LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

Randy Colburne had been on the rodeo circuit since he was seventeen, and after eighteen years and more broken bones and bruises than he cared to count, he was done. This had been his last circuit. He was ready to settle down and work the ranch he had purchased with money he had set aside over the years. The land abutted the Bar C Ranch which had been in his family's hands for generations. His family wanted him to take over ranch operations at the Bar C when he graduated from college but instead he had chosen the rodeo circuit. He and his father had differences of opinion on many things, and although he loved and respected his father, Randy knew he could not work under him. To his dad he would always be a 'little boy' no matter his age.

He was loading the last of his equipment into his truck when he heard what he thought was an animal mewing. What he found was a girl sitting on a bench, head in her hands and crying her eyes out. She was about twenty-five and didn't look at all familiar. Going over to her, Randy placed a hand on her shoulder and she jumped. When she looked at him she cowered.

"I won't hurt you sweetheart. Can I help?"

She didn't answer, so he kneeled down in front of her and offered her his handkerchief. She took it and wiped her eyes and blew her nose. She handed it back to him and he told her she could keep it. As he looked at her he could see bruises on her face, and looking closer saw bruises along her arm. He put his arm around her shoulders and once again asked if he could help.

"I need a ride."

"A ride to where, sweetheart?"

"Anywhere, away from here."

Randy said he was traveling as far as Reno and he would be happy to drop her somewhere along the way. When she climbed in the truck she hugged the passenger door and kept her hand on the handle so as to provide a quick escape if it became necessary. She had no belongings and when he asked her about them she told him they were gone along with everything else. He decided he wouldn't ask any questions. The silence between them continued as he drove down the road. Randy's stomach was beginning to grumble and he asked her if she would like something to eat.

"I don't have any money."

"That's not what I asked. You don't need money. I will pay for your food."

"Just so you know mister if you buy me dinner don't expect me to be dessert."

The way it sounded she had been down this road before.

"I'm stopping to get something to eat. If you are hungry I will be glad to treat you. I don't have any other expectations."

She nodded. He pulled into the next roadside eatery. The parking lot, as usual, was filled with truckers.

The Power of Persuasion
The jury filed in solemnly. Lori sweated. She felt a strong need to pee. Why had she thought she could get away with stealing money from a bank? Why has she insisted on a jury trial? Her cuteness may have had an effect on that old Judge, but this jury of nine women and three men were probably just jealous. The fore-lady in particular looked dangerously smug.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," the Judge said. "Have you reached a verdict?"

"We have, Your Honor," the fore-lady said. Smug. Yes, that was it exactly. Smug.

"Will the defendant please rise?" said the clerk. Her lawyer jumped to his feet and pulled her up by the elbow.

"What say you?" said the Judge.

"As to the indictment, fifteen counts of embezzlement against Solaris Trust and Savings Bank, guilty," the fore-lady said.

Lori was numb. She heard it as from a distance, as if it were happening to someone else.

"Thank you," said the Judge. "The jury are excused. The defendant is remanded to the State Hospital for evaluation, to see if slavery is a viable alternative to incarceration. The court is adjourned." The gavel banged down, like it was some fucking auction of something. Lori couldn't believe it.

"Slavery," she said.

"Why not?" the Bailiff said. "Why should the taxpayers pay to feed and house you, if some guy will pay for the privilege? Come on."

"We can appeal the sentence," her lawyer said. "The anti-slavery activists will probably fund it."

"Get the evaluation first," the Bailiff said. "The majority of people flunk it. The good news is, you're probably just going to prison."

The good news. Her life was suddenly over, and that was the good news. She followed the Bailiff docilely out of the courtroom. She caught the eye of the fore-lady. Smug. Absolutely smug.

---oOo---
The technician was a woman with soft brown curls and sympathetic eyes. "Just have a seat," she said. "If you just cooperate it won't take as long, and they won't have to strap you down or anything."

Lori eyed the chair suspiciously. The headset. She'd heart about the alchemy of mind control. "They tell me most people flunk," she said. "Aren't suitable, whatever that means. So then I just go to jail. Don't pass go."

The technician grinned. "That's right," she said. "Our reputation for being able to mess with minds is over-rated. If submission isn't already part of your fantasy life, we can't put it there, and slavery just isn't an option. Let's just put this on your head. Relax, it feels heavy but it doesn't hurt. All we're going to do today is show you a bunch of pictures and measure how they make you feel. Not changing you, just listening. Right?"

Lori tried to relax. The weight on her head was unnerving. "Can I fool it?" she asked.

"I don't know, hon. Have you studied an eastern meditation discipline for at least ten years?"

"Ah, no."

