LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

Where There's a Will
by Patrick Kaykes
Alison grew up a lonely girl. She was sickly, with more than her share of ordinary childhood diseases, colds and infections. Her parents moved six times before she was 10 years old, and didn't settle in one place until she was 13. As a result, she was in and out of a number of schools, and never had a real opportunity to develop friendships with other children.

At age 14, Alison entered high school. She was not a pretty girl. Constantly tangled frizzy hair, a larger than average nose, sunken cheeks, and a ragged, acne scarred face overshadowed the sweetness of the person under the surface. She was short and rail thin, and had not yet developed breasts or any bottom to speak of. Though that was not uncommon among girls her age, it felt devastating when combined with her lack of traditional beauty. The kinder students in Brockington High School referred to her as homely. The less kind called her ugly. And the truly mean students called her names - to her face, and behind her back - which were far worse.

Many in high school are treated poorly by other students; teasing, hazing, pranks and a variety of remarkably creative humiliations are heaped upon an incoming freshman. For the least popular, this continues through graduation. But most students have a friend or two to help them along, to share in the misery, as well as in the less frequent celebrations. Alison never had that. Inexperienced in making friends, she was socially shy. The meaner girls chided her for her physical flaws, so she began to think of herself as repulsive. The only physical feature she liked about herself was her kind, green eyes. She usually looked toward the ground when speaking in class, but when she did look up for a few seconds those eyes twinkled, as if she had happiness inside her just dying to get out. Her eyes offered a fleeting glimpse of the person she wanted to be, though in Brockington, very few noticed or cared.

Though she may not have been physically attractive at the time, Alison was extremely intelligent. Her shyness and lack of self esteem did not extend to her studies. Even as a freshman, she always knew the answer in class, always had her assignments done, and always aced her exams. Unfortunately, this did not help her standing with the other students. If anything, it made it worse. The other, more popular girls were jealous of her intelligence, and the boys were scared off by it.

In Physical Education class one day, the students were practicing gymnastics. They would rotate through the various stations: the pommel horse, the balance beam, gymnastic rings, and the climbing rope - and when done, begin the rotation again. There were no future Olympians in the class, but some of the girls were quite athletic. Alison was not very good at gymnastics, but she was always game to try.

A Submissive's Dream Fulfilled
It never ceased to amaze Helen that it was perfectly feasible to become stuck in a 3-lane crawl of traffic even at one o'clock in the morning - even on a Sunday morning! As a result the very positive feelings that had been growing in her all evening as she and her partner Mike had sat at a very well-supplied table with their hosts, enjoying the benefits of Julie's culinary skills and of the refined taste of John, Julie's partner - also CEO of the highly successful company where Mike was working - had all but vanished by the time they finally turned off the motorway and made their way along the side-road that led to the home that they had created together during the nine years that they had shared.

Helen went into the house whilst Mike parked the car in the garage. She threw her very expensive leather handbag onto the table in the hallway then kicked her equally expensive shoes off. Even though she had nothing whatsoever to prove to her partner or to their hosts for the evening, she enjoyed taking the time and trouble to look somewhat different from her normal workday appearance - which was by no means displeasing to anyone who met her. However, Helen had a mind of her own and she was not one for being deflected from her intentions, no matter how well-meaning people were in reminding her of just how attractive she was. This was not to suggest that she was in anyway unhappy with the way she looked - it was just that Helen liked things to be at their best. Second-best did not feature in the dictionary where she was concerned. Paradoxically, she was remarkably forgiving and tolerant towards others who did not always emulate her efforts at achieving the highest standards and who failed to make the best of their attributes and talents. Surprisingly, one such person was none other than her partner, Mike, whom she had known for a good twelve years and with whom she had shared the previous nine years of her life.

Part of Helen's efforts at achieving the high standards that she had set for herself involved at least twelve hours a week at the gym, where she and Mike had joint membership. To look at them both, it would appear that their membership fee was well spent, but part of the credit for Mike having kept himself in fairly good condition had to go to a local and very successful rugby team in which he played quite regularly as a prop forward.

Mike was about six years older than Helen and, consistent with his sporting role, he was tall and ruggedly built. He was also ingenious and imaginative, characteristics that served him well in the workplace and in his social life. Having graduated from a very forward-looking Northern university with a first class honours degree in Chemistry, he had found a very promising position within the Research and Development Department at a small but highly successful and adventurous textile manufacturing company, which had had the vision to sponsor him after two years service, for a post-graduate course in Materials Sciences, in which he had specialised in textile research.

Driven to Tears
James was more than a little frustrated at his inability to locate the item he was seeking amongst the boxes and dust-sheets high in the roof of Penbury Manor, and there was many an unparliamentary expression that only the strictest self-discipline prevented from echoing round the semi-ordered loft space filled with the bric-a-brac accumulated by several generations of the Penbury family.

He was distracted momentarily by an enormous box, and yielded, without too great a struggle, to the temptation to slip briefly back to an earlier era when the sound of superbly crafted Basset-Lowke model locomotives had echoed around his playroom, hauling chocolate and cream coaches, or collections of goods wagons that have long since disappeared from the modern railway, through the O-gauge scale model of Great Kingsford station and the surrounding area.

Like James himself, the appealing straightforwardness of the external appearance had belied the complexity of the hidden workings of this layout. That, however, had gone the way of the loose-coupled trains that had once held James in total fascination at the goods yard, where he had been allowed to watch the manoeuvrings of busy tank engines as they rearranged the daily pick-up goods train. All that remained now were the locomotives, wagons and coaches, each wrapped with meticulous care in several sheets of tissue paper.

Great Kingsford had also become almost unidentifiable with the bustling little station it had once been, playing host now to sleek local trains that hummed, rather than puffed, and to fast-moving Inter City expresses that were gone almost before you knew they were there. Where once James had stood, talking to the kind signalman who was nearing the end of a long working life on the railway, and listening to the metallic protests of point levers and rodding and the almost whistling sound of signal wires, there was now a small, readily-identifiable late 20th century trading estate, separated from the new housing estate by two very artificial-looking rows of trees and an access road.

James' mind returned to the loft space and, at last, his gaze fell upon a dust sheet that created a profile of just the right size and shape. Carefully, he made his way across to it, lifted the cover and shuddered slightly as he recalled the hinged trestle with the velvet-lined padded cross piece at the top. He looked down at the two handles on one of the frames and felt his mind being drawn back, once again.

James had not escaped correction entirely during his school career and had, on one occasion, joined four other boys with whom he had been caught in flagrante delicto with an illegal packet of cigarettes, in what had mistakenly been assumed to be an area of the school grounds that escaped supervision by those in authority there.

These five boys had stood nervously in the dark oak-panelled corridor that led to the headmaster's study, to which access was via a heavy-looking door with quite a large pane of heavily-frosted glass in the centre of the upper half.

Lucy's Story
Several years ago, I was taken from an orphanage by Madame Natalina, made her ward and put to her service. She was, in many ways, a kindly woman, but was an even greater stickler for discipline than the women at the orphanage. She added the tawse and the cane to the birch as her instruments of correction, and my bottom was frequently subjected to the application of all three.

