame was angled into a casual slouching position against the shop window, she could see he was tall - tall and broad shouldered and mysterious looking in his dark shades and long coat of shiny black leather. The coat fitted him perfectly, like a second skin, emphasising his broad chest, flat belly and narrow hips. His shoulder length hair blew in thick black strands over his face. She wished she were closer to see the detail. She wanted him to remove the dark glasses so that she could see his eyes.

It seemed at that precise moment, that his lips curved into a semblance of a smile. Languidly he raised his right arm to his face and removed his glasses, slipping them into his pocket. His eyes glittered. He most definitely was staring at her. She shivered and stared back.

In one fluid motion he stepped away from the shop window and stood by the curb. Expertly judging a gap in the traffic, he ran lightly across the road. He moved with the speed and grace of a predatory panther, and in seconds his dark form shadowed her table. He slid onto the vacant chair facing her, and he smiled. It was a slow, confident smile of both invitation and assurance, and his dark eyes brimmed with untold secrets and promises of hidden delights. For long seconds he gazed at her, and then he spoke.

"I know what you need."

His voice was deep and smooth and mellow; a dark chocolate kind of voice, resonant and rich and irresistible. Her eyes widened. She felt gauche and confused.

"You do?"

He nodded, and clicked his fingers. The waitress scampered over eagerly.

"Two coffees. Latte. No sugar."

The waitress blushed, scribbled the order down on a pad, and scuttled off to get the coffees.

"I am Bryn. And you are?"

"Catrina."

Catrina blushed. One part of her wanted to tell him that she didn't want another cup of coffee, and that even if she did, she would have ordered cappuccino, with sugar. But she said nothing, and wondered why.

"Catrina." He repeated her name, and it fell from his lips like strands of honey. "It is a beautiful name."

"Thank you. Bryn. Is that Welsh?"

"It is. And I am." He smiled, revealing a row of perfect teeth.

The coffees arrived, and the waitress moved despondently away, peeved she didn't get a smile from the sexy handsome man. His attentions were elsewhere. He pushed the cup and saucer towards Catrina.

Chapter 1 - Wives in Trouble
"Cynthia darling, are you really telling me that you like to be spanked?"

"Of course, Sybil. Though I am aware you are not so keen, darling."

"That's putting it mildly. But you may be right that he's not very good at it. Which could be the root of the problem."

"What, too heavy handed? Or not enough, perhaps?"

"By turns both, I'm afraid to say."

"You poor dear. That is the worst of all possible worlds." Cynthia stood up and smoothed down her skirt with an air of decision. "You are coming inside with me for a lesson. Out of sight of the neighbourly eyes." She looked left and right meaningfully to the patios and gardens of the adjoining Victorian semis, then led the way through the French windows.

"Oh, goody. I was hoping you might want to, ah, get to the bottom of things. Sorry, darling, that was unforgiveable. Let me bring the glasses to make up."

Inside, drinks were fixed and the two women toasted their alliance. As wives of two amiable government employees somewhat feckless in matters of the bedroom they had pledged to support each other in remedying the situation.

Drawing her skirt up out of the way, Cynthia sat on the chesterfield and beckoned her friend over. She glanced up at Sybil then lifted her dress and the slip beneath. An expanse of marble thigh came into view followed by an auburn bush.

"My dear girl, we are adventurous today. One might think you were expecting, even hoping for this. Were you perhaps afraid that if there were knickers I might not take them down?"

"I hope you don't think me too rude, Cynthia. We are after all women together. Please don't blame me for wanting the full experience when my dearest is so dismal at it." So saying, she lowered herself meekly across the waiting lap and raised her hindquarters for inspection.

"Of course not, darling. And I wouldn't have missed this opportunity for the world. You have such a delicious derrière, Sybil, and to think I have never before seen it au naturel." Her friend's face was turned away but Cynthia could see the red flush on her neck. She laughed. "Oh my dear, I will stop embarrassing you, I promise. Shall we get to business?"

"Please do. I'm ready." In response Cynthia raised her hand and in short order delivered two smart slaps.

"Ooh. Ooh!" After a saucy wiggle of the hips Sybil arched her back and pushed her bottom up for more. Relishing the bounce of the resilient cheeks Cynthia settled to her task. Soon the pale orbs began to pinken and with the new colour the movements of the hips grew more lascivious.

