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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What sort of ideas?" mused Heather.

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

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

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

"Me!"

"Me!"

"Me!"

"And Me!"

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

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

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

"Even local radio?" asked Porky Spalding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your soul, Miss Groth?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hello," she said.

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

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

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

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

Martha nodded, wearing her best smile.

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

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

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

Martha nodded in tacit agreement. "Of course."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't do this," Anna said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"All right then," Father said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Madame Matron,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And the rent's due next week."

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

The three of them looked glumly at one another.

"We need a miracle."

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

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

"How?"

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

"Doing what?"

"Cleaning."

"Cleaning? Ugh!" said Katrin.

"I detest cleaning," said Abby.

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

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

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

"The Cleaning Company?" volunteered Katrin.

"No. That's too dull."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Come in, young lady."

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

"I'm sorry, Mr. Bishop."

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

"Yes sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Factories," Brenda said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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