I will here give you a typical example of the kind of day on which I was severely chastised and its aftermath.

Sunday was my Mistress's favoured day for administering corporal punishment. She would announce on Saturday evening that I was to be punished on the following day. This meant that I would spend the night in abject terror, feeling my poor bottom and imagining what would soon be happening to it. I often touched myself to give myself some comfort, although this was a 'two-edged sword' as I would have to confess it to my Mistress, and receive further severe punishment as a result.

I would arise early and put on my working uniform - a blue checkered dress, black stockings, and tight white knickers - and do my household tasks, which included lighting the fire, cleaning the toilet and bathroom, dusting, and finally, after changing into my maid's uniform, making my Mistress her early morning cup of tea.

I would then repair to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. My Mistress would then appear, birch rod in hand (which I had made the previous day) and make me bend over the kitchen sink, filled with icy cold water in which I immersed my hands. She would then raise my dress, pull down my knickers and apply the rod in swingeing fashion to my bare buttocks.

The extreme contrast between the cold in my hands and the spreading warmth in my loins was a salutary experience. She would usually give me about forty strokes in several separate applications. In the meantime, I had to keep my skirt up and my knickers down so that she could see the effect of her ministrations, and so that I would be immediately available for more. It was often almost more than I could cope with, as I had to have breakfast on the table at a specified time.

Then - and this was almost the worst part - clothed in my uniform, she would take me to church where, with my burning bottom sitting on a hard pew, I would have to sing pretty little hymns and listen to long, boring sermons, all the while being very aware of the pain that was to come.

---oOo---
To continue my doleful story, the preparation for the inevitable was in itself a dreadful experience.

First, I had to get the place of my punishment ready. I would place three cushions - one on top of a stool placed at the end of the bed; one on the bed rail to receive my tummy and one on the bed itself to bury my face in as my Mistress could not bear to hear me howl or shed tears, both of which were always forthcoming in plenty.

Hilary Cline had always been fascinated by her aunt's alma mater. Set among the rolling woodland of New England, it had a proud tradition of educating women that went back to 1879. It took its motto seriously: respiciunt futura praeteritis ad honorem, which meant something like respect the past to honour the future, or maybe the other way about, Hilary was never too sure. But Clyburn had always pursued progressive thinking while maintaining traditional methods of discipline. It had been one of the first ladies' colleges to advocate the vote, one of the first to admit black women and boasted one of the first lady state governors among its graduates.

Hilary's young aunt had graduated back in 1965 and it had always been her and the family's wish that her niece follow in her footsteps. Hilary had been in her teens back then and more than a little impressionable. Not that she had been immediately convinced that she even wanted to go to college. Then one Thanksgiving she had come to find her aunt had come to visit on her way back from Clyburn.

Hilary had flown up the stairs to the guest room and had swept in without knocking.

Aunt Clarice was lying half naked face down on the bed with an ice pack on her tail end. Even obscured by the ice bag, it wasn't hard to see her aunt's purple rear and for Hilary to work out that her heroine had been very soundly spanked.

"Busted," Clarice blushed. "You won't tell your mom will you? She will just have to tell mine if you do."

Clarice rolled her eyes as she spoke and then winced.

"But you're... you're way too old to be spanked," Hilary had said with something like awe.

"Not at Clyburn kiddo, there it is practically mandatory," Clarice said ruefully.

"But what did you do?" Hilary had asked with wide innocent eyes.

"Best you don't know kiddo, let's just say I had it coming." Clarice grimaced.

"Was it a paddle?" Hilary asked as she came nearer. She had seen the girls at high school's backsides after a trip to see the principal. She couldn't take her eyes from her aunt's tail end.

"This time it was, but they can use just about anything at Clyburn," Clarice told her. "They have some very quaint traditions."

That had been a turning point for Hilary. After that, and for reasons she could not then or since fathom, studying at Clyburn was all that she ever wanted.

---oOo---
A dozen troublesome thoughts ran through Hilary's head, all competing for her consideration. But only one of these notions came with free tummy-butterflies and that was the one she tried to suppress. Well she couldn't say she hadn't been warned beforehand and she certainly should have known better now, Hilary thought as she picked her way between the trees back to her block house.

The block houses at Clyburn were like small mansions set higgledy-piggledy among the trees.

A Dreamer in Godsland
"Not a punishment, exactly," her teacher said. "More along the lines of a training exercise. Though it will afford you ample time to meditate on your imperfections."

Lurileth sighed and brushed a stubborn strand of hair out of her face. "Inattentiveness," she said. "Arrogance. Haste."

"Indeed," her teacher said. "I've said it so many times. Power comes too easily to us. Wisdom does not. So we must overcompensate by erring on the side of caution."

Caution did not come naturally to Lurileth. Her youthful instincts shouted that Doing Something was always better than letting Fate take its course. "I know," she said. Trouble is, the old teacher had probably said it too many times, and the lesson's edge had been dulled by repetition.

"And just what do you think this exercise will be teaching, child?"

A month of slavery? Too easy. "Humility," said Lurileth.

"Of course," her teacher said. She could hear the dripping sarcasm. Damn. She had answered quickly and chosen the obvious. Wasn't he always telling her to look beyond the obvious?

"You're suggesting that I'm missing something," she said. "I confess I don't know what."

"Empathy," he said.

She stood aghast. "You want me to feel for them? Compromise my objectivity?"

"Of course," he said. "We're nearly the same species, after all. You have every need to feel for them. But yet you must..."

"Yes, I know," she said. "Err on the side of caution. Can we go over the rules of the exercise just one more time?"

"Of course. For thirty days you will pose as a slave and suffer whatever they choose to do, and not use your power to mitigate your lot."

"But I can use it to continue the deception? Heal threatening injury? Things like that?"

"Listen to what I have said," her teacher admonished. "And to what I have not said."

Ah, yes. He didn't even say she was forbidden to meddle in their affairs. She carefully avoided asking for further clarification, which could only narrow her scope. "Just pay attention," she said. "Don't assume I know everything. Don't be hasty. And err on the side of caution."

"Exactly," her teacher said. It seemed that he almost smiled.

---oOo---
The man looked her up and down. She returned his stare, which was far from wise. "We'll call you Leah," he said. "Because you remind me of the first rich bitch I ever tamed. You have that same bearing. As if you're as good as everybody else. You'll learn."

"Yes sir," said Lurileth. They led her to a room already full of girls. Girls as young as she looked. As young as she felt. Some girls were crying. Some were rocking back and forth, encased in some self-made Hell. One was praying. That one drew her, nearly against her will.

"Hello. They call me Leah. What's your name? What are you doing?"

"Bet," the girl said. "I'm praying to the Goddess of Slaves, trying to lighten my load."

A Spanking Good Holiday
"I need a man. Desperately."

Dylan stared at the well-filled emerald green bikini in his doorway. This was the fantasy he'd cherished ever since he was fourteen. Dreams do come to life, apparently.

"Please, I want you, right now. I have to have a man right away."

