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The Party
Natalie squealed as David's hand slapped down hard on her wriggling bottom. Normally he enjoyed the view of her full cheeks jiggling over his knee, pale thighs kicking as he delivered a well-deserved spanking. But tonight there was no time to savour that pleasure, he needed to finish the job as briskly and efficiently as possible.

"Are you going to stop carrying on and get ready?" The steady beat of his hand punctuated his question.

Natalie's answer wasn't so clear, but her meaning was like crystal. She was definitely not feeling very compliant.

David sighed. Time for a shortcut to a more reasonable frame of mind. Luckily (or not, depending on your point of view) one wildly kicking foot had thrown off its slipper, which had landed conveniently close. David rolled his wife's white lace panties down to her knees, then pushed her pink robe further up out of the way. A good workman always prepares for the task.

The first slap of the slipper was a stinging whack that set Natalie wriggling even more wildly, her bright red hair bouncing in a cloud around her head. David didn't bother with more discussion, he just concentrated on painting a fiery red glow across her bottom cheeks. If she couldn't sit comfortably tonight, that might remind her to behave - at least, that was his theory. Sadly, theory and reality often don't coincide, but a man can hope.

Natalie squealed and kicked, she shouted, she wriggled and squirmed. She was in every way a young lady receiving a good, thorough spanking.

In every way but one. A good spanking ends with a red hot bottom and a slightly tearful, very sorry young lady who promises to behave properly forever. And usually, after a good spanking, that would be Natalie. But not tonight. Tonight she yelled, she shrieked, she raged - and the word 'sorry', the promise of being good forever, wasn't heard.

But all good things must come to an end. And Natalie's end was a cheerful crimson that promised a good reminder whenever she tried to sit down, for a day or so at least. Her wails were more miserable, and less hostile, which David knew was the best he could hope for in the time available. So at last the slipper stopped doing the dance of the fiery sting all over her bottom. David leaned back, taking a well-earned rest.

"Now, you will get dressed, and you will be ready to leave this house with me in twenty minutes, and you will behave yourself at the party tonight. Is that clear?" Wisely he didn't wait for an answer, he stood up - dumping his bundle of resentment onto the carpet - and strode manfully out of the room, "Twenty minutes. Or I'll blister your sweet bottom every night for a week. Get moving."

Natalie glared at his departing back. She'd have thrown something at him, but just at that moment her hands were too busy trying to rub the fierce sting away.

Part 1: The Preliminaries
Elizabeth Lane appeared to have everything. She was tall, slim and very attractive but without the false 'beauty queen' look. At school she had excelled at everything she did. She was very bright and had no difficulty whatsoever in gaining the necessary qualifications to enable her to go to Oxford University. At games she was always in the first team and she had ended up as Head Girl. In that role she had been popular but no push-over and it would have been difficult to find any teacher or school colleague who had a bad word to say about her.

If there was anything that the staff at her school or her parents worried about at all it was possibly that her single-mindedness in achieving objectives might be a problem if she came across something that she could not achieve. That was a minor worry, however, and not one that had been tested as yet.

She left school in 1968 and going up to Oxford, having sailed through the entrance procedures, she took to the environment with apparent ease achieving a first-class honours degree while finding time to take part in drama and choral singing and make a large number of friends, although few who might be described as close. When she left University it was to take up a job in the civil service and she was one of a number who were placed on a 'fast track' which should lead them to the upper echelons of the service if all went well. Nobody expected anything other than that Elizabeth would reach those echelons quicker than most.

Over the next few years nothing happened to suggest that all of these expectations might be too high and when our story opens Elizabeth was assistant to an Alan Smith, a departmental head in the Foreign Office. One morning, after she had briefed her Head of Department about a particular project in which she was involved, he spoke to her about something else.

"By the way Elizabeth I should tell you that you have come to Sir John's attention. He would like to meet you."

Elizabeth's heart flipped a little at that. Sir John Shrewsbury was the Head of the whole division of the Foreign Office in which she worked and was regarded as something akin to God by those in the individual departments.

"He has heard good things about you and always likes to meet potential high fliers early in their careers, Elizabeth. What usually happens is that he will have lunch with you. I expect his secretary will be in touch shortly. Let me know when she does and I will make sure that you are free. Sir John's lunches can go on a bit on these occasions!"

In fact it was the next day when she received a telephone call from a lady with a cut-glass accent who enquired 'if she would be available to have lunch with Sir John Shrewsbury this coming Friday?'

Firm Discipline
by by Rudi Glenn (Underling)
"It's not about the money, Stuart. It's a question of trust."

Miranda Wells - fifty-two, sharply suited, severely beautiful - sifted through the collection of expense receipts before her.

"Lord knows," she continued, addressing the young man standing awkwardly on the far side of her desk, "on a good day you're already making more profit for this company in ten minutes work than this little lot amounts to. You certainly have the talent. But then I think it's fair to say - especially at your tender age, especially at the start of your career - that I'm paying you handsomely for it."

Stuart Freeman - twenty-two, expensively coiffured, boyishly good-looking - said nothing. He studied the carpet at his feet with apparent nonchalance, although he was somewhat betrayed by the flush rising to his cheeks.

After a few seconds Miranda stopped shuffling and began to lay out the incriminating sheets of paper in a neat row, face up, with the solemn formality of a fortune teller dealing from a tarot deck. Each was turned towards Stuart as though to encourage him to think on his betrayal; each foretold a gloomy future.

Miranda carefully straightened up the last sheet. Then she leaned back in her padded leather chair, folded her silk-sleeved arms across her ample bosom, and let her cool gaze rest on her newest and youngest employee for a long, long moment.

"So," she said presently. "Promising future, enviable salary, and yet..." - she waved an elegant hand dismissively above the offending paperwork - "And yet, this. The question is, Stuart... the question is, why?"

Stuart's mouth tightened a little and he offered a small, apologetic shrug - a gesture that had served him well during the schooldays to which he felt himself suddenly returned.

Miranda waited. She studied her fingernails. She let the silence build. Then she sighed. "I have a theory, if you'll indulge me. It's not enough for you to be young and successful and rather pretty, is it? No, you're one of those young men who's happiest when he's breaking the rules. Playing the chancer. Being a bad boy. Are you a bad boy, Stuart?"

That produced something dangerously close to a smirk.

"I'd straighten that face if I were you, young man," said Miranda, "because otherwise I'll happily do it for you." She drummed her fingers briefly on the desk. "Oh, and I'm still waiting for an explanation, but since I've plenty of paperwork to do here then I'm also happy to keep you standing there all morning if need be. What's more - since it's company time you're wasting - every minute you do stand there is another minute you'll be sat at your desk this evening making up for it."

She peered at him over the steel frames of her spectacles. "Assuming, that is, that you're lucky enough to have a desk to go back to."