New House, New Arrangement

by Jonathan Quincy Graves
Madge and I have been trying to get this house built for quite a long time. More than three years ago, we bought five acres in the country - plenty of room for horses, a large garden, some fruit trees, and whatever else struck our fancy. The property is about an hour's drive from where we lived in the city, in beautiful rolling hills, mostly devoted to growing wheat and alfalfa. We saw it as the place for us to eventually retire, and for Madge to finally be able to move her horses (she has three) from the stable where they were boarded to our very own property. I loved being on the land, and spent many hours putting in fence posts and stretching wire. All we had to do now was to build the house and barn so that we could begin to actually live there.

The first architect that we hired proved to have no imagination whatsoever, and even worse, he seemed incapable of incorporating the design features that we had set our hearts on. After wasting many months trying to work with him, we finally decided to start all over with someone else.

With some effort, and a lot more care in the selection than we had exercised before, we found an architect that really seemed to understand what we were after. Naturally, since he was starting all over at the beginning, and because we were not the only ones who had discovered his skills, it took almost six months before we had the final sets of plans. Madge and I were overjoyed; it was finally coming together.

The next step, of course was financing the build. Not really a problem, I was working and making very good money. Bankers actually smiled at me when I talked to them about borrowing for a new home. They smiled, that is, until about three days before we were scheduled to close the loan and my employer announced that my services were no longer needed. This was not a total surprise, I knew that the economic downturn was hitting them hard, but I really had not expected that I would be included in any redundancies. Nonetheless, the banker traded his smile with a look of sincere condolence for my loss of employment, and our plans had to once again be put on hold.

It was a good year later, by which time I had replaced part of my lost income. We had trimmed down the house design a little, and deleted the barn for now (in my youth, I had built one myself, and was toying with the idea of doing it again). We finally received financing to complete our dream - albeit modified, but still our dream.

If you have ever built a house, you know that it can be very stressful. Skilled workmen are not always reliable; the amount that you thought that things would cost is never quite as much as they actually do cost; and the whole process takes longer than you expect or than you wish that it would.

Vinnie's Heart
Lavinia sat in the window seat trying to look out over the park-like grounds that surrounded the manor house her husband had imprisoned her in for most of her ill-fated marriage. Instead, her view of the wet world beyond was blocked by the reflection of her own face and as she watched, a tear mimicked the trail of a raindrop on the outside of the window, running slowly down the cold pain of glass.

She had thought her life was just beginning when the handsomest man she had ever met asked her to dance at her best friend's wedding. For a woman on the shelf at the advanced age of 24, any man's attention was, as her mama put it, a godsend. Of course, she was the maid of honor, and he was the groom's best man and younger brother, so he had had no choice but to dance with her. She had floated on air for the whole of the waltz they had shared.

She hadn't seen him again until her friend, now Lady Ann, had invited her to visit with her in the country. Ann was already expecting and wouldn't be going into town for the social season. Not that it showed, of course not since it was only a just discovered miracle, but Ann was content to stay at home and bask in the wondrous feelings of impending motherhood ... wondrous except for those nasty bouts of morning sickness. Vinnie had no desire to endure another season either. Just the thought of once again trying to parade herself in front of that pack of young men made her cringe. She was never going to find a husband. They all wanted one of those pale little waifs that were so popular, and waif she was not. Oh, not so tall really, maybe 5'4", but that made eating that last cake more dangerous, and more times than not, Vinnie gave into the urge to eat, rather than care that the small confection would just land right on her hips.

When Lavinia arrived at the home of her friend she was ushered into the drawing room, a cozy space with cushy wicker furniture scattered around in the newest style. There he was. The first thing she saw upon entering was him! She had not even considered he would be there, but since he was her host's brother, it made sense that he might be in residence. He hadn't noticed her yet, and so she took time to study him for a moment as he smoked his pipe, and stroked a black cat that happened to be sharing the chair with him. I'll remember him that way always, she thought.

"Ohh, Robert! Hello. I didn't realize you would be here. Remember me, Lavinia? I was at the wedding," she said, holding out her hand in greeting.
Lavinia's visit flew by, and after extending for another week, she had to return home. Despite her wishes, her mother and father wanted her to take her place in the social whirl.

Lamplight
The salesman held up the battered lantern. "Hard to tell when it was made, exactly," he said. "This model was patented in 1880, but they kept selling them right up until rural electrification in the 1920s."

"Doesn't look like it gives much light," Darcy said. Darcy was interested in light.

"Unless you were used to candles," the salesman said. "This was brighter, cleaner, lasted longer, and was more economical to operate."

An old thing. A Victorian thing. The shop was filled with junk antiques, inexpertly set out on shelves, overflowing into aisles. Someone who needed cleanliness and order would hate this place, but it allowed a feel for the old. "I would need to be able to operate it," Darcy said. "There is no lamp wick. There is no kerosene."

"Right this way," the salesman said. Darcy followed him deeper into the maze, and opened up her purse.

---oOo---
The goblet in the window spoke to her, the soft glow of silver, the subtlety of shape. This wasn't the kind of store she could afford, but maybe she could just go look. She entered and went up to it.

"You have a good eye," the salesman said.

