LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

She struggled up the hill, head down, shoulders hunched against the biting wind and icy rain that battered her face. Her hands were numb with cold, for no sooner had she put them in her pockets, a vicious wind tugged off her hood for the rain to pummel her head. Defeated, she gave up the battle of trying to hold her hood in place, so now thick strands of sopping wet hair blew wildly, whipping her frozen face as the wind gusted. Her feet were blocks of ice and every bone in her body ached with weariness as she trudged on, water spurting and squelching out of her flimsy court shoes with each laborious step.

Not that she particularly cared. No job. No money. No husband. No future. Nothing really mattered any more. Her spirits matched the grey November afternoon, paltry sunlight already dimming as the fading sun sank between the hills behind the great wood. She passed a cottage or two, shuttered windows hiding the warmth and light within, giving a bleak and unwelcoming external appearance to passers by.

A dog shouldn't be out in this weather. She smiled grimly, and continued battling against the wind, neither knowing where she was bound, nor caring. The wind grew in strength and began howling like a raging beast. Trees by the roadside creaked and bent in a mad dance, branches arching, contorting, snapping, screaming as they were whipped by the wind. Then with a sudden capricious twist, the wind changed direction, blowing her effortlessly up the steep hill. She experienced a n unexpected surge of elation and almost laughed as she became a matchstick kite, fragile and insignificant, tugged and hurled and whirled at the mercy of the elements.

The force of the wind propelled her. Up she stumbled, bumbling along at a staggering pace while all around her the world shrieked as the wind blew and the relentless rain pounded. Up and up she went, gasping, spluttering, blinking through water-logged eyes, water cascading down her cheeks, trickling down her neck, soaking her skin.

And then the cacophony quieted ... hushed ... stopped, leaving her panting, saturated and exhausted. She found herself clinging on to an old stone gatepost at the edge of a field by the road, embracing it as though it were a lover. She appeared to have lost a shoe and her coat was a teeming river, blanketing her in its sodden folds. It felt strangely comforting, inviting her to sleep in its chill grasp. Her eyes closed as she rested her frozen face against the pillar of wet blackened stone.

He saw her through the glare of his headlamps as he rounded the bend in the Landrover; she was a moulded shape in the greyness, her contours melting into the stone, gradually being enveloped by the encroaching darkness. Concerned, he slowed to a halt and observed her through the windscreen as the wiper blades moved rapidly to dispel the torrential rain. A moment later he snapped open his seat belt and approached her, striding across the road and onto the sodden grass beyond.

This story is set several decades into USA's super-conservative future, and there have been many changes. The middle class has continued its decline until its near disappearance. So, rich people have become that much richer, and the rest of us... are workers.

Most workers are poor. Car ownership is rare, neatly eliminating gas shortages. On the bright side, mass transportation is finally a reality. Flagship government programs like Medicare, Medicaid, and Social Security are a fond memory, traded in for more tax cuts for the rich and for more empty promises of 'trickle down' prosperity for the rest. Hospitals are for the rich. Most health care is delivered through employer-owned clinics. Retirees can afford little health care, but their life expectancy is mercifully short.

The balance of power turned in the early 2000s when a series of carefully scripted Supreme Court decisions gradually granted corporations the privileges of full-fledged citizens (actually, the privileges of very rich, very important citizens! ) About the same time, the sainted Rupert Murdoch showed the world that mass mind control could be accomplished through corporate media control. Now corporations had all the tools they needed to take control.

So now the USA is a 'worker's paradise' effectively controlled by a loose collation of huge corporations who managed to totally co-opt the conservative movement, distorting it to serve their own needs.

Government has gotten much smaller, and its interactions with citizens are now more basic and efficient. For example, one biometric ID card serves as passport, driver's license, pay book, bank card, credit card, and everything else. The government no longer prints nor allows money. All earnings and all transactions go through that single card, making every transaction totally transparent and easily taxed. The underground economy is forbidden because it's regarded as unfair competition to legitimate corporations.