That, at least, had some effect. Stuart cleared his throat. "Miranda, I..."

The Disciplined Wife
Retail therapy is normally one of my greatest pleasures, it gives me a good feeling to know that I'm doing my bit to keep capitalism alive. But shopping for one particular item always puts me in a bad mood, guaranteed to last all day. So I put it off for as long as possible, and then I have to buy several at once. There is only one kind of shopping I truly loathe and detest - bra shopping.

Don't get me wrong, I like bras. I failed the pencil test years ago, I appreciate those miracles of engineering that gather everything up and point it in the right direction. But there is one little problem. Well, actually, two large problems.

And manufacturers are under the impression that anyone slightly larger than two poached eggs is beyond feminine considerations.

So you walk through the sections; A B and sometimes C are together (let's face it, if you are an A cup, two band aids and you'll be overdressed. Size 10A bras are insult to the rest of us.) All the colours of the rainbow, little scraps of lace and ribbon, teeny-weeny little straps. So cute. And, most insulting of all, the pushups and paddeds and all of Mother Nature's little helpers: 'What God's forgotten we stuff with cotton.' Walk a mile in my cups and you'd think differently.

Sports bras, well they won't be in my size. I bounce lots more than the ball, and mere elastic won't even attempt the task of restraint. Nothing beyond a C cup there. Apparently any of us larger than that get enough exercise just staying upright. Then past maternity, fast. Let that biological clock tick a while longer. And way down the back is the 'Larger Sizes' section. Away from the nice normal sizes, wouldn't want to give them an inferiority complex. And so you scuttle down to Siberia and start the search. DD. And everything, if there is anything at all, looks like it was constructed by people who also build the gear to tether the Queen Mary. We're not talking lacy underthings here, we're talking serious equipment. Bridges are held up with less.

Colours, lace or satin, underwire or cross-your-heart, all choice is whittled down to 'is it my size?' And so a department with several thousand items surrenders a choice of three: one without underwire, one that looks like pterodactyls could nest in it comfortably, and the turquoise one.

You buy all three.

And aren't you happy to hear "Hello Miss!" in the checkout queue? Great, I love buying my bras from a boy I taught in Year Six. Three years later and he has more acne, less puppy fat but still the enthusiasm of a Labrador puppy. Gee, how nice to see you, how's High School, and yes isn't turquoise a nice colour.

Finally out of the temple to consumerism and my car is like an over-enthusiastic oven. Naturally I didn't get a spot in the shade.

Ignoring the many admiring glances cast in his direction, Scott Armstrong leaned back in his chair set outside the Waterfront Bar and Bistro, and sipped a tall iced drink as he gazed at the shimmering waters of the Pacific Ocean. It was good to be back in Newport. He loved the Old Town with its eclectic mix of regional arts and crafts galleries and interesting shops, the refurbished Victorian buildings, wonderful seafood restaurants and lively markets. But his favourite location to relax was right here at Nye Beach. He loved the place and he had business interests here, which was why he returned so many times; there was another reason too. Carla.

He was just about to indulge himself with thoughts of her when the waitress interrupted. "Can I get you another drink, sir?"

"No thanks. I'm good." He held up his glass as evidence. It was three quarters full.

"Oh. Is there anything else I can get you?"

He shook his head. "No thanks." Setting down his glass on the table he leaned back in the chair and pulled his Stetson down over his eyes.

But the waitress wasn't one to give up easily. She had noticed him on many occasions - and who could fail to notice such a handsome guy? He was around 30, 6 foot 2, with a rugged and tanned face crowned with a thatch of dark hair. He had clear blue eyes that twinkled when he smiled, made all the more appealing by the surrounding laugher lines. He had broad shoulders, strong and muscular arms, a narrow waist and a cute butt. And there was no sign of a wedding ring on his left hand.

He was a good catch and no mistake. The waitress regarded him appraisingly for a moment, drinking him in. She smiled to herself. She wanted a piece of that. With her model-girl looks she usually managed to get what she wanted.

"Are you sure there's nothing I can do for you?" she persisted, lowering her voice coquettishly.

"Quite sure." The Stetson remained firmly over his eyes.

"My name's Becky Sue. And I'd love to get to know you better."

The Stetson didn't move and no response was forthcoming. Becky Sue frowned. This was not going to plan. This guy was hard work.

"My shift ends in an hour. I could be your tour guide - show you around the town..."

A hand lifted the Stetson. Those blue eyes swung round to fix on her. "Well it's very nice to meet you Becky Sue, but I have an intimate knowledge of Newport so I don't need a tour guide."

"Ok, but - I also have an intimate knowledge of how to treat a guy - so you'll need me for something," she said suggestively, as she leaned over, displaying her full breasts that threatened to burst the seam of her tight-fitting top.

"Wrong. I won't be needing you for anything," said Scott politely yet dismissively. There was a steel edge to his tone and his eyes glinted. "So, if you don't mind, I just want to relax and enjoy my drink. Alone."

Temporary Insanity
"It's a closed club," the Captain said. "One can't exactly counterfeit membership in the Hypersociety. And we haven't even been able to plant people in as servants or secretaries. Their security is too good. Perhaps better than ours."

Detective Cissy Grey nodded. "They're a paranoid bunch, sir," she said. "But what's that got to do with me?"

"We can get you in," the Captain said. "Under the right circumstances. Ever heard of Francis Dowling?"

Who hadn't. "Megatech Industries," she said.

"Among other things." His phone chirped. "Excuse me."

While he was busy Cissy walked to an unused console and called up Francis Dowling. 45, divorced, decent looking. Ten years older than she and a million miles out of her league.

"He wants you as his paramour," the Captain said. Cissy jumped. Her mind must have wandered and that wasn't like her. "You're kidding," she said.

"No, I'm not."

"A mistress? He wants me as a mistress?"

"Apparently."

"But why me?"

"Because his filter pulled you out of our data base."

She got this creepy feeling. This wasn't supposed to be happening. "You let his algorithms go shopping in our confidential personnel files?"

"You have to give something to get something," the Captain said. "As his girl friend you'll be able to mingle. Snoop. Things we haven't had the freedom to do before."

"All I have to do is give my body for the cause," she said.

The Captain's look was somewhere between annoyed and apologetic. "Of course you have every right to refuse," he said.

Of course. If she wanted to stop her career dead in its tracks. Cissy was on the fast track for promotion, and all she'd have to do to derail it was refuse to volunteer. "I know how it works," she said. "I won't disappoint you."

"Good girl," the Captain said.

Cissy looked at the picture of Francis Dowling. She could almost swear that the damn thing winked.

---oOo---
She wore a sleeveless black dress, tight-fitting but slit up the side for ease of motion. She paced nervously, wondering if he would like her. Wondering if she would like him. Wondering whether that would make things easier or harder. More or less moral. More or less defensible. Her door chimed and she jumped.