Darcy knew that. She also knew that flattery was de rigueur for a place like this. "It doesn't look Victorian," she said. "This lets the shape tell the story without embellishment."

"One can only imagine," the salesman said. "Bunches of grapes and angels blowing trumpets and all sorts of clutter. This is quite a bit earlier. Georgian. George IV, actually. But a Victorian would have used it proudly, glad to show his family were well off that far back."

A thing glowing with possibilities. "I want to see it in lamplight," Darcy said.

The salesman smiled. "$2,100," he said. "Will that be cash or charge?"

Too much, of course. She knew that. "How much just to borrow it for a week? I want to sketch it. Take photographs."

"Or take it to get a second opinion on the appraisal," the salesman said. "Tell you what. Give me 10% down and take it. Bring it back in a week for a refund, or pay the balance at that time. Fair?"

Yes. She needed to see what the lamp did to it. How it might have looked to those who used it. "Fair," she said. She handed him her debit card and held her breath while it validated, because she knew she was getting close to empty. Time to see her accountant and get a refill.

---oOo---
The accountant looked somehow pained. "I was going to call you," he said. "It's better doing it this way. In person. You're done, Darcy. The money's gone."

There was this feeling of dizziness, of coming unmoored. "All gone?" she asked. She knew she had been getting low, but she put off the inevitable need for change.

"You live modestly," the accountant said. "You spent $22,000 last year. But sales of your art only netted $2,600. As your principal dwindled, you agreed to accept more risk. A decision which seemed sensible at the time, but then the market tanked. It's gone."

My Dear Amelia,

I apologise for sounding so incoherent on the phone last night. When I called you, Caroline Alexander, the School Bursar, had just left me, and I felt rather disoriented, not to say confused! The whole day, in fact, had been so perplexing that I was very much in need of a sympathetic ear.

As brother and sister we have always been very close, even on intimate matters, and you have very kindly listened to my problems, personal and professional, many times over the years. In my emotional confusion I failed to appreciate that it was most inconsiderate of me to call you at 3a.m., when you would almost certainly be in bed. I do apologise, and I would also like you to convey my sincere regrets to the young lady who was with you when I called. Even if the girlish giggling that I could hear in the background indicated that your companion was not seriously inconvenienced, I accept that interrupting you was unforgivably impertinent.

Part of your superbly soothing advice was that I should write down an account of my encounter with Miss Alexander, as a means of taking stock and setting my thoughts into some semblance of order. The remainder of this letter is the result. As you suggested, dear sister, writing this account has helped me understand the course I must adopt, and I hope that my words will also help you understand the predicament I felt I was in when I called.

You will remember, I'm sure, the many times our dear departed father used to opine that the course of true lust never did run smooth. I'm starting to realise now the wisdom underlying what seemed, at the time, to be simply his off-hand jocularity. It was, without doubt, based on his own, rather rash, entanglements with various ladies rather than the experience of matters amatory that he gained during his marriage to our highly respected mother. In this regard, I have frequently wondered over the years about the role played in his busy life by the surprising number of unaccounted-for ladies who appeared at his funeral. Even though they maintained a respectful distance during the proceedings, I remember remarking at the time how colourful, even jolly, they all were.

There now follows my account of my meeting. After this, you will discover my current assessment of my position as I see it, and I suggest that you forbear reading this until you have assessed my account of the events.

---oOo---
My Meeting with Caroline Alexander - Preliminary Information

Miss Alexander had always been an exemplary employee in her role of Bursar; highly efficient, and in fact very attractive. Not that I had allowed her appearance to influence my choice of her for the post, of course, but being well dressed and friendly in manner is always an important advantage for one who is often the first member of staff seen by prospective parents when they visit us. Her academic qualifications are also beyond reproach, rather better than some of the teaching staff, in fact.

It was a full three weeks before Pippa and I got together again with Charlotte and Lucy. There had been times for just the two of us before that second meeting, but none of those times had the erotic intensity of that poker evening. Instead they had been gentler times. Times when Pippa and I had lain in her bed together making love tenderly and slowly. Twice I had taken her over my knee and warmed her bottom a little, but the slipper and the cane had stayed put away in their respective hiding places.

Their next outing came through a suggestion of Lucy's and a very good suggestion it was too.

---oOo---
It was Lucy who came knocking on my door bearing a package wrapped in brown paper. I could tell she was excited about something and invited her in.

"Pippa, you'll never guess what I've found," she said breathlessly. "I was browsing through one of antique shops in the city and I found it. I just had to have it - it's in perfect condition, hardly used. We could really have some fun with it."

I was intrigued.

"Show me what you've got, Lucy," I said.

She unwrapped the brown paper then laid the object on the table in front of me. It was a leather strap, split into two equal tongues. I picked it up, it was surprisingly rigid and heavy. I examined it more closely, the word Lochgelly was embossed into the handle. I had heard of this.

"You know what this is, don't you?" I asked Lucy.