"Ooh. Mmm. Darling - mmm - you are - ooh - very good - at this - mmm - I had no idea - oooooh..."

"Sybil darling." With a hand fondling the warming cheeks Cynthia leaned down and cooed into her friend's ear.

The Master of the House & His Maid
The master of the house, Mr. Wilson Mayes, watched it unfold. He was finally compelled to speak. "Miss Reid, what on earth are you doing?"

What she was doing was indeed a puzzle. Her maid's cap slightly askance, she had stepped to the divan and pulled her apron, black dress, and petticoat up to her waist. She then bent over and placed her arms on the divan. Wilson gazed in surprise at her womanly derriere, now covered only by thin cotton drawers.

"Oh, ye'll be wantin' to punish me, sir," she cried, looking over her shoulder at him. "Ay, and I deserve it. Me clumsy hands, I blame. But faith, I won't shirk from takin' me medicine. Tain't no more than I warrant."

The man glanced over to broken glass shards on the parlor floor, all that remained of a Waterford vase that Miss Reid, the downstairs maid, had dropped as she was cleaning it. He then looked back at her plump bottom.

"Now really, Miss Reid," he said, "that isn't necessary. Accidents will happen, you know."

The woman rose up, turned, and looked at her master. "Oh but sir, I feel awful, it bein' such a lovely vase, and now busted to smithereens on account o' me. If ye don't punish me, I'll just feel guilty, and fret over it the livelong day. But if ye give me the hard wallopin' I deserve, well sir, then it's over 'n done with, 'n I can go on with me cleanin'."

Wilson, a distinguished looking gentleman in his mid fifties, drew a hand down his salt and pepper goatee. He gazed at Miss Reid, who was some ten years younger than he. "Hmm. May I assume this is how you were disciplined by Sir Owen MacTavish, your previous master?"

"Ay sir. Now there was a man who could lay into a lady's bum. Me poor arse would burn for an hour."

Unfamiliar with the terms she used, Wilson was nonplussed. "I presume you are referring to parts of your anatomy, Miss Reid. But this is Brooklyn Heights, New York, not ... Where in Scotland did you say you hail from?"

"Ayrshire, sir. Ah, tis a wee bit o' heaven here on earth."

"No doubt. But you see, my wife Clara is in charge of our servants, and she believes in enlightened treatment of hired help. This is, after all, 1890; the modern age." He paused, then went on. "If only she weren't gone for the day to the stores along the Ladies' Mile over in Manhattan. Perhaps we could deduct the cost of the vase from your weekly salary."

Miss Reid's blue eyes grew wide in dismay. "Perish the thought!" she exclaimed. "With me supportin' meself and me poor sickly mum on a maid's salary? Barely enough to put bread on th' table as tis? Oh no, sir! A sound spankin' is th' way, and then we'll call it even."

In the spring of the year 1889, I traveled to the bustling city of North Andover for a brief sojourn at the home of Mr. Enos Fuller. That august gentleman was, at the time, the owner of four textile mills that dotted the Massachusetts landscape. He was, therefore, an important client of Waymore and Sons, the accounting firm in whose employ I was engaged. Mr. Fuller was also a friend of my father, Charles Moss Sr. Fuller insisted that I join him at his residence, as I audited the books at his North Andover mill.

The Fuller estate sat on a hill commanding a view of the city and the Merrimac River. The house itself, in the Dutch Colonial style, was well-manicured outside and sumptuously furnished inside. Having been a childless widower for many years, Fuller's only companion was his niece and ward, Lorena Collins. With her blue eyes and honey blonde curls, Lorena was, at the age of nineteen, an enchanting specimen of womanly pulchritude. Henry, the butler, and Doris, the cook, were the other residents of the household.

My first evening began well. I dressed for dinner, putting on my best waistcoat and bow tie. After waxing my moustache, I added pomade to my dark hair and then parted it in the middle. Satisfied that I looked the proper gentleman, I joined Fuller and Miss Collins.

After a delectable pot roast dinner, we enjoyed a dessert of peach tart with cream. The talk turned to women. Lorena, who up to that time had been a model of decorum, began to offer, shall we say, extremist views regarding the fair sex.