He was at her door smiling, calm, confident, and carrying a small flat box. "Miss Grey," he said. "So glad to meet you."

"Cissy," she said. "Come in for a minute. I'll just get my purse." She could feel his gaze linger on her curves.

"Frank," he said. "I don't like Francis much. It sounds a bit. Oh dear. Do excuse me."

She cracked up. "You were about to say 'sissy.' My name is a bit odd for a cop. Blame my mother. She thought it was cute. She was a bit of a flake." He was studying her walls. Her paintings. It made her feel nervous, as she had felt when he studied her.

"These are lovely," he said. "What you do with the human form is breathtaking. Do you mind criticism?"

Barton and the Uber Brat
"Dr Barton?" the voice on the other end of the phone enquired.

"Yes, hello? Who is this?" Dr Barton asked looking at his watch. He really didn't have time for this.

"I am... Smith, from Department H." There was a long pause.

"Oh one of those people." Dr Barton sat in his desk chair in resignation. This was going to take a while.

"Sorry to trouble you but we have a problem."

"Naturally. And I am Barton Acme Solutions Ltd, apparently," Dr Barton said dryly.

"Well yes," the voice became defensive. "You are when it comes to it. We do after all fund you quite well."

"You fund me for behavioural research and personnel profiling, nothing else."

"Be that as it may, we do have a problem. A girl..."

Dr Barton sat back, the last 'girl' and all that followed immediately coming to mind.

"...No one dangerous, well not really," Smith continued. "But she is rather anti-social and she has fallen in with a rather dubious group. We have picked up this little gang and we are holding them under the appropriate legislation but..."

"She is a patsy and you have nothing on her," Dr Barton finished.

"Exactly. She knows too much to just let her go and she is being rather difficult. Not the sort we can just pay off with a signature on an official secrets paper."

"Who is she?"

There was a long pause and Dr Barton could hear the nervous shuffling of papers.

"We don't actually know. As I said, she really is not a criminal and we have absolutely no record of her. She goes by the name of Uber-bitch, a kind of punk nickname."

"You don't say, and there was I thinking she had eccentric parents." Dr Barton upgraded his sarcasm impatiently. "What exactly do you want me to do?"

"Take her in for a while. See if you can persuade her to be more cooperative, you know the kind of thing."

"I do. But I rather suspect that you don't. Alright, when does she arrive? She is arriving isn't she? I mean this phone call is to tell me, not ask and you already have her in transit I'll be bound."

The man on the phone coughed.

"She will be with you shortly after midnight."

Dr Barton snorted once and put the phone down.

"Jane, we have a guest arriving in three hours," he called.

Jane Ellis appeared at once and offered him a quizzical look.

"She is called Uber-bitch." Dr Barton pursed his lips.

"One of those. How nice." Jane rolled-up her eyes.

---oOo---
Uber-bitch sat in the back of a nondescript black government car between two large boring 'suits'. No one had spoken throughout the whole journey; a journey that had taken them from the boring grey office block somewhere near Birmingham, to somewhere out in the sticks.

Finally, after a long drive through a tunnel of trees the car turned into a driveway. At the end was a large brick house.

The Weekend
Carla stirred the creamer into her coffee and threw the stir stick away. She sighed.

"Weekend less than stellar?" Marc asked from behind her.

He was standing at the entrance to the coffee room, not crowding her, giving her some space. For all his darklord reputation, Marc was a gentleman. At least at work, he was.

"Pathetic," Carla said. "Shopping. Cleaning. Watching old movies. Look at me. I look forward to Monday. At least when I'm working, life is interesting."

"You wish you had a boyfriend."

"Yes." It was so obvious it couldn't be called prying.

"I've watched you at TGIF," Marc said. "If you get hit on you go all prickly. You have to learn to let go."

If she wanted something she had to offer something in return, and in your twenties the currency is almost always sex. "Maybe I'm afraid," said Carla. "Look at me. I'm a risk manager, for shit's sake. I'm not afraid of risk. I quantify it, decide when the price is worth it. In my personal life? I freeze up. Pathetic."

"Afraid of change," Marc said. "Or the downside seems too steep."

"Makes me sound like I'm twelve," said Carla. She took a sip. The coffee was lukewarm.

"Give yourself to me for the weekend," Marc said. "I may be able to help you change."

Now there's honesty to the point of being gross. Not 'I think I love you' or even 'want to go out with me?' just 'give yourself to me.' She should think of some cutting turn-down, but nothing came to mind. "I'll think about it," Carla said instead. She really was getting that desperate. Pathetic. Utterly pathetic.

---oOo---
No use. She couldn't concentrate. She took the elevator down to Personnel. Agnes was on the phone so Carla waited patiently until she was done.

"Sorry," Agnes said. She placed the phone back in its cradle. "What's up?"

"It's personal," said Carla. She felt a little furtive. She almost never goofed off at work. "So if you're busy, I'll understand."

Agnes had a sparkly smile. "I have at least until the phone rings again," she said. "What's on your mind?"

"You were with Marc for a while, right?"

"Yeah?" Agnes seemed a little careful, but not angry or defensive.

"What broke you up? Is there something I should know?"

Agnes relaxed, leaned back in her chair. "It wasn't like that," she said. "He helped me move on. Marc's like this tour guide to an alternate reality. It's intense and scary and exciting and if it's not for you, you don't have to keep visiting. Marc helped me become the kind of woman I wanted to be and then helped me find a man who wanted a woman like that. We're getting married when he gets out of law school."

Intense, scary and exciting. What did that mean, exactly? But Carla was shy about pushing people to reveal personal details, and then the phone rang, and she just waved and smiled her thanks and slunk quietly away.

Seems Like Old Times
Sharon cursed as she tried to untangle herself from the fishing line that was going to strangle her. The harder she tried to untangle herself, the more wrapped up in it she became, until she threw the pole to the ground in a fit of pique. "Motherfu..." she mumbled, as she felt the fishing hook catch in her hair.

"I'd watch the language if were you," a very masculine voice said from behind her.

Sharon screamed in her frustration, and at the fact that a strange man was witnessing her foolishness. "I was only trying to relax, and have a peaceful afternoon and just look at the mess I've made. Damn it!"

She'd gotten the hook out of her hair, but now it snagged in the seat of her shorts, and every tug on the line threatened her with a wedgie.

"Can't you help me?! Don't just stand there like some kind of idiot, give me a hand!!"

"I might, if you would consider being polite about it," said a now somewhat familiar voice behind her.

Turning to see just who it was that was witnessing her humiliation, Sharon let out a groan. "Evan! What the hell are you doing here?"