"It's a strap," she answered.

"It is, but it's not just any old strap; this is a genuine Lochgelly tawse. It has a fairly fierce reputation."

I saw the colour come into Lucy's cheeks. "Gosh - it was a better find than I imagined," she said. "Do you think we might try it out?"

"What now?"

She giggled. "No. Not now. I wondered if you and Tom might like another afternoon or evening together with Charlotte and me. I've had a rather wonderful idea."

"Go on..." I encouraged.

"Well... I keep thinking about our Poker evening and you know the most exciting bits were when Tom was being really strict and stern."

I knew what she meant, those were the exciting bits for me too!

"So I was wondering whether we might let Tom play that role. It wasn't that long ago that we were all at school. It would be jolly exciting to be schoolgirls with Tom as our very strict headmaster."

I grinned, remembering the schoolroom Tom and I had improvised in the attic at Hambleton.

"We could dress up in school uniform, and sit at desks and everything. I've already seen some brilliant old school desks in one of the junk shops and a teacher's gown shouldn't be too hard to find in Oxford!"

I was taken up in her enthusiasm. "Lucy you're brilliant," I said. "That sounds like a really top notch idea. Perhaps we could find a blackboard as well?"

Spanking Al Fresco
Nina walked through the house one more time, checking that everything was ready. These preparations always added to her excitement. She'd vacuumed, put fresh flowers in the vases, hidden the worst of the mess in the spare bedroom... all the things you do before company comes.

And put the toy chest and a few other special items in the main bedroom. Not something you do before ordinary company comes. But this was a special visitor.

She already had that tingle of excitement building, that delicious anticipation.

It seemed so silly to be standing there in your nice, ordinary outfit, and to know that soon you'd be bent over while someone spanked your bare bottom. It was such a ridiculous idea, totally ludicrous. She wore this skirt and top to work, to go shopping... what would people think if she said, "The last time I wore this skirt I got my bottom spanked!"

She shivered, and walked around the house again, unable to settle to anything. She'd never liked waiting.

And this time she had a special surprise for him. She didn't want him to get bored with the same old routine, not that he seemed to mind it. Usually they'd have a nice meal together, and a nice chat together, then he'd say. "Well, how about we get started?" And the butterflies would start, and he'd follow her down the corridor to the bedroom, and then...

Usually he'd start with a ruler or crop over her skirt, then over panties, then finally on the bare, he liked to unveil gradually. She loved the way the light tapping over her skirt built up to a fiercer sting on panties, then there was that shivery moment of embarrassment - still, after their years together, being bared made her feel so exposed and helpless. And the bite of ruler on bare skin was always able to make her gasp. Then there'd be a paddle, or maybe the tawse. He always worked methodically, slow steady strokes in sets of ten, twenty or thirty, then moved to the other side for an equal amount. To even her up, of course - such a kind thought.

After that it depended on the game they were playing. A lady of the evening would have to display her merchandise. A slave girl would be stripped to remind her of her lowly, submissive status. In fact, whatever roles they had, somehow it was always time for her to reveal her charms. In a way she hated this - what woman likes being stripped naked, losing all her protective covering, and having to stand there, in a room with one wall covered by mirrors, with all her faults on show? But by now he knew what he was getting, and he didn't seem to dislike the show, so she'd become accustomed to it. And usually, if she wore her favourite black lace bustier (so flattering, it covered all the problem areas from breast to hip, while leaving the fun parts freely available), or the black satin garter belt and stockings, he'd tell her to leave it on.

Carla on Top
First, I announce that she's going to be punished and why, and send her to change into her punishment (drop seat) pajamas. This is an effective way to start, because she hates coming out into the living room wearing those things, even though it's just the two of us. Although she's still wearing panties at this point, the flap must always be down - it's the reason we got them, after all!

Usually I just point to the corner next to the TV. She puts her nose in the corner and her hands on her head. She's usually still grumbling a little at this early stage, but I ignore it. After ten minutes, I call her out and have her stand in front of me, her hands still on her head. I ask her what she's being punished for, and once I get a confession, I tell her why the behavior is unacceptable and how disappointed I am. This unfailingly brings a bright blush to her cheeks and tells me I have her full attention.

She goes over my lap, and I start spanking her over her panties. Once I've built up a good flush, I tell her to stand and take off her pajamas. Although she knows it's futile, she always begs me to let her keep them on! I just wait, staring at her and waiting. Knowing I'll wait her out, she finally surrenders and takes off the pj's, leaving her in just her bra and panties.

Back over my lap she goes, and I peel her panties down to mid thigh. Then I set to work, peppering her bare bottom and the tops of her thighs with sharp, hard swats. She tends to wiggle and squirm, kicking her bare feet and reaching around to protect her burning backside. I catch her right hand in my left and pin it to her back, and wait a moment to let her catch her breath. Then I pick up my wooden hairbrush, and start spanking hard! She becomes very vocal at this point, and it takes a bit of effort to hold her in place as she flops around on my lap, trying to avoid the brush. I cover the entire spankable area, and I keep it up until she she's caterwauling!