It was a very attractive bikini, attached to an hourglass figure. Dylan reluctantly forced his gaze to move up a little, scanning eyes that almost matched the green of those lovely triangles of fabric, a cute little nose and pointed chin, full lips, and chestnut coloured hair (a previous girlfriend had objected to his description of 'orangey-brown' and trained him in hair colour recognition).

"Please? Now? It's urgent."

Just after he arrived last night he'd heard someone moving into the holiday unit next to his, and hoped they'd be fun neighbours for the next two weeks. Looked like he was going to be having a whole lot more fun than he expected.

"Uh, sure, ok..."

She spun around and bounced down the path. He followed in a happy libidinous haze, enjoying the rear view immensely. Her slender waist flared out into rounded hips, and that tiny bikini was working hard to stay in control of a lovely full bottom. Luckily it was failing in the task, and two smooth cheeks peeped out from under the valiant little piece of fabric. Above that, her hair fell in rippling curls down to her waist. He looked at the cheeky view again... this day just kept getting better and better.

The entry to her unit was around the corner of the building. He followed the bouncing bottom around the turn then collided with her - she'd stopped short. Reluctantly he stepped back, hoping for a whole lot more collisions in the near future - the feel of her soft roundness against him was better than any fantasy he could imagine.

"There." She was pointing at a small white car.

Hmmm... back seat of the car? A traditional location, but not nearly as comfortable as indoors. Maybe that was a sign that he was getting old. At fourteen he'd have been in that car in under a second. At thirty he wanted someplace more comfortable, and private.

"Maybe you could come back to my place? It's cooler there."

"No, I want to stay here while you do it. I need to know it's done properly."

Somewhere deep in the last logically-functioning part of his brain, Dylan started to wonder if they were on the same track.

"In the car?"

"Yes. Go on, do it."

That horribly logical voice was getting stronger. He had an uneasy suspicion that they weren't thinking about the same thing at all.

"Um.... do what exactly?"

She handed him the car keys and pointed to the rear of the car. "Open the boot."

She couldn't use a key for herself? He shrugged, women were a law unto themselves. As long as they wore bikinis, it didn't matter how illogical or inept they were, it was worth it for the view.

A Slippering for Nathalie
Nathalie sat on the arm of the settee and gazed unseeingly at the stream of turgid trivia that appeared to have established itself as the standard pattern for Saturday evening 'entertainment' on the television. Half of her mind was numb with complete boredom, the other was frustrated at her apparent inability to shake herself out of a rut of admittedly very comfortable apathy away from her workplace - not that there was any chance of apathy even finding its way into the vocabulary of her working life, or that of any of her professional colleagues.

The pile of books on the shelf underneath her pc monitor, flanked by half-completed notes and sundry items of stationery of the type that so often decorate a work desk of that type, challenged her inertia, but without eliciting an effective response. For Nathalie, life away from the workplace had become like an afternoon out in the stifling airlessness of the African plains. She sipped mechanically at the mug of lukewarm tea in her hand before reaching for the remote control for the television, to see if it really was true that a change of visual dietary input could be refreshing. Apart from one advertisement that always brought a smile to her face, it was not and the ponderous burden of immobilising dullness crushed every last effort at climbing out of the rut. In fact, she was on the point of wondering if she was becoming depressed when her slow-moving thought processes were awoken with a jolt by a distinctive ringing tone from her mobile phone. She looked at the display and smiled half-heartedly to herself.

"Hi, Neil, wasn't expecting to hear from you. Thought you were away in the depths of Cornwall this week."

Despite the fact that she felt more comfortable with Neil than she had with anyone who shared her specific interests, she found it a great effort to muster the energy needed to inject some sparkle of life into her vocal tone, something that did not escape the notice of the caller.

"You sound listless and lethargic, Nathalie. Haven't you managed to kick-start yourself yet?"

Nathalie thought that her sigh had been inaudible, but she was mistaken.

"So, still bumping along on a slow train to nowhere, are you, Nat?"

There was genuine concern and interest in Neil's voice and this fanned a small ember in the pile of ashes that was obscuring Nathalie's vision of what needed to be done and could be done, if only she could shake herself out of her lethargy. A smile flickered across her interesting and kind young face, to which Neil had taken a great liking from the moment they had first met - to Nathalie's surprise and delight.

Nathalie's response was a barely audible grunt.

Neil's reply, in stark contrast, was characterised by a decisive and almost authoritative tone. "Well, Nathalie, I've had to postpone my trip to Cornwall until Tuesday, so I'm driving there on Monday, which leaves tonight and tomorrow free. Have you got a couple of hours free for a natter?"

Prologue
Andrea Mahony set her trusty ebony hairbrush aside, sighed and rang a bell on a small table next to her armchair.

Within a minute of the tinkling bell being rung, a petite and attractive blonde girl of about eighteen years old came into the room. She was dressed as most office receptionists and looked neat and tidy. Her blonde hair floated around her face as she shook it out. "You rang, Miss Andrea?" she asked.

"Yes Kimberley." Andrea smiled up at the girl. "I've finished with Tommy now. Are there any free corners in reception?"

"They're all free at present, Ma'am," Kimberley replied with a smile.

"Excellent. Would you please take Tommy to a change room and pop him into a spanking apron and then put him on display in a corner until his mother comes to collect him. She shouldn't be too long."

"Delighted Ma'am." Kimberley held out a hand to the grimacing boy. At eighteen, he loathed spanking and public corner-time, it was bad enough being in Aunty Andrea's office. He also hated wearing the spanking aprons. They were normal aprons with no backs. Andrea used them to publicly display freshly spanked bottoms because they left the bottom bare, but preserved modesty by covering both the front of the upper and lower body. Tommy stepped out of his trousers and underpants, and as Andrea watched she hid a giggle as Tommy's red bottom jiggled as he trailed behind Kimberley to the change room.

Fortunately for Tommy his public ordeal was short and also not very public. Quite often there were many other customers in reception. Aside from the recently spanked customers were many adults who felt a need for the type of discipline that Andrea administered - and they could often be seen waiting their turn over Andrea's busy knee. Parents and guardians waiting for Andrea to finish spanking their charges could usually be seen. However, right now reception was empty except for Kimberley, who calmly dealt with her paperwork only glancing up occasionally to make sure that the young man was still in position and was not attempting to surreptitiously rub his hot red bottom cheeks.

Although there was no one in reception it did not mean that Kimberley was the only person who could see evidence that someone had recently been naughty and paid painfully for it. The windows were open to the street and all the corners in reception were visible from the street. Any passer-by could easily see the glowing red bottoms.

Tommy's mother was not long in arriving. He had only been in the hated corner for five minutes when she arrived to pick up her badly behaved young man on her way home from work.

"Hello Kim," she said with a smile and then looked at her son's recently smacked bottom. "Oh, Aunty Andrea did a good job on you, didn't she?"

"Yes Mum," the boy said.

"Well, you had better get dressed while I pay Miss Kimberley for your spanking."