After a brief discourse, she concluded, "And of course we women must have the vote. Do you agree, Mr. Moss?"

"The vote?" smiled I. "But surely you jest. With little education, and possessed of a capricious nature, on what basis would women make their choices."

"First, women are no more capricious than men. Second, we women deserve, and must have, the same education as men," declared Lorena, her cheeks now taking on a rosy hue. "Up to and including college. The doors of all Ivy League schools must be thrown open to us."

"What! Women at Harvard or Yale? Balderdash!" exclaimed Fuller.

"You desire the vote?" I repeated. "And the right to attend any college you choose? Really, Miss Collins, you go too far. Why, what would ladies then demand? Careers in business or government? The freedom to come and go as do men? I've never heard such poppycock."

"It is nothing of the sort!" exclaimed Lorena, her face now grown flushed. "It is the future. In fact, a man in Germany, Karl Benz, has just invented a machine, a carriage, able to move on its own power, without the need for horses. It seems to me that a woman could operate such a carriage as easily as a man."

Fuller and I exchanged glances, quite dubious at this claim.

The Right Cousin
by KD Pierre
It was a short e-mail that tapped on a large door:

Thanks for your support and advice. I had 'the talk' with my Mom and it went OK. Not perfect, but OK, and that's a good start. I hope things are good with you. -- Love, Dana

BTW Is there any significance to your e-mail address?

Significance? Significant only in also being the nom de plume Kurt used as a writer of spanking stories strewn about the internet. So how should he respond? Dana was his cousin after all. Despite being an author of sorts, writing a reply to Dana's e-mail induced an impenetrable writer's block. This was delicate territory requiring some ability to read Dana's reactions, if a face-to-face wasn't feasible, then at least a phone call. He poured himself a tumbler of Irish Whiskey and downed it before dialing his cousin.

After exchanging the usual pleasantries and acknowledging the recent e-mail, Kurt brought up his cousin's question.

"So, Dana, what did you mean by asking about my e-mail?" Kurt probed.

"It's a simple question."

"Ok, if you put it like that, then yes, there is," Kurt admitted.

"Would you tell me then?"

Kurt hesitated until his cousin, sensing his reluctance, added, "Would it help if I asked whether it is a name of a writer you like?"

That was it. If Dana recognized the name as a writer then she had to know the nature and subject of the writing. And if she knew that, she must be a kindred spirit. Mustn't she? He still hesitated.

"OK, would it help if I said I was a fan of that writer as well?" Dana prompted still looking for a response.

"A fan, Dana? Um, that writer?" Kurt felt as if he was about to jump into a pool without having tested the temperature of the water.

"Yeah."

"It's me."

"Whoa! You're kidding! YOU are Oateakaye? I am such a fan of your stuff. I even have several of your stories bookmarked. Wow, cuz, it seems we have something very unusual in common. This is so cool."

"Dana, I never would have guessed that you..."

"Yeah, I know." Dana cut him off. "Obviously that is why you once wrote about the wrong cousin."

Kurt immediately understood but said nothing. The silence again prompted Dana to continue. "That cousin story you wrote? Now that I know you were the author it all makes sense. That was my sister, wasn't it?"

"Well the character was based on Linda, but we never..."

"Oh I realize that. Linda would never do what you wrote. But still, when I read the story I remembered thinking how much the character resembled my sister. I just chalked it up to coincidence... but obviously there was a much bigger coincidence hidden further inside. Still, you may have nailed her personality but you sure chose the wrong cousin for a spanking story. If you wanted to base your story on someone who would actually deliver a spanking to a relative who showed up at their door, you should have thought of me and not Linda."

Gail Hetherington alighted from the cab, allowed the driver to drop her bags next to her, looked up at the imposing façade of Wellborne's Finishing Academy for Ladies of Quality, tugged her skirt into place, took a deep breath and pressed the doorbell.

Gail was in her early thirties and a highly successful businesswoman with a senior executive position for a large multinational corporation. She was happily married and considered intelligent and attractive. Why was she waiting nervously in the gathering gloom outside a finishing academy?