The changes to criminal justice and corrections are another example of the efficiencies necessitated by smaller government. The whole criminal justice system was shrunken by repealing most laws regulating non-violent behavior, and replacing them with identical administrative rules. Now, rather than courts and juries, violators face Administrative Rule Adjudicators (ARAs), who are low paid but efficient bureaucrats replacing an army of high paid judges, clerks, prosecutors, public defenders, etc. Even jails now stand mostly empty, thanks to the substitution of corporal punishment based corrections for most non violent violations.

ARA's can sentence violators to three main correction modes:

1) Quick Correction (QC). A QC facility is usually co-located in the courthouse along with ARAs. It does just what the name implies. It can apply up to a severity 3 punishment immediately after the subject has been found guilty of a violation. (One-stop shopping!)

2) Overnight Correction (OC) An Overnight Correction Facility (OCF) receives violators after their workday, applies up to a severity 5 punishment and then keeps them overnight for observation and corrective retraining. They are released in time to report to their job the following morning.

3) Seven Day Prison (7DP) is the maximum punishment that an ARA can sentence a violator to, although guidelines may allow multiple sessions.

Spanking School

by Stephen de Medici
"Good evening, ladies. My name is Gloria Swatson and I am your teacher in erotic spanking," the beautiful 45 year old woman standing before the small class of women said laconically. "And this is my partner, John," she added, indicating a slim man standing nose-first in the corner.

He had already been noticed - which was not surprising as he was completely nude! He was about six foot tall, in his early forties, of slim but muscular build with a well-rounded bottom and muscular legs. His stomach was flat and he had evidently maintained his body in good condition. There was not one of the dozen ladies in the class who had not been staring at him, wondering just what they had entered into by signing up for this class. They were soon to find out.

"You have all been carefully vetted before being accepted on this course," Gloria began her lecture. "Each of you has a partner - in most cases male - and you have expressed an interest in the erotic aspect of spanking that partner. Let me begin by stating that you are by no means unique in this interest. After all, this is the third such course I have taught and this adult education college does not run courses which are poorly attended."

This was a reassuring fact for the new students, even though they had received a curriculum pack and an exhaustive questionnaire to complete before being invited to an interview with Gloria.

"As you are no doubt aware from the material you have already been given, this course will teach you some - and I stress only some - of the techniques for spanking your partner for erotic enjoyment." Gloria paused for a moment, assessing the mood of the students. She saw that they were very tense and unsure. What they needed was something to break the ice - and she had just the thing! "I think it's time to give you a more concrete idea of what we will be doing here over the next three months, John!" The last word was spoken in a stern, no nonsense tone.

All eyes swivelled towards the nude man still standing in the corner. They watched with varying degrees of interest as he hesitantly turned and approached Gloria. Gloria observed with quiet amusement as every eye flicked downwards to look at her partner's groin. Many of the women blushed and averted their eyes at the sight of his half-erect penis. Gloria seated herself on the straight-backed armless chair on the stage and patted her thighs invitingly. John needed no further instructions and quickly draped himself across her lap in the time-honoured position of naughty boys throughout history. The ladies watched agog as Gloria began slowly spanking John's round bare bottom. She made no comments or explanations; that would come later - this was a demonstration of the most simple method to spank a man's naked behind - an ice-breaker.

Joelle
It was a busy Monday afternoon in Clarkstown's Spank Shop and the pretty young receptionist Kimberley Kennedy felt rushed off her feet. This happened at the end of every school holiday. People came flooding into the shop to have their rears properly warmed by the Spank Shop's elegant and attractive proprietress Andrea Mahony.

Even with the assistance of Kimberley's stern and beautiful mother Gabrielle, they were still having difficulty matching demand. All the corners were full with glowing red bottoms awaiting pick up, and the sounds of a double spanking could be heard emanating from Andrea's parlour. Two clients were draped over the knees of Andrea and Gabrielle as the women soundly applied hairbrush and slipper respectively to the recalcitrant upturned behinds.

Kimberley sat back, finished her Excel ledger entry and then watched their most recent client leave rubbing his bottom ruefully as he minced out of the shop. The teenage receptionist glanced at the three remaining backsides in the corner and sighed. She massaged her temples and closed her blue eyes. They snapped open as the phone rang harshly and jangled her nerves. What now? she thought in exasperation as she snatched the phone from the cradle and said in her best, most pleasant reception voice "Spank Shop. This is Kimberley, How may I help you?"