As I want her to sting a lot, but bruise not at all, I soon slow my pace. I concentrate light, sharp, stinging swats of the brush all over the sensitive junction of her bottom and thighs until I'm sure she won't be sitting comfortably for a few days. Then I put down the brush and let her cry, rubbing her back and her sore bottom.

When she gets herself back under control somewhat, I ask, "Are we going to have to revisit this issue, young lady?" She swears by all that's holy that we won't, and I seal the promise with two stunning hand claps across her backside. This results in more sobbing, at which point I unhook her bra and remove it along with her panties. "Corner," I tell her.

The Shaman Concubine
Tamara sat with her elbows on the window sill and her chin in her hands with her nose pressed to the window pane and watched the manicured front garden, the topiary shrubbery, the flowering trees, the crooked cobbled path.

"At least the shaman will be here soon," her father said.

Tamara pretended not to hear him. She watched instead as a small thrush walked on the lawn of grass and cocked its head to one side, listening, then stabbed its beak quickly into the soil and came up with a fat earthworm.

"Bad enough if you were a boy," her father said. "At least then you'd become a shaman's apprentice, rather than a shaman's whore."

Tamara sighed. Tears blurred her sight, spoiling the view she soon would lose forever. One small part of her almost wondered how it would be to suddenly have her life turned upside down, be obligated to be naughty instead of forced to be good. A part of her almost wanted to find out. And suddenly she realized that for the first time in many weeks, she was alone with her own thoughts. The fucking ghosts were silent.

---oOo---
"She sees ghosts," Tamara's father said. "Hears spirit voices in the night."

Tamara watched the shaman's craggy face. His hair was set in thin long braids all tinged in gray. An old man. Was that for the better, or for the worse? Would he be kind, or cruel?

"Which is it?" the shaman asked, "ghosts, or spirits?"

His voice was strong for an old man, a singer's voice. She could imagine it raised up in sacred song, a voice even the Otherworld must heed. On her arms the little hairs rose up. She shivered though the room was cozy warm. "Both," she said, "I think. What would I know? But some of them seem dressed in elder clothes, and others look like nothing this world has ever seen. So I guess both."

"She couldn't just pretend not to see them, no," her father said. "She wakes up screaming. Talks about them, won't shut up. She's either mind-sick or Shaman cursed, and frankly I don't care which. She's useless as a noble's wife, so take her. Do with her as you will."

A sentence of slavery. A tear ran down Tamara's cheek.

"What do they tell you, girl?" the shaman asked. He was treating her with politeness, as if she mattered. Mere courtesy in public, or something more? She couldn't really tell.

"Papa says not to listen, sir."

"Nevertheless, child. What do they say?"

Memory brought heat and rush of blood. "That I am naughty, sir. That I need a long, hard spanking."

"Ah. And did you tell your father?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"He called for a shaman."

"Ah."

"Are we about done, here?" her father asked. Was he truly so eager to see her go, or was this difficult for him, so that he hated to prolong it? She could not read him well enough. It could be either, could be both.

The Master, His Daughter & the Governess
"Lucy, I'm bored," Amelia pouted. "I know it's raining and we couldn't go for our evening walk, but being sent to bed so early is too much."

"Heavens yes, at 17 we are almost old enough to come out; it is too tiresome to be sent to bed when it's barely eight o'clock," Lucy agreed.

"I say we could sneak out anyway. No one would know; we could go to the village and see what's happening at the inn."

Lucy's eyes lit up at the idea until Amelia mentioned the inn. She had tried that stunt once before, and it led to a confrontation with Papa that was all too disagreeable.

"That awful housekeeper of yours has taken our things to be brushed," Lucy remembered, happy to have an excuse not to risk the inn where they would almost certainly be recognised.

"To the garden then, as we are, the sunset will be awash with colour in the rain, like a painting by Mr Turner," Amelia enthused.

"We will get soaked and our night things will be ruined, and then we are sure to be caught," Lucy pointed out.

Amelia returned a stare with an expression like her face would explode in mirth.

"Not if we took them off and went as nymphs into the woods. Despite the rain, it is certainly warm enough," Amelia grinned impishly.

"Oh Amelia, the very idea." Lucy's jaw hung open in shock, although she had never been so excited by an idea.

"I dare you," Amelia said, deciding something.

"I dare you; it's your idea," Lucy replied, beside herself.

"All right," Amelia said with a firm nod as she pulled her nightgown over her head.

Lucy gasped, startled by her friend's beauty, unaccustomed as she was to seeing nudity.

"Come on," Amelia giggled as she bolted to the door.

Lucy hesitated for a moment longer and then followed suit.

What a sight they made, two naked girls sneaking down the back stairs to the little-used back door. Lucy, overwhelmed by excitement, could not stop her giggles.