Bottom of the Class
Julianne joined the other students filing into the assembly hall, trying to suppress a smile. This was it, the day she'd been working towards. She knew her final exam results were superb. She'd be Dux of the school for sure. Then on to university, and life would be wonderful. Perfect planning. Julianne knew she was about to be called up in front of the whole school to be commended by the principal. She had worked so hard for this moment, and it was all about to pay off.

Mr Cooper smiled at the assembled faces. "Before we begin the assembly proper I would like to call Julianne Stemple up to the stage." Julianne stood up and made her way to the stage, smiling modestly. "Now everyone here knows Julianne. I would like to say that her exam results are the best ever recorded for our school." Scattered applause. Julianne glowed. "In fact they show a remarkable improvement on her work in previous years." Julianne smiled. "A truly remarkable improvement." The smile shrank a little. She'd certainly needed to use all her resources to get those results. "Such a result certainly gets our school noticed, which affects all of you. In fact, I have some students here who would like to congratulate Julianne personally on her work." Julianne watched six students file on stage. The smile stayed in place, but only because every muscle in her body was paralysed.

Steven Ho, Daniel Hattersley, Connie Stamopoulos, David Vella, Mei Ling, and Emma Simpson-Browne filed onto the stage. The colour slowly drained from Julianne's face.

"Each of these students came to me and told me a similar story. It took courage for them to do so. I'd like them to share those stories with all of you."

Daniel stepped forward. "My father is a minister, her family go to our church. A week before the exams she came to me and said she'd go to the police and say my father had touched her unless I put her name on my Science paper."

The watching students started to pay much more attention than usual.

After a moment's hesitation, Connie Stamopoulos stepped forward. "Julianne asked me to go shopping with her after school. As we came out of one shop the alarm went off. Julianne had slipped a blouse into my bag. She ran away and the shop people caught me. I paid for the blouse but they said they'd call the police if it happened again. Then just before the exams she said if she told on me I'd be expelled, I'd never get to university, and my family would be shamed, so I had to put her name on my Economics paper and she'd put my name on hers.

And so it went on. Emma's English results in exchange for her silence about a trip to a certain clinic; Mei Ling's computer course results or photographs of Mei with her boyfriend would be sent to her father; Steven's Maths paper or she'd tell the police he'd tried to sell drugs to her; David's History marks or she'd report him for car theft.

The Girl who Tied Herself
Sandy wore a thin silk sheath with nothing underneath. She liked the way it felt. Opaque, but thin. Real thin. She held a leather belt. Should she? The risky badgirl need poured into her and she lifted the hem of her dress and wrapped the belt around her knees. Nope. Too much left over. But if she wrapped it once around one leg and then around both, she could cinch it tight. There. Only her lower legs had mobility now, giving her a slow short gait. It made her feel so helpless. Would he like it? What would he think? A knock at the door and she hobbled over to answer it. Her face was hot.

It was Craig and his face lit up. "Hi," he said.

She let him in and closed and locked the door. Her heart was pounding. Would he say anything, or would he just stand there looking at her with bedroom eyes?

"You look great," he said. "Too bad they won't let you dress like that at work."

"Nice enough to hug?" she asked. If it sounded shy she wasn't pretending. On the one hand she was being very bold, but doubt made her simultaneously shy. He gave her a nice hug, and then she felt his hand trace the outlines of her rump through the thin silk. He'd know she wasn't wearing panties. What would he think when he discovered her self-restraint beneath the dress?

"It's like a dream," he said.

But she had her own needs, her own agenda. "Sometimes I'm not a very nice person," she said. "Sometimes I think I should be punished."

He hugged her close. "Oh come on," he said. "You're a very nice person and you know it."

Well, yeah. Objectively she was nice enough. But subjectively she felt bad and wanted discipline. Couldn't he just take that at face value? "Sometimes I want someone to hurt me, Craig. Like now."

"We have to do some work on your self-esteem, I think," he said. He tipped her face up with his finger.

Damn it, no. Feelings weren't supposed to be analyzed. Feelings weren't supposed to be changed. They just were. "I'm asking you to spank me, Craig," she said. "Don't try and figure it out, just do it."

He clung to her and it felt real good. "I wasn't going to ask 'til later," he said. His voice was gentle. "But I could take you to bed and make you feel better. Would you like that?"

They were just getting to know each other. It was way too soon for that. "Not right now," she said. "But if you spank me good, I'll do stuff you like afterward. I'm fun when I'm grateful, even though you won't quite get laid."

He let her go and stepped back. "Maybe it wasn't such a good idea, my coming here," he said. "I think I better go."

"No, Please. Let's talk." Bitterness. A sense of loss.

Maria, what are you doing in there?"

"I'm getting dressed, Papa."

"Everybody is here and waiting for you."

"Well, I'm the bride and there is no wedding without me, so just let them wait."

"Maria, I'm warning you, if you are not downstairs in ten minutes, I am going to..."

"Going to what, Papa?"

"Send up Juan. He knows how to deal with you."

She smiled at the thought of Juan coming upstairs just now. The hell with the old wives tale about the groom seeing the bride before the actual ceremony. Juan would appreciate seeing her in the lacy bra, panties, and the garter belt holding up her silk stockings. She was wearing high heels and would do a little pirouette to let him get the full view. Oh, his prim and proper upbringing might kick in initially and he would threaten to take her over his knee if she didn't behave. Which wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing. I think I just might have to dawdle a little longer. Nothing like a bride blushing with afterglow, she thought to herself.

---oOo---
Cars had been traveling the road to Rolling Hills Ranch all day. The marriage of Maria Elena Bartolá and Juan Antonio Cabrillo was taking place on this the first day of 1946. The world had been made safe for democracy. California was beginning to experience the growth that would eventually propel it to the most populous and popular state in the union. Southern California was teeming with jobs and the promise of a better life. Returning military personnel were only too happy to migrate to this Golden State after experiencing a taste of 'paradise' while in the service. However, in this part of the state, the pace was a little slower and the aristocratic Spanish heritage was still very much in the forefront. Rolling Hills Ranch sat high atop the hills of the Monterey Peninsula.

With the setting sun glistening on the Pacific, it was the perfect backdrop for these two Californios. The Bartolá's and the Cabrillo's had lived on this land for generations. Hundreds of invitations had been sent and accepted because this was an event not to be missed. It was the first social event of this new year and although the union of these two families wasn't a surprise, it was surprising it had taken so long.

White, slat-back wooden chairs tied with white bows and white seat cushions were set in equal rows on either side of an aisle lined with baskets of flowers. The scent of the flowers combined with the salty sea air gave off a heady aroma. The priest stood at the head of the aisle, under the arched entrance to a gazebo covered in fragrant night blooming jasmine and watched as the bride walked down the aisle on the arm of her father. Juan stood to the right of the priest with his brother Joaquin standing beside him. Maria Elena was a vision in a long sleeved white satin gown, with a sweetheart neckline trimmed with hundreds of seed pearls.

Daddy Meanest
"You're just doing this to spite me," Daddy grumped. "The gossip divas are already feasting on my flesh."