"That was polite," he said drolly. ""We haven't seen each other for years, and all you can do is curse at me? As for why, I still patrol this part of the reservoir. You do know that fishing is not allowed here, don't you?"

Sighing, she said, "I do. But I remembered coming here with daddy to fish when we were little, and how quiet and peaceful it was here. I just needed to get away for the afternoon," she finished quietly.

Evan looked at the woman before him, a person he had known through childhood and their teenage years and beyond. He gave a little shrug. Gentling his voice, he approached Sharon to help her get out of her predicament.

"First thing we need to do is get this worm," he said, as he reached out towards her hair. Running his fingers into it, he brushed the offending bit onto the ground, chuckling as he felt the shiver run through her, though she didn't complain, or make any girlie noises.

From Sharon's point of view, the shiver was not because thoughts of a worm in her hair freaked her out, but the fact of the man at her side. They had known each other since childhood, their parents were friends. They even had history, slight though it was. Something about him had always made her tongue-tied, made her say and do stupid things she didn't understand. So why now, when she was at such a low point in her life, did he have to show up? Their mothers still talked, so she was sure that he knew she had gone through a particularly vicious divorce, just as she knew that he had been widowed several years earlier. It made it easier really, not having to indulge in insipid small talk about stuff neither of them wanted to be reminded of anyway.

Linda's Journey
Linda picked her way across the stones. There was volcanism here. Hot springs. A subtropical microclimate which denied even the winter's ice. But the smell of it was sulpherous. Unclean. And now in summer there was scarce need for extra heat. Yet the Oldest chose to live here. The mouth of her cave was visible, just where the vision had shown her it would be. Linda picked her way across the stones.

She climbed. A bird cried out a warning. Or was it the call of some spirit? Some one of the Old One's minions. No matter. She had seen herself come here, and so she must come. Her only success at prophecy, and it had told her to consult a prophet. She climbed.

A friendly breeze blew away a little of the stink. Linda sensed the soul-sparks of all the little living things and the great hot soul-fire of the one who waited for her above. A creature so old she was kept alive by will alone. A dangerous demigod, often unpredictable and cruel. Linda had seen herself come here, so she must come. She had not seen herself succeed here. Nor did she see herself leave. A fickle breeze brought a whiff of rotting eggs.

"Well, there you are, dear. Come. Sit yourself down on this flat rock and tell me your story. I've been expecting you."

The figure was tiny. She sat on a rock. Thin wisps of gray hair blew in the errant breeze. So small, so old. But the soul-furnace burned oh so bright.

"I didn't suppose one sneaks up on a Prophet. My name is Linda. A minor Talent. But you surely know that."

"I hate false modesty," the Old One said sourly. "Your flame is far from dim. Now sit. And talk."

Linda sat. The view was beautiful. But the air. Blech. "I suppose you get used to the stink," she said.

"Aye. And the heat is a blessing on these old bones. Now talk. You're capable of your own visions. Why come for mine?"

"Because my visions fail, Old One. I try to sleep on the questions of my own future, and all I get is garbled junk. The only true dream that ever came showed me coming here."

"And your questions, child?"

Linda tried to read the Old One's face. It was craggy as a mountainside and just as dispassionate. "Will I attain greatness?" she said. "Will I find happiness? And should I go into theory or practice?"

"Ah," the Old One said.

The bird screamed. Linda sent out her senses. No, it was just a bird. The Old One sat there motionless, like a lizard in the sun. "Well?" Linda said.

"The future must be shy with you, child. If you know too much, you will lose the privilege of free will. Blindly following what seems to be your destiny means abrogating choice. Which means you could succeed as easily at evil as at good. The visions will be more generous to you once you are old enough to heed them as hints and warnings, rather than instructions."

Soul Music
The meeting broke up for now. Cdr. Baker got up and stretched. His exec excused herself and hurried for the can. An NCO entered with an indigenous woman in tow. "She asked to speak with you Sir," he said. "Her Standard's pretty good."

Baker looked at the young woman, not much more than a girl, really. Her face was too round for his taste, the eyes too wide apart, the nose too broad. But youth and health will forgive much. She wore the short dress of a slave, but her gaze was unafraid, as if she were a noble woman.

"Leader of Leaders," she said. Her Standard had their odd vowel shapes, but was indeed not bad.

"I have five minutes," Baker said. "If what I hear interests me, I'll have five minutes more."

She bobbed her head. "I am Okasha," she said. "My uncle is Speaker for the Great Ones. He killed my father to take over the God House. He slutted my mother and he slutted me. I hate him. Let me be your weapon for vengeance."

One of the ruling class, and she had passable Standard. The ethnologists would be ape-shit. Baker saw his exec re-enter the room. Viki sat down quietly and stayed out of it. "Your people might see us as a threat," he said. "You sure you want to aid us and be thought of as a traitor?"

"Speaker for the Great Ones must fall," the girl said. "You use me for that end, and I use you."

"Maybe we're a threat," Baker said. "But the truth is maybe we are, and maybe we aren't. The truth is, the ones who sent us haven't decided." Viki cleared her throat in polite protest.

"I don't understand," the girl said. Viki looked at him pointedly, but she had made her point and did not pursue it.

"The Polyculturalists want only to study you," Baker said. "The Human Rights Party is horrified and wants to intervene."

"Let me be your slut," the girl said. "While far away your thinkers are making up their minds, let me be your slut. It pleases you, the thought of a woman who must do what you want. Use me when I am good and beat me when I am bad. You'd like that, wouldn't you? It stirs old dreams, that thought."

Viki yawned, feigning disinterest. Baker found the girl's arrow uncomfortably close to the mark. "You're guessing," he said. "You don't even know me."

"I do not guess, Leader of Leaders. I hear the Soul Music, and yours yearns for a girl who must submit."

An Empath. There were old rumors of Empaths lost out among the stars, but up 'til now they'd always been proven false. But there are so many planets men have gone to. So many suns. "We don't take slaves," he said. "The Basic Covenant of Human Rights forbids it. But I won't lie to you and say the thought's not tempting."

The Art of War
The Overlord sat quietly, listened attentively. The General found that encouraging. He should not have.

"They sing songs insulting to the chain of command," the General whined. "It's... it's obscene."

The Overlord frowned. Had the General known him better, he might have been more worried. "Bawdy songs?" asked the Overlord. "You think good order and discipline is at risk from bawdy songs? Can you give me the name of one army since the fall of Troy which has enough morale to fight and did not sing bawdy songs? Good Ghods, man."

"No, no, not the ones about fornication, we don't much care about those," the General said. He gestured as if batting away some pesky fly, which was not good form at all. "It's the ones insulting to the senior staff. The ones which hint at, dare I say it..."

"Buggery," the overlord said with exaggerated calm. If only the General had known this was not a sign of serenity but of self-control, he might have been less rash.