"Hush or someone will hear us," Amelia said, giggling just as much.

Outside was cooler than they had thought and the rain felt chillier still as it peppered their bare skin with its spray. As they reached the edge of the woods, Amelia wished she had worn her slippers at least, as the pricking of fallen brush and twigs made her dance. However, Lucy looked sideways at her like a wild pony and threw all caution to the wind as she embraced their adventure.

"Whee," she squealed as she ran into the fiery red woodland.

They were shivering by the time they reached the woods' far edge where the land fell away to the horizon. As expected, the red sky was awash with fluid purple and blue as the rain smudged the sunset like an artist's watercolours.

"The sea is only five miles that way," Amelia said in wonder. "Oh, we should go there as we are one day and swim."

Chapter 1
Erin attended a rather pushy private girls' school where she worked hard and did well. In spite of an August birthday that meant she was very young in her year group, she was always at the top in terms of her marks or exam results. So when the results came in and Erin had done outstandingly well with five A-Levels all at top grades even though she was not eighteen for another five days, everyone was happy. So at first was Erin, but then the normally happy, even tempered girl became unhappy and tetchy. Did she really want to go to university when she was only eighteen by a matter of a couple of weeks? She thought of voluntary service, perhaps overseas, but it was all a bit late. Erin's mum got on Skype to her sister in the US.

"Well she could come and stay with us. We'd love to have her we haven't seen her, other than on this thing, since she was ten years old. Look, how about she comes to us and delays university? She can work in the business and everything will be different for her."

Erin's Aunt Nicola and Uncle Jack ran a garden/farm power equipment business (sales and repair) in a small town in a southern state. Erin's mum wasn't sure about this idea as her sister and brother in law were quite religious in a traditional and strongly religious area. Erin though had no doubts and threw herself into making the arrangements, but even so the year advanced towards Christmas and snow lay thickly on the ground in their Lancashire village before Erin flew off to stay with her aunt and uncle.

The childless couple greeted her warmly at the airport, her aunt practically hugging the life out of her. "My you've grown into such a pretty young lady. Videos just don't do justice to you." Erin blushed and allowed herself to be hugged by her uncle who tactfully went more gently than his wife.

By the time they got back to her aunt and uncle's house Erin was feeling tired and grubby from the long trip but the next day (a Saturday) had bounced back to her usual self, except more cheerful than she had been for a while. Her uncle had to run the business where she would be working as from Monday but her aunt took her to meet the neighbours. Next door lived the McWilliams with four children; the youngest aged four whose pictures covered the fridge and a whole wall of the kitchen and the oldest was a deeply shy girl with braces. Two boys in the middle were out somewhere playing. After all the introductions and explanations Erin's eye suddenly caught sight of a strange thing hanging on the wall of the family room. It was the same size and shape as a hairbrush with an oval back but it wasn't a hairbrush since it lay flat on the wall.

"What is that?" Erin wasn't impolite just deeply curious.

After such a lovely Christmas it was rather depressing to have to go back to school. But that initial feeling quickly faded and I was soon back into the swing of things. The weather was cold but clear and it was hard to feel glum on such beautiful sunny days. I missed Tom like mad but there were other distractions to keep me occupied.

One of the privileges of being Head Girl was that after lessons and at weekends I was allowed to go down into the village of Little Westland, just a short walk away from the school gates. It was a privilege that Claire shared and often we would go and take a tea in a pretty teashop by the bridge. For other pupils the village was strictly out of bounds, so it was a special pleasure to have a little sanctuary away from the hustle and bustle of school life.

We had just finished our tea when looking out of the window Claire spotted someone. In fact she spotted two people, both from Westland Hall.

"Isn't that Henry Marchbank and Justine Simmonds?" she said, pointing them out to me.

"You're right it is!" I exclaimed. Henry was in Lower Sixth and Justine was in our year. "Claire, can you settle the bill while I go after them? - they'd better have a good excuse!"

Leaving Claire in the teashop I hurried out of the door. They were strolling along, oblivious to anyone else, neither were in school uniform which was a further indication that they were out of bounds. Occasionally pupils were granted special permission to go to the village but a requirement was always that they went in school uniform. They turned as I caught them up, suddenly aware of my footsteps behind them.

"Shit!" exclaimed Henry as he saw me. "We're for it now!"

"Indeed you are Marchbank... and you Miss Simmonds," I said sternly, surprising myself with my authoritative tone (I had obviously learnt something from Tom!). "Have either of you permission to be out of school?"

Justine glumly shook her head. She was a pretty thing with big brown eyes and shoulder length dark hair. Henry shook his head too. "No... no we haven't. Look Pippa, couldn't you overlook it just this once?"

Claire had joined us by now and it was her who replied. "No Henry Marchbank, she can't. We both promised to uphold the rules when we took on these roles and it's very clear what we must do. Pippa can't just let you off and neither can I!"