Typical Daddy, somewhat clueless, utterly self-absorbed. "Not everything's about you, Daddy," Kaylee said. "If I didn't really want to do this, if I was hurting myself just to spite you that would be... ick. I'm not that vindictive. Not that crazy."

"If you want to have a sexual experience, why don't you just contact a licensed professional. I'm not a prude, honey, I'd understand. Or if you want a real affair you could always just hook up with some nice boy from school, register a temporary arrangement. It would be a one-liner in the tabloids and blow over before lunch. But to spend your whole summer vacation in temporary slavery? Why? It's not as if you need the money. I just don't get it."

He never did get her, at least since Mom went away. "I know, Daddy," Kaylee said. "You always gave me everything. But you did it for your own reasons. To try to make up to me that Mom was gone. To say sorry for being too busy so we didn't have time to hang out. So I grew up with all this stuff but it wasn't because I deserved it. It never mattered what I did. I could be as nice as anything, or be a spiteful little shit and I'd still get stuff. You just gave and gave, but it was never the two things I really wanted. Love and discipline."

"Love," said Daddy. He looked deflated, like someone had let some of the air out. "I know I wasn't there for you. Guess I was selfish, but when Carla went, I grieved. Wasn't much room left for you, I guess. And the only thing that seemed to take the ache away was work. So okay, let's admit it. I was a shitty dad. But please don't rent yourself out as someone's sex toy. What if you wake up and find you don't like it? You'd still have to fulfill the contract."

"You just see sex for money," Kaylee said. "Maybe the guy will, too. But for me what really matters is the discipline. The being punished. The having to obey. I've never had that in my life. Ever. I need to know what it's like. Maybe I'm just doing research, Daddy. Exploring the recesses of my twisted little mind. Maybe I just need to do this to get it out of my system. But it's been a dream of mine for a very long time. As soon as I was eighteen, I told myself. But then it wasn't a good time because I'd put off the college search thing and had to do that. And then I was nineteen and had to go to summer school to re-take a course I messed up. So then I told myself, okay. If I buckled down. If I got a 3.0. If I didn't have to do any summer make-up, I'd do it. Well, now I'm twenty and I'm all caught up and I promised myself I was going to do this and it doesn't really matter if you understand or not."

Maturity Factor
This story is in memory of my first erotic spanking, and is set in the early 1980's.

As soon as Paul Royalton entered his cousin Miriam's apartment, he realized that his fate was sealed. Two low-backed straight chairs were set back to back in the living room, and 'over the chair backs' was Miriam's favorite position for paddling his bare behind - that the plump, pretty blonde gripped an oversized wooden spoon in her hand also indicated her intent.

"I see you made it," she remarked calmly as he set down his tennis equipment. "Before we go to the courts, I have something to discuss, Paul. So get across the chair backs, pants down, so I can get your full attention."

"Yuh-you have my attention now," Paul stammered.

Smack!! The spoon's wooden back slapped against Miriam's left palm. "No arguing," she instructed firmly. "In position - immediately!"

"Yes, ma'am." Paul quickly climbed onto the nearest chair's padded seat, then lowered his tennis shorts to his knees before bending way forward to grasp the edge of the second chair's seat. He was wearing an athletic supporter, which left his muscular buttocks temptingly exposed.

"Now to assure your full attention," Miriam smilingly positioned herself perpendicular to her cousin on his left, then she raised the solid spanking spoon. "it was going to be three dozen, but your arguing's made it four."

SMACK!! WHACK!! WHAP!! SMACK!!

Alternating the wooden spoon's stinging swats to her cousin's firm bare buttcheeks, Miriam delivered her blistering wallops about four seconds apart. The effect on Paul was predictably emphatic, and his initial gasps became yelps and then wailing sobs. After forty-eight soundly-applied 'stingers,' his bare bottom was a glowing-hot crimson hue and trickling tears were forming.

"Ready to answer some questions, young man?" Miriam inquired coolly.

"Uh. Yuh-Yes, ma'am," Paul blubbered softly.

"Stay in position, so I can 'encourage' you to answer if necessary." The spoon's hard back touched his right buttock warningly.

Paul winced apprehensively. "Yuh-yes, ma'am."

"I know you're very fond of Brittany, Paul - you've been dating her this past month." Miriam raised the wooden spoon. "So why won't you let her spank you when you deserve it?"

"Why sh-should I?" he asked, then yelped as WHACK!! WHACK!! each naked buttock received a stinging spoon-spank.

"Because she's your girlfriend, and she knows what's best for you," his cousin replied, "just like I do. You let me paddle you when you deserve it..."

"Because I t-trust you, Miriam." Paul hesitated, then continued. "You care about me, and you seem ... um... older, even though you're not..."

"That's maturity, Paul, something most men lack. You're like little boys, adorable but childlike, so you need female guidance and loving discipline."

"But it's so hard to trust Brittany that way -" SMACK!! SMACK!! The punishment spoon cracked against each bright red asscheek, and he wailed.

"It isn't easy, but it's necessary!" Miriam declared sharply. "Brittany's upset that won't accept her spanking you - do you want to break up with her?"

Disciplined in the Bamboo Suite
The mid-afternoon sunshine cast a dappled light, through the thinning foliage of lines of silver birch trees, as residents and visitors went about their business in a wide suburban street in the late autumn. The air was pleasantly warm, but with a slight hint of a cool night to come. It was filled with a cocktail of sound, in which the noise from light passing traffic mingled with the buzz of conversation and laughter, the rhythmic pattern of footsteps with various acoustic characteristics and the chirping and warbling of the local bird population, as it took heed of the lengthening shadows and sang out its Vespers canticles.

Among the pedestrians making their way along the popular thoroughfare, with its elegant Georgian facades on either side of the road, was a young woman in her early thirties. She was walking at a fairly slow, deliberate pace and, although she was obviously navigating her course carefully between other pedestrians, it was clear that she was also deep in thought.

Agnes was, in many ways, an old-fashioned young woman. She had been brought up as the third of five siblings, the offspring of a clergyman, in an affluent provincial parish and his quite-mannered, gentle and kind-hearted wife. She had enjoyed a good childhood and adolescence and had made herself very popular amongst deeper-thinking friends, by her rare blend of incisive thought, clarity of perception, analytical skills and a gift for diplomacy that ought to have seen her career take root in the Foreign Office.

In fact, Agnes had followed a very different career line after graduating from a good red-brick university with a first-class Honours degree in Psychology. As a child and teenager, she had grown up in a climate in which newspaper headlines and news broadcasts often highlighted the troubled state of industrial relations in the United Kingdom. She had read page after page of comment on the consequences of this turbulence for all who were directly affected by it and she had listened with avid interest to numerous discussions involving her father (her mother rarely contributed to such debates) and his colleagues and friends; even the bishop, on one occasion; dealing with the ethical and social complexities of life within industrialised societies. She had been totally absorbed by the passions that the turbulence had engendered and she had been impressed by the efforts of those who had sought to pour the oil of calm and reason upon the troubled waters of strife and conflict. It had, in fact, been such people who had led her to seek a career in conciliation and arbitration, to which her rare blend of characteristics and skills suited her well.