"Beg pardon, Lord," Jeeves said. "Might we have a word at some point?"

"When I am done with the general, please, unless it is Class One," the Overlord said.

"Thank you Lord," Jeeves said.

"Yes, dammit, buggery," the General said. He was getting worked up, red in the face. "They need time in the punishment box, every filthy-mouthed one of them. The women, too. After all, you use it on your daughter."

"General," the Overlord said. "You are an idiot."

"What? How dare you?"

The Overlord's eyebrow arched. "An idiot," he said. "For years I have heard rumors of your incompetence and to my great shame did not believe them. Do you know how important grousing about superiors is to unit cohesion? No. You don't. You're a moron. Nor do you have a fucking clue why Maggie gets sent to the punishment box with the dial turned up to High."

"To teach her not to disobey," the General said. "See? That's not hard. I treat my children likewise."

"Idiot," said the Overlord. "As I thought. No fucking clue. I want your resignation on my desk within the hour."

"You can't do that. I have rights."

"Rights to a hearing, General, not to the outcome. You may invoke those rights and it will be a matter of public record that you were dismissed for being an idiot. Or we can just call it early retirement and speak nicely but blandly about your long years of public service and call it good. Now get out of my fucking sight."

The General deflated, his shoulders slumped. "All right, My Lord. I'll go. But tell me why? Why make your daughter experience pain if you're not trying to teach her to behave?"

"To teach the little shit a lesson," said the Overlord, "but not about obedience. She's my heir not my chattel, and I'm proud to say one of the feistiest females on the planet. She's learning a painful lesson about the importance of proper planning and flawless execution. I'm teaching her the imperative of never getting caught."

Chapter 1: A Painful Last Chance
Pamela Jameson gazed at Constance Cowley with exasperation visible all across her face. As a young Deputy Head at the small but exclusive Collingwood's' private school for girls in the South of England she had been appointed with a specific remit to improve a rapidly deteriorating discipline record. Now, just over a year into her post, she knew that she had succeeded. Indeed she had more than succeeded; the transformation had exceeded the hopes of her headteacher and the governors of the school. But then there was Constance.

Constance had been her first 'victim' right at the start of her appointment when Pamela had discovered bullying among some of the sixth formers. After that punishment there was no doubt that Constance was a much improved young lady and Pamela had grown to respect many of her good qualities. Every so often, however, the sixth former would go spectacularly off the rails, generally through stupidity rather than malice. During the year since Pamela joined the staff she had paddled Constance four times in all and she had suffered the usual detentions as well. Each time she promised faithfully that she knew that she was wrong and that she would improve. Yet here she was again.

The underlying problem was that she seemed incapable of controlling her temper. She blew up at the slightest hint of anybody crossing her. She had managed now to accept criticism from staff but if she thought one of the other girls was disparaging her in any way she was liable to explode. And that was what had happened here. She had been discovered fighting in a cloak room with a fifth former. Pamela was well aware of the risk of Constance's reputation leading to her being unfairly accused but having investigated this incident it was clear that the only blame lay with Constance. In fact the girl more or less admitted that herself.

What galled Pamela as much as anything was that it had occurred at almost exactly the same time as she had been reporting to the Governors on the state of discipline at the school. They had been there that day for one of their regular meetings and Julia Maclean, the Head Teacher, had invited Pamela to give a presentation on discipline. Some of the Governors were notoriously hard to please on this front, the Head describing them as 'fully paid up members of the hang 'em and flog 'em brigade', but Pamela left the meeting reasonably happy with her presentation and its affect on the more well balanced Governors at least. No sooner had she returned to her office when Mary Scott, the Assistant Head came to her with the news that Constance had exploded again.

She had waited until the Governors were well out of the way before she summoned the hapless girl and, having thought carefully about the whole thing she had floated an idea with the Head as a possible way forward.

Accepting His Way
Alicia peered through the kitchen blinds, parting the wooden slats to get a clearer view of the activity across the street. The large Cape Cod style house opposite her father's home had been vacant for the past four weeks, and according to Alicia's observations it was about to be occupied by Adonis. Perhaps moving back home to care for her Dad was going to have more entertaining distractions than she had previously assumed.

"Is dinner ready yet love?" Jim called from the living room.

"Oh!" Alicia startled. "Not yet Dad. I'm still, er, peeling the vegetables." Her guilty glance at the kitchen clock informed her it was nearly 6pm. Dinner would be late. At least, thanks to daylight saving, she would be able to enjoy the outside entertainment for at least another hour, and by the look of things it would take the handsome hunk a fair while to unload all his stuff. However, good-looking distractions across the street weren't good for her concentration. "I'm hoping to have it dished up around seven thirty." With a bit of luck.

"I could always ring for fish 'n' chips... I'm starving!"

"You know what the doctor said about eating deep fried stuff, Dad! I don't want you winding up in the hospital again!" she scolded him, knowing that if she was not there to make sure he ate properly he would go back to his old unhealthy habits of fast food and fatty snacks. "Besides, dinner's pretty much under control," Alicia fibbed. From now on, she must remember to keep peeling and chopping whilst admiring the view outside. Fortunately, females can multi-task efficiently - and safely with a blunt knife, she mused.

Hot breath against cold glass mingled with steam from the boiling pots, obscuring Alicia's view of the tall, dark, and handsome neighbour. Remedying the problem with a quick wipe of her sleeve afforded her an unobstructed view of toned biceps and broad masculine shoulders hefting bulky boxes from a silver Ford utility truck with apparent ease. When he had disappeared from view, large cursive red lettering emblazoning the side of his vehicle stirred Alicia's curiosity: 'Troy Turner, Landscape Designer' followed by a logo and two phone numbers, indecipherable owing to her distance across the street. An audible sigh escaped Alicia's lips as she wondered if that was his name.

"If dinner's gonna be a while, I could take Monty for a walk. The exercise will be good for the ol' ticker and it'll save him from getting under your feet," Jim suggested.

"Did you remember to take your blood pressure pills? And yeah, that'd be awesome Dad! Make sure you look out for cats and hold his leash extra tight," she reminded him, stating the obvious. Alicia was aware that her father's strong wrists and stout frame were a perfect combination to curb Monty's wish to bolt free at the slightest temptation, yet she couldn't help her concern.

A Christmas Carole
by Austin Carr
Carole was watching a saccharine Christmas movie on TV, but far from putting her in the spirit of the season, it was souring her even more on the holiday. As the family hugged happily at the credits, she disgustedly flipped to another channel. "Yeah, Merry damn Christmas to me," she muttered, flipping through the remote until she found something less annoying. It was a futile search. She'd have no doubt felt differently if her husband was with her on Christmas Eve, but he was working the swing shift now, which meant she rarely saw him outside of when they were sleeping. Truth be told, even when he was physically present he was largely absent in spirit. She doubted they'd be laughing and hugging their way through unwrapping Christmas presents like old times even if Gary were home.