The attractive blonde woman had attended an old-fashioned girls' school not unlike Wellborne. She had done well, graduating close to the top of her class. She had been popular with classmates and staff alike, she was one of the school's leading athletes and been involved in many extra-curricular activities: plays, the debating club and various charity fundraisers. She applied a similar sort of zeal to everything she did, and then a year ago she hit a peak.

She couldn't move any further up the corporate ladder at her current company, and while she could get another job, she was also considering starting a family, and companies were leery of hiring a woman with aspirations to have children for an executive role which required long hours and lots of travel.

Gail didn't like to use the word depression to describe her mental state, and even the mental health professionals she had seen for her condition didn't say it was exactly what was causing her problems.

She had developed a longing to go back to her schooldays. Everything had seemed so much simpler then. She had structure and routine, she knew exactly how far she could go and what she could achieve and her boundaries seemed limitless.

Unlike many who attended her old-fashioned boarding school or others like it, Gail loved the atmosphere. She actually loved everything about school. The lessons, the sports, her friends, staying up after lights-out to talk about boys or the dreamy new English teacher, the celebrations after a win over a rival school or house in a sports event.

She even liked the discipline, she thought with a little thrill. It wasn't fun when it happened. Being confined to the dorm or having to write lines was not enjoyable, but there was the rush of adrenalin when you did something wrong and got caught. The pounding of your heart and the racing of the pulse as the headmistress lit into you with one of her world-famous scoldings. Gail never got more than a smack or two from one of the sports mistresses, but Matron's slipper was spoken about in hushed tones, and one of her friends claimed to have actually seen a cane in the headmistress' office.

It was a work mate who brought Wellborne to her attention. The other woman had been browsing the internet during a train journey for business reasons and stumbled across a news article about the school.

The Determined Ms. Greene
by Colin Daniels
I'd managed to avoid thinking about her for almost an entire day. Then the package from Ms Greene arrived. It contained some forms that I had to sign and return. I knew my concentration for the rest of the day was now shot.

Since the reading of my Father's will, I'd been unable to get her off my mind for long. My Father's last wish was that I receive a sound hairbrush spanking from Ms Greene, his beautiful young lawyer, before I would qualify for my considerable inheritance; his final attempt to make me realize the importance of discipline.

Ms Greene had only been too keen to carry out the task. I had trouble sitting for two days after she'd applied the wicked hairbrush to my burning bottom while I begged for mercy - much to the amusement of my relatives and employees in the next room. It had been hard to believe that such a petite and beautiful young woman could deliver such a hard spanking.

Since that day I'd struggled to get her out of my thoughts. I kept hearing her saying, "If you ever feel the need for a repeat dose, just give me a call. I'd be happy to oblige. Your bottom looks gorgeous in red." I could hear the words in my head like she'd said them a few minutes ago. The tone had been quite suggestive.

'But it hurt like hell,' I reasoned with myself. Why do I keep thinking about her... and it? I could not even bear to think the word 'spanking'. It brought back the horrible feelings of shame and humiliation. I could no longer look some of my relatives in the face and had thrown myself into my work to help avoid them. My late Father would probably have been pleased.

And as for Ms Greene? Well, she dominated my fantasy life now. If I was not day dreaming about her gorgeous figure, I was dreaming about lying over her firm thighs again.

I looked down at the forms in front of me. I could easily sign them and return them by post. There was no need to meet with Ms Greene again. I should avoid that dangerous woman at all costs!

Yet I watched myself reach for the phone and start dialling her law firm. I heard myself ask to be put through to her, felt my heart beating like it was going to burst as I was put on hold. It was surreal.

"Hello Mr. Stephens, so glad to hear from you," Ms Greene answered her phone in a friendly but professional tone.

"Um... hello Ms Greene. I'm just calling about these forms you sent through today," I replied, feeling like a nervous teenager again rather than a rich and powerful young businessman.

"Ah, glad you received them. I'm pleased you called. I was afraid you were going to take your services to a different firm." She paused, then added, "I hope you're not still upset with me. You know I was just performing my job."

The Domain of Conrad Black
by Lucy Appleby
He strode through the crowded street, a tall enigmatic figure, sartorially elegant in his formal though dated attire. He wore a frock coat of charcoal grey. His trousers were of the same fabric and colour with a subtle pin stripe. The sombre colours were complemented by a pristine high-collared white shirt, worn with a silver and black cravat and an embossed silk waistcoat the colour of rich claret.