Such is the nature of diplomacy at this level that, no matter how skilled the arbitrator may be and no matter how experienced, the work is bound to affect anyone who is a sentient human being, particularly in cases where all reasonable attempts at bringing people face to face with reality and their duties towards one another lead only to deeper intransigence.

Chapter 1: A Meeting on the Beach
Daisy smiled at the nurse who plumped up her pillows and handed her the photograph album.

"There you go, Daisy. You spend many an hour with that photograph album - happy memories?"

"Thank you, dear. Oh yes - very happy memories. I never tire of looking at the old photos. How quickly the years pass."

"That's so true," agreed the nurse. "And is there a photograph of you somewhere in there?"

"Several. I was quite a looker in my day you know," laughed Daisy. "Would you like to see?"

"I certainly would."

The nurse drew up a chair and sat by the old lady's bed. Daisy gripped the album tightly with her gnarled hands, and opened the first page.

"This is me in 1948 when I was twenty. Goodness me - I had a waist in those days!"

The nurse scanned the photograph. It showed an attractive and smiling young woman standing on the sand in a red swimsuit. Her long dark hair was worn in a thick braid and hung over her shoulder. It was so long it reached past her waist, and the end of the braid was tied with a jaunty red ribbon. "Oh - you look stunning! Really pretty... and what gorgeous hair. Where was this taken?"

"On Brighton beach. That's where I met Frank."

"Frank?"

---oOo---
Frank. Daisy's weak blue eyes misted over at the memory of that long hot summer day in August. The beach was crowded with holiday makers and day trippers. A happy hubbub of voices was carried on the breeze. Adults and children alike splashed in the white-crested surf, ran on the damp sand, made sandcastles, or sprawled leisurely on deck chairs or beach towels.

On that day, Daisy was helping old Joe out with the donkey rides. She took hold of the jingling bridle of Boris, and led him along the beach, accompanied by the delighted squeals of the other riders following in a little procession. It was on the return lap when Boris misbehaved. He slowed right down to a crawl and would not go any faster despite Daisy pulling and tugging him. Ever afterwards, Daisy would swear that the old donkey knew exactly what he was doing. He stopped right next to the prone figure of a man sunbathing - and then, with a devilishly triumphant light in his eyes, he pooped noisily.

Splat! Splat! Splat!

"Aaaaargh!" cried the man, sitting up. "What the devil...?"

He stared in abject horror at the pile of steaming donkey turds that covered his feet, and reacted by kicking away the offending odorous lumps. His face turned red with anger, and a vein bulged dangerously at his temple.

The little boy riding on Boris shrieked with glee and pointed to the mishap.

"Bad Boris," admonished Daisy, her mouth twitching. "Bad, bad Boris." She giggled, snorted, then bellowed with laughter. It was very rude of her of course, but she just couldn't help it.

Lady Rising
The Sybil hummed and its garnet eyes glowed and its circuits warmed and it whirred to life. "All hail the Overlord," it said, not wanting to be rude.

"Never mind," Sardonyx snapped. "It's not pleasantries I want from you, it's news."

"A child is born," the Sibyl said, not chatty as it once was.

"Well?" Sardonyx prompted. The cave was dark, and the lumps of many strange machines revealed themselves in the glowing Sybil's eyes.

"Thy successor," the Sybil said. "A Mage of the first order."

The Overlord's fists clenched as if he might strike his own device. "What is his weakness?" he hissed.

"Hers," the Sibyl said. "It's a girl. She's a sexual submissive."

"Ha!" Sardonyx almost screamed it. "No problem then."

The Sibyl whirred and opened its beak and might have said much more, had the Overlord not reached behind its neck and turned it bloody off.

---oOo---
Eric found her in the inner courtyard sitting on a marble bench watching the little waterfall, hands folded in her lap. A young woman, cute but hardly beautiful, and her dress was gray with a little lace at throat and wrists. Not floozy enough to be a slave, nor decorative enough to suit a Lady. A commoner? That would be awfully odd.

"Who let you in?" asked Eric, more curious than annoyed. The moiré patterns on his tunic were modulated by his mood, so one could tell by looking.

She turned her face to him, an ivory oval a miniaturist might spend days on. "Why Lord Eric," she said sweetly. "I merely told the electronica that I'm not here, so they take no notice. I like it here, don't you? Whoever made this place understands the natural, and has made this reproduction with respect, not parody."

The little thing was teasing him. No way she could have fooled Wolf House defenses. His tunic swirled with tinges of annoyance. "Don't be pert," he scolded. "Tell me who you are, and who decided to let you in."

The corners of her mouth turned up. "Make me," she said.

An open challenge? His clothing flowed with grim resolve. "Behave this instant, girl, or I shall..." (what, rape her?) "... spank you!"

Her laughter echoed off the courtyard walls, taunting, teasing, and one simply does not threaten without following through, does one? So Eric really had no choice. He swooped down on the bench and sat beside the girl and pulled her across his lap. He expected serious resistance but there was almost none, merely a sharp intake of breath as he skinned up her dress exposing naked buttocks of alabaster white. She would bruise easily. Eric's clothing swirled with lust but the girl was face down and did not see. He raised his hand, took aim.

Whack! A little whimper rewarded him, and a blotch of pink where his hand had been. His manhood thickened, and he hoped she would not break too soon. Lord Eric was having fun.

Whack, whack!

"Ooh!"

Lucy
It was almost certainly the case that nobody in the compartment of the busy train was looking at her, but Lucy Howard felt that everybody knew why she was there and were surreptitiously peeking at her every time she tried to read her newspaper. Eventually she gave up and gazed out the window as the train sped towards London. Her mind inevitably homed in on where she was going and why.

The school reunion a fortnight ago last Saturday had been the catalyst. She almost hadn't gone. Knowing that her best clothes would almost certainly look dowdy beside her fellow graduates of Collingwood's, the small exclusive school she had attended for six years, and knowing even more certainly that she couldn't afford a new outfit, she had almost decided to give the event a miss. It was only a telephone call from her oldest friend, Debbie, that had persuaded her to change her mind. Now she was heading for London to ... well, why was she going?

In truth she had enjoyed the reunion. Most of the old gang were there even although they were all their mid to late thirties now. None of the teachers remained from her time at the school but they were all made very welcome by the current staff led by the Head Mistress, Julia MacLean and her Deputy, Pamela Jameson. She spent most of her time with Debbie, Carol Hutton, Veronica Bailey and Samantha Smithson wandering around the old place and reminiscing on their time there. Occasionally they would stop and chat with some of the current pupils and that was how the subject came up. Inevitably it was Carol that started it off. She was always outspoken, although by now they had all had at least two glasses of wine.

They were chatting with one of the prefects, a lovely girl named Denise according to her badge when Carol asked, "Do you still get your bare bums spanked?"

"Carol!" Lucy squealed, while the others merely rolled their eyes.

"What? It's a valid question. After all, Lucy, I seem to remember that you were for ever being sent to the Head!"