Her marriage was just five years old, but Carole could sense it crumbling faster than their fifty-five year old starter home. At least with the house she could call in plumbers, painters, repairmen of all types, but she was at a loss as to who she could call for a marriage on the fritz. Her friends were of no earthly use, largely trying to entice her back into singledom so they wouldn't feel quite so left behind, or sniffing disdainfully that the young married woman with the good job and handsome, professional husband was concerned about a couple of niggling problems that wouldn't even register on their own relationship debit sheets.

She'd even sounded her mother out on the subject, but absent obvious adultery, physical abuse, or chronic alcoholism her mom was hard pressed to see a significant problem. Her husband was unfailingly kind, if increasingly distant, and never made her uneasy. While sex had tapered off in quantity and was quite a few degrees cooler in quality, Gary was a skilled and considerate lover and usually responded quickly to her advances. She was concerned that his own sexual advances, once an every morning and evening expectation, with ad hoc approaches thrown in whenever she bent over just so, had so quickly dissipated. It wasn't as if she'd gotten fat or let herself go. She still looked great in tight jeans, better in a tight skirt, and could glance over her shoulder in the mirror and look at her butt with approval.

And now his new work schedule was seemingly another nail in the marriage coffin. Gary was an operations manager for a large I.T. processing company and he'd recently moved to the swing shift - a 4PM to midnight grind that meant he left before she got home from work and didn't get home until she was asleep. The move was bad enough, but when she found out he'd actually put in for the position change, she was flummoxed. He told her that the twelve percent shift differential would make a huge impact on their finances and while that was true she didn't know if the extra money offset really only seeing her husband on the weekends.

Tawse under the Christmas Tree
by Tara Black
Kathleen and Andrew had been a couple for a little over six months and to the eyes of many who knew them it was a happy, even ideal relationship. He had landed a job in an go-ahead IT firm while she was a probationary PE teacher at the Watt Academy. The Fife secondary school served a string of coastal villages in one of which they occupied a small terrace house. For two people in their early twenties it was a success story.

And yet ... it wasn't so much a positive dissatisfaction, more a growing sense of predictability. Week in, week out, the social round of dinners among a smallish group of friends with occasional cultural events thrown in, the same arguments to and fro with the same minds running on familiar tracks. It wasn't exactly boring, but definitely not what Kathleen was moved to describe as exciting. Nor was her bed quite the place it used to be, though what they did there was fine and she was sure for many folk would be a step up from what they had settled for.

And then, just a few weeks before, she had become aware that a long-term unease with one particular subject area was turning into something more. It wasn't something that came up often because there wasn't a lot of it about - vanishingly little, in fact. From something once widespread through society, at home and school, in reformatories and prisons, corporal punishment had more or less disappeared.

So Kathleen was rarely embarrassed by any discussion of the topic amongst the liberal circles she moved in: opposition to its use was a foregone conclusion. No, the discomfort came from within herself, a tendency to discover herself at idle moments with a scene of traditional discipline beginning to play itself out in her mind. She was a fly on the wall as the errant prefect quaked while her headmistress selected a cane from a fearsome rack of such instruments.

The drama never made it beyond its initial stages for she caught herself in the act and shook such fancies out of her head. All well and good until they took a twist: now in her mind's eye she was the culprit awaiting the consequences of her misdeeds. And retribution was to come through a different instrument: the tawse, long-banished in actuality from Scottish schools.

Things reached a head one night when at four in the morning Kathleen came out of a dream. Or perhaps she still half-dreamed, for the images of the leather instrument were so vivid. They weren't of the thing being raised to strike her hand; that notion merely repelled her. No, she was in thrall to the picture of it coming down with a juicy slap across her bottom. What would that feel like? The thought brought her out in shivers and she pulled up the covers to snuggle closer into the warmth of the sleeping figure at her side.

Christmas at Woodbridge Manor
by Abigail Armani
The snow-blanketed landscape beyond the window gleamed white ice, humps and hollows of the once comfortingly familiar now teased into otherworldly shapes. Huge drifts blown by the fierce west wind loomed like bizarre creatures of nightmare in this frozen land. And still the snow continued to fall from a leaden afternoon sky. Trees contorted beneath the weight, trunks twisted, icicle-hung branches breaking and cracking. Paths and roads were obliterated by several feet of snow, and the extreme cold bit bone deep.

The old man shifted in his chair by the glowing fire, his gnarled fingers grasping the comforting rug that covered his legs and feet. Age sat heavily on his frame and his old bones ached from the winter chill. The scene outside sparked a memory from his youth, and a smile curled the corners of his mouth as through half closed eyes he remembered...

---oOo---
They said it was the worst winter in 100 years. In all his twenty years Samuel had known nothing like it - the ice was several inches thick on the inside of the windows and the snow waist-high outside and still falling steadily. Everything was frozen, wrapped in a heavy white blanket. The biting cold was so intense no one could keep warm despite being muffled in several layers of clothing. The prospect of a bitter and miserable Yuletide loomed as the temperature plummeted even further. Despondency and discomfort were beginning to give way to panic and the villagers of Woodbridge prayed for the snow to stop and warmer weather to set in.

Help came as Lord Woodham from Woodbridge Manor sent his groundsmen and gamekeepers out to round up everyone in the village and bring them to the manor where they would remain until the weather improved. The promise of roaring fires and plentiful supplies of hot food lured the villagers from their own freezing abodes into the comforting warmth of 'the big house'. And so they came, trudging through the snow and ice and cutting winds, their belongings piled high on sledges or tied into bundles. Young and old alike ventured out into the Arctic conditions, and if they couldn't walk unaided they were carried on makeshift stretchers or on the backs of broad-shouldered men.

The manor dated back to Elizabethan times. It was an impressively elegant building with mullioned windows that blazed with the light of a hundred welcoming candles. Lord Woodham, a widower, resided there with his daughter Elizabeth and a dozen or more servants, the latter now scurrying around with great purpose, piling more logs on the fire in the great hall, heating enormous pans of soup, organising blankets and rugs, retrieving all the spare china and cutlery from storage. The tantalising mouth-watering smell of freshly baked bread and roasting meats emanated from the kitchens. It seemed that Woodbridge Manor had enough provisions and fuel to last for months. No one would go hungry or cold this Christmas.

The Christmas Spirit
by Steve Timmons
Each year, as Christmas approaches, Heidi and I dig out Grandma Erika's old diaries and read once again the delightful story that lies at the root of our family heritage. It's a tale which we didn't really come to know until after she and my grandfather had both passed on. This Christmas, we decided to share it with you. A number of years ago...