"Allo. May I speak with Andee, please?" A woman's voice, speaking French accented English floated over the other end of the phone.

"Um," Kimberley began, not sure how to respond. "Miss Andrea," she emphasized the Miss, "is busy at present. May I ask who is calling and take a message?"

"My name is Joelle Clemenceau and I will 'old for Andee."

Hold? How? wondered Kimberley. I don't even have a hold button. "Er, Mrs Clemenceau I can't..."

"Mademoiselle!" the French lady snapped. "I am not married, please put me on 'old until Andee is free."

"I can't put you on -" Kimberley began to explain but then the parlour door opened.

"Kimmy,” Andrea called. “Daniel is done with his spanking and your Mum is just finishing up with Joanne. Do we have any free corners?"

Kimberley held the mouthpiece of the phone to her breast to cover it and answered in a somewhat harassed voice, "I've only got one free, ma'am."

"Okay, we'll pop Joanne in that one and Daniel can do his corner time here with us. Do you think you could see your way clear to putting the kettle on, dear?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Kimberley murmured. "I've got this French lady on the phone who is demanding to speak to Andee." The blonde girl mimicked Mademoiselle Clemenceau's accent.

"Andee," Andrea repeated in a wondering tone and then laughed. "Put her through please, sweetheart."

Kimberley shrugged and told the haughty French caller, "Putting you through now, Madam." making sure that she accentuated the Madam and transferring the call before the lady could snap at her again.

Kimberley was making tea when Gabrielle joined her in the kitchen. "Busy day, Mum?" Kimberley asked.

The Experience
"Trust me," Don said. "You are in for a treat."

Kimberly looked at him hesitantly. She was nervous, excited, and as horny as a teenager on prom night. She ran her hands across Don's shoulders and then embraced him. "Take me," she whispered. "Take me now."

Don gently plucked her hands from him and pushed her away. "You know the rules. No sex for seven days prior."

"He'll never know."

"Oh, he'll know. One look at you and he'll know."

Kimberly threw herself back into her seat and crossed her arms in front of her and pouted. "I hate you," she said nastily. "You're a big, ugly brute. You'd rather fuck him than me," she added, indicating the driver of the limo.

Don laughed. "The brat act's not going to work. Don't worry, you'll be getting yours soon enough."

"Are you sure this guy's worth it? I mean, ten grand - for one night?"

"Don't worry," Don said. "We've waited two years for this. You'll get your money's worth and then some."

"Hummpf," muttered the woman. While she sulked, Don made a quick telephone call. By the time he was finished, the limo was pulling up in front of a tall building in a classy section of town.

"This is it?" asked Kimberly.

"This is it." When the door opened, Don exited. He offered her his hand, and she accepted. He helped her out and they turned and looked at their destination. The skyscraper loomed massively above them, scores and scores of floors.

The doorman called ahead and confirmed their arrival, then ushered them to the elevator. "The penthouse suite," commanded Don, and the elevator man nodded.

In minutes, they were there. A press on the doorbell, while Kimberly waited nervously, and then it opened.

The man standing there surprised her. She had no idea what to expect, but had vague images of a tall, scary creature dressed in leather and covered with tattoos. Instead, this man was not much taller than her. He was normal-looking, handsome in a routine sort of way, heavyset. He was dressed casually in dark slacks and leather shoes with a burgundy turtleneck sweater. His smile was pleasant, almost kind, but there was something intense about his eyes. They were small and black, and they radiated fierce intelligence. Immediately, Kimberly felt herself cringe in fear; there was something intimidating about this man.

"Good evening," he said, and his strong voice was rich of tone with no trace of an accent. When he spoke he spoke toward Don, but his eyes were locked on Kimberly. She shivered.

"Don. And this is Kimberly."

The man nodded. He bowed, drawing Kimberly's hand to his mouth for a gentle kiss. His eyes never left hers, and finally she had to look away, a gentle flush overcoming her cheeks.

"Please. Come in."

The entryway was on a small landing that overlooked a magnificent living room that spread out 180 degrees in front of them.

The Bar
Recently I had a remarkable experience I just have to share.