From his waistcoat pocket hung a polished silver watch on a silver chain. His height was enhanced by a top hat of black felt, and the finishing touches to his attire were a pair of highly polished black lace-up ankle boots and a gentleman's walking stick with a silver plated head and a black hardwood shaft. He held the stick in his right hand - a large, well proportioned, yet delicate hand, with long tapering fingers and perfectly manicured nails. The point of the stick tapped smartly on the pavement as he walked.

He looked every inch the Victorian gentleman, totally incongruous amidst the hoards of Saturday shoppers jostling on the crowded pavements. He cast a disdainful glance at a noisy group of girls eating burger and chips from brown paper bags outside McDonald's. They ignored him. No-one gave him a second glance, which was odd given his unusual garb, his striking good looks, thick dark hair and commanding presence.

His sharp eyes missed nothing. Deep set and dark brown, they glittered and sparked in the late morning sun as he observed the goings on around him. On the busy main road the traffic was building up for the afternoon's football match, and some cars drove past with supporters leaning out of the windows, yelling and waving. He watched carefully. Sometimes his wide sensual mouth would twitch into a smile at the things that amused him; and when he was displeased, he would frown and narrow his eyes into a baleful glare.

Still, he rather enjoyed his indulgence of people watching. There were always deserving people to be found amongst the throng, and he derived great pleasure in selecting the special ones and ensuring they got precisely what they deserved.

He turned off into a small narrow side street away from the surging crowds, leaving the hubbub behind. At the end of the street was the green door to a shop which had double fronted bow windows, and a sign above that read The Curiosity Shop - antiques and curios from all corners of the globe. At the bottom of the sign, in small ornate lettering was the name Conrad Black, Proprietor.

Taking a small brass key from his pocket, Conrad Black used it to unlock the door. He locked and bolted it behind him, and walked through the shop. The rather ordinary external façade revealed a startlingly opulent and large interior. It was a sparkling Aladdin's cave, brim full with all manner of furniture and collectables.

This Thing That We Do
Was it a game they played or was it for real? Neither answer to that question really satisfied. Maybe both of them had their own reasons or at least, their own questions. For as lifestyles went, each day brought more questions than answers.

To call it a game was to trivialise something important to both of them. After all, their lives were a quest for order, a perfect pursuit of improved imperfection. They danced together amid sometimes shifting rules, each trying to better the other.

It was certainly real for them, but it was their own kind of reality. Not one normally drawn upon in the wider world. For what they did and what they shared was far too unfashionable, too fundamental for that.

Michael was pushing 50, although she swore he looked younger. He certainly still had his own hair, albeit largely grey, and his stomach was more or less washboard flat. And although he wasn't particularly tall, he was a head or more above her with a decent enough physique for a man 10 years younger. She particularly liked his arms that were thick from the biceps and hung from powerful shoulders.

He might have said that she saw him through the lens of love, for God knew he had his issues as time went by. He didn't bounce as easily as he had for one thing, and something had no sooner healed when another ache appeared.

Polly was much younger than he, still in her 30s and looking well on it. She was a little below average height for a woman, although most people would not wish to be on her bad side. Proudly ginger, she took no prisoners and had the fiery temper to go with it. Her curves were a little fuller than she would have liked and if she hadn't been such a keen runner she might have drifted too far towards chubby for her liking.

She was a proud, independent, professional woman whose education was every bit the match for her rather bookish husband, and in her life she had made some hard choices. One choice she had never regretted was Michael and their life together, even as unconventional as it may have been.

They were two people on a mission to re-craft their lives to their own needs. Beyond judgement, although others would judge them if they knew; beyond even what had gone before. Although each had a vast pool of fantasy and desire to draw upon as they fused two dreams into one.

For her there could be no easy submission. True, she wanted him to win, for his victory was the only road available to her own. But his triumph could only follow her soul-tearing best effort to defeat him. The open secret between them was that she demanded to be conquered only after a true battle.

For him the nature of their relationship was far from clear.