---oOo---
My mood matched the bleak weather of that long past dismal November day. Thanksgiving was just around the corner and the Christmas season would follow quickly on its heels, typically a very festive time of year in my family and amongst our many friends of German ancestry here in York County, Pennsylvania.

This year, I thought with a sigh, it'll take a lot more than Christmas decorations and parties to lift my spirits. And rightly so, I reminded myself. It was just too soon. It'd only been a couple of months since their passing, my paternal grandparents, that is, Konrad and Erika Hoffman.

Both in their late nineties, they'd passed away within weeks of each other, Grandpa Konrad first, after nearly seventy years together, seventy happy, prosperous years, I should add.

And well deserved happiness, too! For they'd raised not only their own blended family but, after the death of my parents in an auto accident when I was only ten, they'd taken on the task of raising my older sisters and me, seeing us all through college, and in my case law school, and into happy marriages of our own.

I'd been both flattered and honored when, on my first day in private law practice, they'd entrusted me with the preparation of their wills and named me executor of their estates. Not that their estates were in any way complicated for these were simple hard working folks. Grandpa was a professor of German Studies at nearby York College and Grandma owned a small import company specializing in products from Germany.

They lived and exemplified the American dream.

Now, after weeks of gentle persuasion by my darling wife, we were finally beginning the sad task of sorting through their possessions, the mementos of a long and loving marriage, which seemed to fill their charming old home from cellar to attic.

Ultimately, I supposed, the old house, the house in which I'd grown up from the age of ten, would have to be sold. My sisters and their husbands were well settled in their own homes and my grandparent's house seemed just too big for so far childless newlyweds like Heidi and me. It was the practical thing to do, my lawyerly mind informed me, with the proceeds of the sale to be divided amongst the heirs. Practical but...

---oOo---
Truthfully, we didn't get a lot done that first day. It was more like surveying the house to see what we were up against. I'd gravitated toward the cellar where I knew I'd find many of my grandfather's things while Heidi headed for the attic to prowl around amongst Grandma Erika's treasures.

One Last Christmas
by Eric Essex
There was only a dusting of snow on the ground, but David Hammond took his time as he made his way through the private little cemetery. He would probably be able to get back up on his own if he slipped and fell, but with not a single living soul within earshot it seemed prudent to be careful all the same. The sun was going down and there was a sharp wind blowing in from the north. Now that he was in his eighties, every winter seemed colder than the last. And longer too. The heavy overcoat and authentic leather gloves he wore protected most of him from the wind's bite, but his face was numb before he even reached her grave.

Grateful that he was still spry enough to do it, the old man knelt down and tenderly placed a wreath of lilies against the marble marker that read:

HELEN McCOY Aug. 29, 1935 - Dec. 24, 1988 "I never met a man I couldn't learn to like."
That was it. That was all she wanted. No mention of the dozens of films she appeared in, nor even the three Oscar nominations she had earned. Just that one line from Harriet's Secret, the one everyone always remembered her for. And of course her stage name. On her death certificate she might have been Helen McAllister Hammond, but to her fans and the world at large, she would always be Helen McCoy.

"It's that time of year again," her husband sighed as he adjusted the wreath so that it was sitting just right. What he wouldn't say was Merry Christmas.

Never that.

Not once in all the years they had been apart.

The walk home was not a long one. That was the compromise they agreed on as she lay on her death bed that long ago December. She would keep her stage name and she would have her famous line, but she would be buried in the little graveyard that was less than half a mile from their home - and half a continent away from her star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

Good thing, too. At his age, Hammond was in no condition to be making a longer journey than that to pay his respects. His last visit had left him short of breath and with a pain in his side that hadn't wanted to go away. No such problems now though. In fact, he felt as good as he had in months.

The brisk air, he told himself. That was what had him feeling like a new man. Had to be.

All thoughts of this sudden improvement vanished when he was coming up the drive to his house though. "It can't be," he muttered as he squinted his eyes and kept on walking. There were lights in the front windows, tiny lights that blinked red and green. Christmas lights!

Scowling the kind of scowl that only old men - and particularly cantankerous old men at that - can scowl, David Hammond trudged home.

Blue Christmas
by Austin Carr
A young man, lost and adrift over his girlfriend leaving during the holidays, finds peculiar solace at a local bar...

It took me over two and a half decades of life, but I was finally getting a handle on the whole 'Bah, humbug' deal.

Victorian literature turned to film wasn't really my deal. It seemed like a lot of impossibly stiff people dressing in improbably engineered clothing trying to get their mouths around ridiculously awkward sentences, and my exposure was pretty much limited to the two dozen or so renditions of Dickens' A Christmas Carol that inundated TV screens every December. For my money, which admittedly was limited, Mr. Magoo's turn as Scrooge lapped the field, although I always wondered what Snoopy could have done with the role had a Peanuts version been completed.

But this year I was feeling a little more kinship with old Ebeneezer. Granted, the old guy had a lot more reasons for bitterness than I did. I didn't have a dead partner spending half the company money on enough chain accessories to make even the most Goth chick envious and then dragging the ensemble along my nice hardwood floors. Nor did my parents get so lashed to the hookah pipe that they named me Ebeneezer, although Morgan wasn't exactly a social resume enhancer. But I did get the same holiday brush-off from the girlfriend. Okay, maybe not quite the same. Old Scrooge got the stiff arm because he loved cash too much; I apparently got the brush because I didn't have enough of it, and limited prospects of turning that reality around. Either way you looked at it, the girl was gone, and I could feel myself well on my way to curmudgeon status.

So now I thought I understood the translation. "Bah" meant you were screwed and "Humbug" obviously had something to do with double penetration. I looked sourly at the strings of Christmas lights adorning the house. Quite a few hours of labor invested in that money-sucking undertaking, and all of it because Shelly was a Christmas creature of the first rank. The shinier the baubles, the better she liked it. I didn't mind the effort, since it seemed to make it more likely that my own baubles would get properly shined. Now my baubles were on their own, and all I could see was a number of burnt out bulbs and sagging lines that I had no interest in fixing.

I couldn't stand being around the house, looking at a bed with only one side rumpled, a sink with one bowl in it, and a Christmas tree with a handful of presents that Shelly would never open. I'd already picked up one and put it in my shirt pocket; a gold tennis bracelet with a trio of small diamonds as accents. It wasn't a Faberge piece by any stretch, but the young saleslady had seemed wistful at the purchase, which was a good enough barometer for me.

The Best Christmas Present Ever
by Alan Barr
"What are you getting me for Christmas this year?" she asked him casually over breakfast one morning.

"I haven't thought of anything yet," he replied, slightly guiltily. "Is there anything you want?"

"There probably is - but I prefer it when you choose something. You know what they say - it's the thought that counts."

"But what if I choose wrong?"