"It's ok."

The girl they were speaking to had blushed very slightly but was smiling broadly as well. "Yes, we do. Quite often, in fact, although some of us more than others of course."

"Do they still use those damned long-handled paddles? They were bloody painful as I recall."

"Mmm yes we do ... and yes they are! Miss Jameson is a demon when she wields one."

"Miss Jameson? That's the dark haired woman we met earlier?"

"Yes, the Deputy Head. She's great really, but if you step out of line she comes down on you hard."

Denise giggled. "Or at least she comes down on your bottom hard!"

Despite efforts by the others, Carol kept going. "Oh we know what you mean, Denise! It was the same in our day. We all felt that paddle hard and often, especially Lucy here!

A Celebration with Warmth
"Enough of that, young lady!" he said, and slipped her panties down.

Only moments before, Sophie, clad only in her short, sheer nightie and silky panties had been standing by the bed, contemplating both the significance of the day and her morning ablutions. She had, before heading for the bathroom, muttered in a most unhappy tone, something about being very unhappy with the result she got on adding a one to the number to which she had been accustomed for the past 365 days of her life. One more year, and that number would end in a Zero! "I don't like it," she had said in a rather grumpy tone. She had been amazed at how rapidly he had moved.

In spite of the fact that in a few months he would be entering what, according to his calculations, would be his last decade, there was still a certain amount of agility in the old man. She was not quite certain exactly how it all came about, but instead of starting her short walk to the bathroom, she was over his lap, head and upper body supported by the bed, legs dangling toward the floor, and her bottom raised in the manner she still remembered from certain painful and embarrassing childhood moments.

From past experience, Sophie knew that the arm about her which made her feel comfortable and wanted, would also hold her firmly in place, no matter how she tried to get up. There was no sense fighting the inevitable, and she settled herself to accept what was coming. It began as it always did, with her panties being taken down. At least she did not have to do that herself, something she'd always hated doing as a little girl. Things were different for the big girl, though, there were times when she wanted him to see her acceptance, submission, and most of all, her gift to him. However, if he was serious, like now, the preparations were done for her. No nonsense. Into position, panties down, stingy spanks, panties up, a hug and it was over.

She could not help enjoying the hug, and there was no time for butterflies in her tummy as she felt his hands doing things with the skirt of her nightie and then her panties. There was a moment of tingliness as she felt her panties slide over the mounds of her behind, and then her lower curves were bare and ready.

His arm tightly about her once more, she felt the warmth of his open hand pressed into the soft flesh of her bottom for a few seconds, one light pat and the first good smack landed. It was quickly followed by more, each landing on a different part of her mature and very, very pretty bum. The spanks were applied as punctuation marks while he talked. "You ... will ... not ... keep talking about your age ... as though you are ... getting ... old."

Buccaneer
Charlotte heard the pounding of feet on the deck overhead, and huddled into the corner of her tiny cabin. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, not even any furniture to move to block the door. A bunk, a hook on the wall to hang her clothes, a tiny porthole - and Lady Charlotte Herrington, her dark hair in a wild tangle around her face, her blue eyes wide with fear.

More shouts from above, then heavy footsteps moving closer. Below decks now, coming towards her cabin. Charlotte's hands were slick with the cold sweat of fear.

Suddenly the door swung open, slamming against the wall. The man who stepped into her cabin seemed huge in that tiny space. His hair was a wild golden mane, his eyes a strange golden brown, he was all predator. He paused for a moment, surveying the sweet vision in front of him, then sketched a bow. His pretence of civility was a studied insult.

"Lady Charlotte, I presume?"

She forced herself to speak, her mouth suddenly dry, "You have the advantage of me."

His grin grew wider. "I do indeed."

"I mean, I don't know your name." She stood as straight as she could, determined not to show her fear to this animal, "What name will the rabble shout as you are hanged for this piracy?"

"Ah, so she has spirit. That makes victory even sweeter. You may call me Captain, since I now command this vessel. Or Sir, to show your respect for me."

"You are no Captain!"

"...or you may call me Blackstone. Kane Blackstone."

Charlotte was paper-white now, barely able to breathe. "You... you're..."

"Yes, my sweet prize, I'm the man with a price of ten thousand gold crowns on his head. The man your fiancé - Captain Harcourt is your fiancé, isn't he? - has been chasing up and down these seas for the past two years. With obviously, no success."

"John will kill you for this! He's coming to meet this ship, when he finds out about this..."

"John already knows. He was coming to meet this ship. He's currently chained in the hold of my vessel, off the port bow there." He gestured at the porthole.

Charlotte was loath to turn her back on him, but she took a quick glimpse out the porthole at the vessel that had come into view. "What have you done to John, you animal!"

"Nothing. Yet. What happens to him is up to you."

"Me? But - you have no right, let us both go at once!" Even as she said it she realised how futile it was. But Charlotte was accustomed to getting what she wanted - which was why she was sailing across an ocean to marry her fiancé as soon as she turned eighteen, instead of waiting for him to finish his tour of duty and return to her.

"What right? I have this right!" A whisper of metal and his sword was at her throat, the point resting lightly on the soft skin there.

IOU
Kyra glared at the empty dirt road ahead of her, frowning when she saw the gateway. Carefully she braked and pulled off into the dust at the side of the road, then sat for a moment, her fingers curled tightly around the steering wheel.

The early morning sunlight streamed down, already promising the heat that would come as the sun rose higher. She couldn't sit here all day. She had a debt to pay, and the sooner she got out of this car, the sooner it would all be over.

She forced her hands from the wheel and got out of the car, walking with leaden feet towards the gate.

Dammit, why didn't she know when to stop? Why couldn't she ever pull back, let things go, play safe? But everyone was cheering her on, and the cards were running her way, and the bets kept building... until suddenly the luck deserted her and her bets became wilder and more desperate, and then she'd lost everything.

She closed the gate behind her - always leave a gate the way you find it, even now that was automatic - and started along the almost-overgrown old road, now not much more than a track through the bush.

She'd lost to the one person in the world she couldn't afford to lose to. Jarvis Casteel.

She pushed past clutching branches, grimly following the track. She didn't care how long it took to get to the end, but the faster she got there, the sooner it would be over.

The Baughmans' and the Casteels' had been neighbours for generations. They were still arguing over which family had started the first farm in the district. In fact, they were arguing about almost everything, and always had.

She almost tripped over a rock hidden in the low grass. Great, break an ankle, then he wouldn't... Yes he would, he'd just wait till the ankle was healed. He was good at waiting. And he always got what he wanted. Almost always. Up to now.

Kyra grimaced again, how could she be so stupid! Like most families on the land, the Baughmans had formed a company. Her parents owned a 50% share in the property, her brother had 25% and she owned the other 25%. Or she had, till last night. When she'd been drinking at the pub with friends, and been caught up in a fun game of poker, and then suddenly other people joined the game and it wasn't fun any more, it was serious. And then there were just the two of them, Kyra Baughman and Jarvis Casteel, and her luck was gone and she bet wildly, stupidly, desperately... she bet more than she had.

