LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

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.