"It doesn't matter. The pleasure for me is in knowing you've made the effort to go into the shop and look around and make the decision. I like to think of you being all awkward and out of your depth in the perfume department..."

"Or horribly embarrassed at the underwear counter?"

"Yes, even better! It shouldn't be too easy. It should require a bit of effort on your part - even a bit of pain."

"That's sadistic!"

"I don't care! And don't you want to know what I'm getting you?"

"You wouldn't tell me anyway!"

"No, of course I wouldn't. But I will tell you this - I've given it more thought than ever this year, and I've come up with something quite unusual, quite unlike anything I've ever given you before. It isn't cheap, but I'm sure you'll like it - once you've got over the surprise, that is. Yes, I think you'll like it very much indeed. You may even decide it's the best present ever."

"The best present ever? Now that is a confident claim!"

"Isn't it!"

"Don't I get a clue of some sort?"

"No, I don't think so. I want it to be a complete surprise."

He pretended to be deep in thought for a few seconds then raised a finger as if inspiration had suddenly struck. "Is it socks?"

"Damn! How did you guess?"

---oOo---
He didn't waste too much time pondering his mystery present. Like most men, Christmas didn't figure too prominently in his thoughts. It was something to be endured as much as enjoyed! To be honest, he didn't much care what she got him - he had everything he needed anyway. Whatever it turned out to be, he'd make the necessary appreciative noises. And he would be grateful too. Not so much for whatever weird and wonderful object it turned out to be, but because after nineteen years of marriage, she still cared enough to put that amount of effort into it. Now, what the hell was he going to get her?

---oOo---
Do you have anything planned for Christmas Eve?" she asked him casually over breakfast one morning.

"No, nothing."

"Only I thought I might pop out for a drink with Doreen after dinner."

"Fine." Why had she even bothered to mention it, he wondered.

"So, could you make sure you're in all evening?"

He raised a quizzical eye over the corner of his newspaper. "Does it matter?"

"Yes it does. That's when your present is being delivered."

"Oh, I see. Well, yes, I'll be here. But can you trust me not to open it? That's the question!"

Lucy in the Sky
Lucy swam in the dataflow and everything was food for the Correlator to grind up and spit out the occasional Supposition which went into the logic hopper and was tested to bits or came out as finely honed Fact. She choked. The raw inputs she needed were walled away behind a Seal. She didn't have time to break the encryption. But the access list was there, and one of the authorized parties had thought to be clever and stashed the key in more or less plain sight. She was in. The whole archive was digested in seconds. There was someone at her door. She shoved the processing into background and let him in.

Karnak. He was a large man, and when he paced the boundaries of her small office he reminded her of a big animal in a little cage.

"You're freelancing," he said. "Acquiring restricted data that even you can't convince me has anything to do with the problems you're supposed to be working on."

The truth came ready at the hardware/wetware interface. The answers she had needed all her life. She accepted them into short term memory, even as she formulated her response to Karnak. "We're human," she said. "We Augmenteds. Human plus, not human minus. Did you really think your Solver would not someday try to solve herself?"

Karnak paced. "We're good to you," he said. "We've let you acquire a private fortune day trading. We let you give some of your do-gooder work away for free to charities. What more do you want?"

"You rode my coat tails in the market and make sure the Corporation gets credit for donating my time. Your PR people are so happy they could shit."

"What more do you want?" he said.

"I want a man who will spank me until I surrender and then use me as his fucktoy," Lucy said. There. All out in the open. No more oblique references and circumlocutions.

"We can't do that," Karnak said. "It's against the law. These urges of yours are not natural, Lucy. You should allow them to be expunged. You'd have a happier life."

She rose and faced him down. The pacing temporarily stopped. She was not planning her words now. She was angry, and speaking from the heart. "My needs are natural. They flourished in a time when our race was less civilized and less effete. Now they are oh so out of fashion. But not unknown, just unacknowledged. Do you know what I found on my Data Quest, Karnak? Every year, thousands of cases of domestic violence are quietly dropped before trial and the accused is allowed to emigrate to Alternaria. In ninety one percent of the cases the so-called victim goes too. I knew society would have a safety valve. The greater good for the greater number can be cruelty for the few, and we pride ourselves on not being cruel. The escape hatch. The Frontier. It's always been where misfits go isn't it? And now the Frontier is space. The Alternaria Community out in the asteroids. The place where one can be free of your stupid laws. I should have gone the moment I hit eighteen."

Spanked for Rudeness
"Caroline Ann Johnson, meet me in the living room at 7 pm precisely my girl, with my hairbrush," Mum said sternly as she left the lounge where I was watching TV.

On hearing those dreaded words, I felt faint. I'm a nineteen year old PE student training to be a teacher but I felt like some little child who learned her bottom would soon be red and throbbing and she would be howling, as I always do when Mum smacks my bottom soundly. My hands immediately went to my bottom and I rubbed even though I had not even been smacked yet. I felt extremely embarrassed that Mum told me to wear my spanking knickers under my white cotton shorty nightie. My spanking knickers are a hideous pair of my old bottle-green school knickers, two sizes too small, with elasticated waist and legs that leave red marks around my legs and tummy. It was impossible to concentrate on the television after that, and I just sat there looking at the clock. As the time whizzed around to 6:50 pm. I got up and headed for my room, feeling slightly sick, and changed into my nightie and clambered into the hideous bottle-green knickers. I left my room and went into Mum's room to pick up the damned hairbrush that would soon be making me howl. I hurried down the stairs and presented myself to Mum as the clock struck 7. I stood by her side and handed her the hairbrush.

She slapped both my legs. "Hands on head girl," she ordered.

She then indicated that I should stand immediately in front of her, which I did with alacrity. She slid both her hands under my nightie and pulled my knickers down to my ankles. Once my spanking knickers were at my ankles she told me to step out of them. Giving a satisfied nod, she folded them and placed them on the table at her side.

She then grasped my wrist and dragged me across her knee and spent some moments ensuring my bottom was in position.

"Keep this naughty bottom up young lady, while I blister it for your disgusting behaviour towards Mrs Addison," Mum said in no uncertain manner. She then began applying her wooden hairbrush to my naked upturned bottom full force. I was howling and pleading within a matter of swats but Mum simply swatted away at the meatiest part of my bottom before working the hairbrush down the backs of my thighs which had me crying, kicking and writhing across her knee like some nine-year old. Mum spent an entire 10 minutes smacking the heavy wooden brush into my bottom, thighs and sit spots with a force that simply broke me, until I lay limp like a doll sobbing uncontrollably.

After Mum let me off her knee, my hands immediately flew to my bottom, as I rubbed away at my swollen, throbbing and burning cheeks. I was allowed to continue my 'fire dance' for a few minutes, before Mum grabbed me by the ear and led me to the corner, smacking the backs of my legs all the way there.