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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dorothy!" she called out.

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

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

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

"Are you certain?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So do I," replied David.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure. That would be great."

"How do you take it?"

"Dark and strong and not too sweet."

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

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

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

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

"Your name?"

"Arthur Whitlock."

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

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

"Arthur Whitlock?" she smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two Spankings for Lady Southcott
Lady Caroline Southcott's eyes blazed with fury. Still breathing hard, she drew back and slapped the hell out of me. Who would have guessed that a well-bred dame in her mid-forties could pack such a punch? But she did. My cheek stung like fire.

"Ooh, you monster!" she hissed. "Hound! I'll see you in jail for this!" She paused to catch her breath, and then went on, "You may treat those poor women back on your godforsaken prairie this way, sir, but not here! Here in England a woman is shown respect and dignity!"

Now, I will admit that I had rubbed a little of the lady's dignity off. Her blonde curls, normally perfectly coiffed, were frazzled and mussed. Her stylish belted silk dress was scrunched up almost to her waist. And those white French knickers, or panties as we say back in Wyoming, were down around her ankles.

The lady realized this, and quickly reached down and pulled them up to where they belonged. Once her undies were in place, she slapped me again for watching. Her voice as cold as an English parlor, she said, "I'm telling Lord Charles what you did. Then the police will deal with you, sir! Assaulting a woman! Oh, you'll pay dear!'

"Strictly speaking, Ma'am," I replied, "I only assaulted your fat behind. And if you don't mind my sayin' so, you had it comin'."

That got me another slap in the face. "I wish you'd quit that," I said tersely.

The lady and I were standing on a walking path in the back of the formal gardens at Loxton Manor, the country retreat of Lady Caroline and Lord Charles Southcott. I was a guest here. But until I bent the lady over my lap and gave her a good spanking, she had not treated me as a guest.

The way I see it, she earned that spanking. Earned it by looking down her nose at me from the moment I arrived. Calling me a ruffian; poking fun at my Wyoming accent in front of her husband and his friends.

So when by chance I had met Lady Southcott at the back of the gardens, we had a showdown of sorts. She had launched into another tirade, letting me know in no uncertain terms that I was both uncouth and unwelcome. This in spite of the fact that Lord Charles had invited me to come visit the Sceptred Isle where he would show me around.

Charles Southcott, you see, was an avid photographer. He had recently travelled to Wyoming to photograph the daily life of cowboys on the Box A, my ranch along the Niobrara River. We hit it off immediately. Royal blood ran in his veins; my own blood was a blend of Crow Indian mixed in with the white. But the bond of friendship was forged, one thing led to another, and here I was, his guest in Britain.

Lady Southcott did not warm to her husband's cowboy visitor.

Passion Reawakened
I bent over the keyboard and made sure I looked busy as my immediate superior walked past, talking to his immediate superior. They both smiled at me, and I gave them a quick grin. Both of them under thirty, I could give them fifteen years or more. I straightened my shoulders a little and tossed my hair back, it was nice to know I was still worth the once-over.

Ten minutes later I was grabbing a quick cup of tea in the luxurious staff common-room (which doubled as the broom cupboard). I'd pushed the door almost-closed so that I could grab my cuppa in peace, but I could hear the chatter outside. Little Boss and Big Boss wandered down the corridor nattering away, I ignored them until I heard my name, then I tuned in automatically. Nice to know I rate a mention.

"Oh well, Laura is the perfect employee."

Ah yes, they know quality when they see it.

"She fits in alright in the office? I would have thought she's a bit long in the tooth compared to everyone else, she's no spring chicken, is she?"

"Actually, she's the perfect age. Too old to get pregnant, too young to be totally doo-lally yet, and too married to be ambitious."

"Well, that's true. And there's something to be said for the stolid mummy types, they do the work of three other people and keep in the background."

"Yes, she's a good old girl is Laura, and she knows her place. Never any trouble, she just potters along. You need a few of those staid middle-aged middle-class types. They add ballast."

"And it takes the pressure off, doesn't it. Less competition on the ladder. Now, time for a nice long working lunch I think."

I poured the Earl Grey down the sink. Mummy type? Good old girl? Staid? Ballast? I'll give that little pipsqueak ballast. I'll tie him to an anchor and drop him off Circular Quay. And where the hell does he get off calling me middle aged? Middle aged? I'm not middle aged. Old people are middle aged, that's not me! And staid? Staid? I've got a good mind to tell him a few things about me. I'll show him who's staid.

I lost my virginity in the back of a ute when I was 15. At least I think I did, the ute was moving at the time, and with all that bouncing around... but the thought was there. I smoked pot when I was 16. It made me throw up, but that's not the point. What was that patronising little worm doing when he was 16? Making model aeroplanes probably.

And at University - the sit-ins I organised, the protests in the streets, I was in the front row, I had a voice! I fought for women's rights, land rights and peace (and for better service at the university cafeteria, but that was a private protest of my own). I edited the newspaper for the Women's Collective.