She stopped for a moment to untangle a grasping branch from her hair, impatiently twisting the long blonde locks into a knot at the back of her head, reaching into her pocket for the combs she always carried there to hold her hair out of the way when she was busy. Then she marched on.

A New Regime
The well-dressed lady, a little pink in the cheeks, came through the front door of St Angela's School for Girls, paused to look around and then went up to the Reception Desk.

"I have an appointment with Miss Montague."

The secretary looked at the diary in front of her. "Mrs Bartholomew is it? If you just follow me I'll take you along." She came out of the little office, smiled at the lady brightly and walked along a corridor a little way before stopping at a door. Holding it open for the visitor she smiled again. "If you would like to wait in here Mrs Bartholomew I will let Miss Montague know you have arrived."

Carol Bartholomew went in and took a seat in a comfortable waiting room. She was a strange mixture of extreme nervousness and tense fury. The fury was directed at her 18 year-old daughter, Elizabeth, a pupil at the school. The nervousness was about what was about to happen. Neither of these emotions eased in any way as she waited for what seemed a long time. Then when the door opened, it was only the secretary again, shepherding another visitor into the room. That was the last thing she wanted. The newcomer looked at her and smiled a little. Carol didn't recognise her and she looked on the young side to be a parent so she assumed her to be there on different business entirely.

Beyond exchanging thin smiles neither woman spoke, and Carol continued to seethe quietly to herself. It was the damn government's fault she thought. They were a bunch of lily livered politicians. If it hadn't been for them that letter would never have been written. Although it was almost six months since it had arrived she had read it so many times now she could almost recite it.

"Dear Colonel and Mrs. Bartholomew,

I am writing to all parents to inform them of the implications of the recent Act of Parliament abolishing corporal punishment in schools and to present to you a proposal from the Board of Governors relating to these implications for St Angela's.

As I am sure you will be aware from press coverage of the matter, corporal punishment in educational establishments in this country must cease by the end of the current academic year. St Angela's has, with enormous support from parents, always prided itself on the traditional approach to discipline but will have no choice but to comply reluctantly with this legislation. Not to do so would risk closure by the authorities.

The Governors have spent a great deal of time considering the implications for the school of the new legislation. Clearly we are greatly concerned about the potential for discipline at the school to become unacceptably lax once the remedy of corporal punishment has been removed. The Governors feel certain that all parents will share these concerns. A possible solution to the problem has been formulated but as it is a radical measure it has been thought wise to present it to parents and discover if it would have their support.

The Perfect Image
It was late and she was tired, and the soft spring air had gone chill. She tugged the hem of her Spandex skirt down and it rode back up. A little Cadillac drove by. The one that zigs. Veronica dredged up the false gaiety of her profession. "Hey Mister," she called out. "Want to party?"

The car window slid down smoothly. The guy was stocky and had a fringe of graying hair. Somebody's dad, probably, maybe some else's grandpa. He looked her over pretty good, but that usual hunger wasn't there. "Hop in," he said.

She reclined in warm soft leather and the car door closed with a satisfying thunk. "Business before pleasure," she said. "Two hundred up front, and then we can have fun."

"You're zonked," the guy said. "It can't be that much fun if you have to medicate yourself just to make it palatable." He handed her some cash.

The car started moving. She looked down at two crisp new hundreds. "It'll be good for you," she said. "I promise." The guy had a point, though. She needed the pills to produce a sense of distance, so it seemed that someone else's body was doing this. When she started she thought it would be sexy. It wasn't. It was clinical, mechanical. About as sexy as getting your teeth cleaned. Luckily the guy was usually tracking in his own fantasy and didn't notice.

"What you need right now is a good night's sleep," he said. "Alone."

She pretended not to hear him. "Turn west on Palmer," she said. "I know a place."

"No thanks, honey. I know a place, too. What's your name?"

"Veronica," she said. Was she being abducted? He seemed okay. The mean ones radiated anger or were at least very tightly wrapped. She could tell this guy was calm by the way he drove. His posture was relaxed. His moves were smooth and unhurried. "What do I call you?" she said. She had to dredge up social skills. Pills and stress had blurred her so they were no longer second nature.

"Mel Harkin," he said. "In the morning I'll have an offer for you, but tonight just rest."

She perked up. "An arrangement? Like maybe a steady mistress or something?"

"Tomorrow," he said. The tone was firm. Not angry or threatening or anything, just not at all inviting further comment. She dozed against leather and let him drive.

She roused as the car stopped in a suburban driveway. He led her into a darkened house. It's not like no-one ever undressed her before, but this guy just tucked her into a twin bed afterward, and kissed her gently on the forehead and went away, leaving her alone and unfucked. She wondered why.

---oOo---
The crisp, fresh feel of clean sheets caressed her body. She had cotton-mouth and a large need to pee. Sun filtered in through curtains with little printed flowers. Impressionist reproductions hung in wooden frames on pale blue walls. A big mirror reflected, bright and clean.

The Best Little Spanking House in Texas
Miss Rose ran a decent establishment. It had been in operation for the last seventy-five years and was still going strong. She had only been handling the business side of things for the past ten years, she'd simply been one of the working girls before that. However, it was very obvious that her heart and soul lay with the little spanking house and always would. So when Miss Kitty retired and moved off to Apache Junction with the love of her life, the job of running the place had fallen to Rose.

Once she became proprietor of High Ridge Hall, which was the spanking house's true name, Rose followed the traditions of all the owners before her. She hesitated to use the word 'madam' when introducing herself, as High Ridge was not a brothel but simply a place where lots of spanking took place. There was no hanky panky going on under her nose!

The men, and sometimes women, who came to the house were there for only one thing and one thing only... spanking a young lady's behind! But before they were allowed to select one of the young ladies, the customer was always checked out thoroughly. And if things became too rough or strange after the session started, the gentleman or lady was asked to leave. After all, her girls were to be treated with respect.

The girls living at High Ridge Hall were expected to follow all the rules set by Miss Rose and if they chose not to, they were dismissed. Only the best were allowed to remain, and they were treated very well. Not only were they given the run of the house when they were not working but were paid monthly checks so that one day, if they played their cards right, they could retire and live in a place of their choosing.

Over the years Rose amassed many whimsical tales about the goings-on at High Ridge, but one in particular is a firm favorite. It's the story of little Lacy Walker.

Lacy was a young girl who was found wandering the streets of Sweet Water years ago and was brought to stay with Miss Rose and the girls at High Ridge Hall. At first she simply earned her keep by doing odd jobs for Miss Rose but soon learned the trade and became one of Miss Rose's best working girls. Lacy didn't stay long but Rose still thinks of her quite often and writes to her frequently to check on her health.

This is Lacy's story.

---oOo---
It was early June when several of the girls were lounging lazily in the front parlor trying to stay cool. The Texas summer heat had already hit the high nineties and it wouldn't be long before they were sweltering in the temperatures of over a hundred.

As normal, sounds of spanking could be heard from several parts of High Ridge Hall, along with squeals of delight and possibly a few squeals of discomfort.