LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

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.