This happened to me when I was in college. I went to the grocery store to pick up a few items that I needed for supper. The store I went to had a free coffee area for the customers where you could get a free cup of coffee and sometimes they even had cookies and donuts. This happened at about 4:30 PM when everybody seemed to be buying something for suppertime and the store was quite crowded. I had one of those small baskets that carry a few items in one hand and I was reaching for an empty coffee cup with the other hand. A woman was standing in front of me and she had just poured herself a full cup of coffee. Anyway, I accidentally bumped her with the plastic basket and coffee spilled down the front of her dress. To make matters worse, the dress was a light colored cotton and the dark coffee spread all over the front of her dress.

I said, "I'm sorry. Is there anyway I could make it up to you!"

"Are you kidding. Now I will need to dry clean this dress, and even then I'm not sure if the stain will come out. If you were one of my kids, I would give you a good hard spanking when I got home," the woman said.

"I'll pay for the dry cleaning, but is there anything else I could do to make it up to you?" I said.

"I wasn't kidding about you deserving a spanking," she said. "If you pay me for the dry cleaning and you agree to follow me home for a spanking, I'll forget about the whole thing."

"But I haven't been spanked since I was twelve years old," I said. "Isn't there any other way I could make it up to you?"

"Either you agree to the spanking and paying for the dry cleaning, or I will make a big scene in the store, and you don't want that to happen."

"Okay, I'll take a spanking," I said.

"Good," she said. "Put down your stuff and follow me home. I don't want to be seen like this for very long."

So I followed her out of the store, we got into our cars and I followed her home. Once we got there, she showed me in and said, "Why don't you sit on the sofa while I go into the bedroom and change." So I sat there and waited. Soon she came out wearing a different dress, then she took a chair from the dining room and placed it in the middle of the living room. She sat down on the chair and turned to me and said, "I want you to come over to where I am seated, and stand there with your arms at your sides." So I went over to her and I stood as she directed me. "When my kids were growing up, I always spanked them on their bare bottoms and they were expected to follow my every command or else they received a more severe spanking, and I expect the same from you. Do you understand?"

Babysitter's Surprise
by Brian Bowman
Twenty-year old Megan O'Brien, a sophomore in college at home for Spring break, was surprised to get a call from Amanda Jones, asking her to babysit.

Not that Megan didn't babysit; she did, in fact quite often when she was in high school. But never for Amanda Jones. Her son, Michael was at least 16 and maybe 17 by now, she thought, why would she need a babysitter?

She and her family did not know the Jones family very well. While they lived on the same street only six houses away, Amanda and her family had only moved in three years ago. The Jones family was not typical. Amanda, 38 years old, was a very striking woman and a very successful business woman. Tall and slender with dark red shoulder length hair and piercing green eyes, Amanda was most often seen wearing conservative dark business suits as she left the house each morning for her commute into the city to her high paid executive job for a Fortune 500 company.

As sophisticated as Amanda was, her husband, Robb, a college teacher, was just the opposite. Robb was only 29 years old, nine years younger than Amanda and only 12 years older than his stepson, Michael. This was his first marriage and her second. Robb was also tall, but very skinny. He had curly brown hair which covered the top half of his ears (not in style these days), a full beard cut short. When he was on his way to work, he was often seen wearing jeans, a blue oxford shirt open at the collar and a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. Robb was shy, but far more easy-going than Amanda.

Shortly after hanging up the phone, Megan called to her mother, "Mom, how well do you know Amanda Jones?"

"Not very well, dear. I've met her and her husband a few times at neighborhood gatherings, but they seem to keep pretty much to themselves. Why do you ask?"

"She just called and asked if I would babysit for her tonight, but I don't get it. Michael and I were in high school at the same time, which means he has to be at least 16 or 17 by now. He's a little old for a sitter, don't you think?"

"Maybe what she wants is a guard."

"A guard? What do you mean?"

"Maybe Michael has been grounded and Amanda wants to make sure he stays grounded while they go out, so she's hired you to watch him and make sure he stays put. I would do the same thing if I had the same situation. I also know that she is very strict. Betty lives next door to them and she tells me that she regularly hears pretty severe spankings being administered. And Amanda has admitted to some of the neighbors that she still spanks Michael often and plans to continue spanking him until he leaves home. There's even some speculation that she spanks Robb."