"Indeed," I nodded my head. "What house are you in Henry?"

"Grogan's," he said miserably.

"Then I shall write a note to the Head Boy telling him where to find you. No doubt you will hear from this evening or tomorrow morning. Now I suggest you get back to school the way you came, as quickly as you can."

We waited until he had set off, at pace, along the riverbank towards school.

Firegirl
The Demon was without fixed form, a boiling mass of smoke and flame, overlaid with stink of sulphur. "Heed me, child," the Demon said, "for thou shalt never know the full meaning of thy womanhood, lest thou learn as if a slave."

The damn thing was cursing her. But why? "I have shown you only courtesy," she said, "and you give me back curses?"

"I do only as I must," the Demon said. "As thou wilt." It leapt into the realm of Air and expanded hugely and became more tenuous until the last whiff of it was blown away, leaving behind bitter echoes in her young memory. Womanhood had been something Claudine had been more than willing to put off, while she made acquaintance with her Fire. Now suddenly she was being told it would come to her only at too high a price. She loved her freedom. Would she be willing to forgo it? Damn. So much for trying to make friends with Demons.

The witch moved slowly, more out of some inner calm than from infirmity, but her slow deliberation always made Claudine want to jump right up and help. The witch poured them tea, strange, fragrant, astringent, the infusion of boiling water on a lifetime of the lore of herbs. "You are anxious," the witch said. "More so than usual."

She was. Claudine had spent ten years becoming. Ten years with the cold old Gondarvin Windmaster just to learn to control that thing within her, and here she was. An Adept of Fire. It was supposed to be good for something. There were supposed to be great tasks. Now suddenly, this. "I've been cursed by a Demon," she said. "It has put some blockage on my path to womanhood, so I can only attain it if I experience life as if I were a slave. At least the damned thing didn't say I had to become a slave, exactly."

The old witch settled herself down near the hearth. Within it, fire sprites played, attracted by the presence of Claudine. "So what have you decided?" the witch asked.

Perceptive old girl. Claudine had wanted a sounding board, but in reality, she'd already made her mind up. "Study a bit more magic," she said, "but now with different motives."

"More tea?" the witch asked.

Out of courtesy, Claudine restrained the urge to jump up and serve. "Yes, please," she said.

The old witch smiled.

The Earthlord's dwelling was made of stone, and set into the side of a hill. Claudine dithered, knowing what she'd decided, but in less than her usual hurry to get there. The idea of skipping the womanhood problem for a time to just fulfill her destiny as an Adept was tempting. But those who forget their humanity are either ambushed by it, or live on to become monsters. Damn. It wouldn't be real slavery, exactly. It would just feel that way. Damn.

Before she could get up the nerve to knock, the Mage came out of his house.

The Maiden & the Goddess
Outside, the waves crashed against the rocks. Inside, Molly swept with a broom missing half its bristles. But her protector was a stubborn man and stingy, and wouldn't buy another. She knew better than to ask and get his dander up. She was safest when the household ran so smoothly that he nearly forgot that she was there. Oh oh. There he was now.

The old man knelt in the corner and then rose. The look on his face wasn't very nice. "Dirt," he said.

"Is not," Molly knew better than to argue, but pride in her work got in the way of her self-interest. "The floor is clean enough to eat off, sir. You know that. You're just looking for excuses so you can punish me."

"And now you're talking back," he said. "Slovenly workmanship and now back-talk. You're going to get it good."

"You'll rape me if you punish me, sir. You know you will. This is all just an excuse." She took a step backward and bumped into the bed. Of course he waited to confront her until she was cleaning his bedroom. How damn convenient.

"Not my fault," her protector said. "I'm a man, not a saint. Ain't a man alive wouldn't do the same when you get so slutty and squirmy and needy like you do."

"Just don't spank me," Molly said. "Then it won't happen and you won't be tempted."

"It's my job to keep good order and discipline in the household," he said. "So when you're naughty, you must be spanked. What happens after that is your fault, not mine. Now take your dress off."

"You don't need my dress off to spank me."

"Maybe not. But I like to pinch your titties and hear you squeal. Now get it off."

Molly took off her dress. "So help me one of these days I'm going to tell," she said.

"Be my guest," her protector said. "Because you'll only be telling on yourself. Any girl who gets juicy when she's punished is a natural slut. They'll sentence you to a penal brothel and you'll be covered by hundreds of men, 'stead of just me."

Molly shivered in the cold. The sea crashed against the rocks. Molly's breasts began to stiffen, and not just from the cold. She hated the guilty pleasure that was to come, but her traitorous body did not. She knelt and bent over the bed. Heard the snick as her protector drew off his thick wide leather belt. She tried to stay out of it. Think of something else. But pain brought lust as it always did, and when she was in full heat, he turned her over and did what men do. Then he climbed off the bed and dressed.

"Clean yourself up you're a mess," he said. "And make the bed." He walked out and left her lying there. The front door slammed. He had gone to the tavern. Molly lay there covered in sweat and drenched with hatred and self-loathing. The waves splashed up against the rocks.

The Story of Wendy
It was almost time for Wendy's spanking. A few feet away in the comfortably furnished room, Nora Horton her young friend and hostess for the weekend at the waterside log cabin on glorious Lake Temagami, was just getting up from hers. Her Uncle Timothy, owner of that cabin, and in fact the entire island, had pulled her pretty pink panties back up, given her a reassuring pat on her cute behind, and said, "There you are dear, all over." Nora stood, and Timothy assisted with her jeans before giving her a warm hug and a final pat on her still stinging bottom.

"Thank you, Tim," she said, then turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Wendy was much older than Nora, a delightfully mature young woman whose delectable curves held the wonderful softness that comes with life as the hard edges of youth are softened through experience. Her breasts were the size and shape that Timothy Horton considered to be 'a perfect handful, soft, yet resilient still having the wondrous shape of youth, yet with that added, 'something' that comes with motherhood and time. Wendy's hips had broadened a bit, but in a very nice way and her curvaceous swell melded into two gorgeous pillows of womanhood, soft, yet firm, and very pattable, if there is such a word. Tim was sure there was.

Timothy was an older man, quite amazed that his niece and her lovely friend were not repelled by him and the changes wrought by time. Back in the 1960's he had been somebody - a star of Canada's national sport, but his short-lived fame had long since died out. He was, however, considering taking his coffee, doughnuts and muffins across the border and into the United States.

Wendy, an American, was awaiting her first adult spanking with an elderly Canadian, on an island, on what might be considered the archetypical Canadian lake, that had suffered at the hands of a Canadian lumber company. She wondered about Timothy Horton invading her territory. No doubt the tingling in her lower cheeks was related to that concern. She had heard shocking rumours of a Canadian invasion of her native land, and as a business woman herself had uncovered the truth of some startling revelations. Horror of horrors! The Freemont Hotel Chain had been unmasked, and it was discovered that its major shareholder was none other than a division of the Canadian Pacific Railway. To make matters worse when considering an investment, she learned that the ubiquitous Laidlaw Transportation company, owner of an incredible fleet of school buses as well as eighteen wheelers with more than eighteen wheels, had its corporate headquarters in a place called Burlington, Ontario. She was yet to discover that the largest pipe organ builder in North America, and probably the world, was none other than Casavant Freres of Ste Hyacinthe, Quebec. She would discover that in due course. Despite her thoughts on a Cannuck assault on her country's economy, the tingles heralded something else. She was about to have a Canadian spanking.

Chapter 1: Prince Edward Island
I've stayed in better hotels than The Fishermen's Rest but generally at someone else's expense. On this occasion I'm paying myself and I could be here for a month, so I am being careful. Not that I will need to be for long if this thing works out as it should. In a couple of months I should be able to stay anywhere I want for as long as I want and not give a toss about the cost. The Fishermen's is in downtown Charlottetown on Prince Edward Island, and I'm here to visit my attorney. That sounds really odd - my attorney - particularly coming from the mouth of a Belfast boy, but it's true. Of course until two weeks ago I'd never heard of Henry Finklestein of Finklestein, Corliss and Corliss Attorneys; but then I got the letter telling me that my Great Uncle George, whom no one in the family had seen for at least thirty years, had died and appointed me executor of his estate, a property empire worth several million Canadian dollars. What was more, I was the principal beneficiary. Could I please come to Charlottetown to help sort the estate and get it either transferred into my name or realised? Of course I bloody could!

There were dark mutterings from family members, everyone except my sister Bess who was deeply envious of my destination.

"I can't believe you're getting to Prince Edward Island, you jammy bugger. I've always wanted to go there; Ann of Green Gables has a lot to answer for."

"I'll pay for you to come out when I've got my hands on the cash."

Without a backward glance at the British Isles, I flew to Montreal and travelled on to Charlottetown.

On my first morning in town, after a more than generous breakfast at the hotel, I set off to find the offices of Finklestein, Corliss and Corliss in Union Street, on the edge of the historic quarter of the city and near the waterfront. On the way down, I walked, it was no more than a mile according to my city plan, I passed the imposing edifice that is the Confederation Arts Centre and noticed that it contained a public library. I would investigate that later as, if I was going to be here for a month, I would like to know something about the history of the place.

FCC were on the first and second floors of an oldish building above a seafood restaurant. The interior décor was rather brown and the lady behind the reception desk was rather grey. One wall was taken up with law books so old they were bound in gold tooled leather and were undoubtedly of no use to anyone other than a stage manager or interior designer. This did not inspire me with confidence. Mr Finklestein however, 'call me Henry', was a small, dark, Jewish, whirlwind of a man who no sooner had he met me in reception than he whisked me off to his office, plied me with unbelievably strong coffee, and started to tell me all about my Great Uncle. In him I had confidence, already.