I was having a terrible day. Work had been insane lately. Our company was merging with another and some days it looked like I might get a promotion, and on other days it felt like I might be one of the layoffs. I was working 12-hour days most of the time. My girlfriend and I had just had another fight and it was looking like she might be moving out. Then my boss got the flu and sent me to San Francisco on two hours notice. For all I knew Sarah wouldn't be there when I got home.

Of course the flight was delayed, so I spent three hours at the airport, waiting, and my laptop crashed and refused to boot, and I didn't have any backup disks with me. And did I mention the ATM machine ate my card? (The bank was real helpful. Thirty minutes after I called, a workman showed up and put an "Out of Order" sign on the machine. Then he left.)

Anyway, I arrived in SF hungry, grouchy, sweaty, and royally pissed off at the world. The only good piece of news was that I had managed to get a hold of an old college buddy of mine and he'd promised to pick me up at the airport. Eric had moved to San Francisco about ten years ago and though we've talked on occasion, I hadn't seen him in at least that long.

I almost didn't recognize him. I wouldn't have, really, if he hadn't seen me first. I guess I haven't changed much in ten years. Eric, on the other hand, was impressive. He looked fit and healthy - extremely fit and healthy. He was dressed to the nines in what was obviously an expensive, custom-made suit. I felt even worse about my own drabby appearance: I still wore the six-year-old brown suit I'd put on 18 hours earlier.

"You must be doing well for yourself," I said as we headed for the baggage area.

"Tops," laughed Eric. "It comes in faster than I can spend it, and I spend it easily!"

I felt a twinge of jealousy. Eric and I had graduated the same year, but he'd obviously done better than me. Not that I was starving or anything. I had a nice 401K, owned a home, and I was looking into buying a summer place by the lake. Nothing too elaborate, mind you, just a cabin. But it was about 60K and with the job situation rather haphazard right now, I felt it best to wait until the chips fell.

"What are you into?" I asked. "I mean, I know you started your own company, but what do you do?"

Eric grinned. "I don't do anything - my employees do the work." He laughed, pointing at a bright pink suitcase curling past us. "Is that yours?"

I shook my head, laughing with him.

"Seriously," he continued, "I network. That's my job. I meet with the presidents and CEOs of top high tech companies. I take them out for drinks, we shmooze, we play golf, you know the shit. Then they sign contracts giving my company millions."

Cindy: A Modern Fairy Tale
Once, long ago, there lived a beautiful little girl named Cindy. She had large blue eyes and long hair of gold like her mother. But one day, the day before Cindy was to become a teenager, her father was eaten by a huge wolf. Her mother, upon hearing this awful news, collapsed into a state of shock and never recovered.

Thus poor little Cindy found herself suddenly jerked from her harsh but cozy life in the mountains, to the teeming city where she was forced to live with a distant Aunt. The distant Aunt disliked Cindy because she was so much prettier than her own two daughters, who were spoilt and vain and quite ugly. She resented the extra mouth to feed and therefore rarely did, preferring to nourish Cindy with frequent cruel strokes from her long rattan cane. She made the young girl do all the chores in the house (including her own) and wouldn't hesitate to punish her for the slightest failure in her duties.

Now most young girls in Cindy's situation would have become depressed and morose, but not Cindy. Instead she whistled and sang and seemed to be very happy, for she had been taught that one must never let circumstance get you down. And though the mean Aunt doubled the chores and whipped Cindy's bare bottom almost daily, it did not deter the perky girl's spirits. It drove the Aunt and the sisters to distraction, so they decided to ignore her and pretend she didn't exist.

Life continued in this manner for Cindy for several years. Her days were long and difficult. She was up before dawn fetching the wood for the fire and water from the well, relieving the hens of their eggs and the cows of their milk, and watering and feeding all the animals. By the time her Aunt and sisters had awakened, Cindy had hot breakfast on the table. If Cindy didn't (which was unfortunately often the case, as the farm animals were never very predictable), she found herself bent across the kitchen table, knickers down around her ankles and skirt up over her head, and Aunt's thin cane leaving red stripes of pain across her bare buttocks.

On the days when breakfast was ready on time Cindy usually still found herself weeping and gasping from the sharp kisses of the cane, as it was almost inevitable that Aunt would find something inadequate about the meal. Perhaps the bread was burned or the porridge too hot. It didn't really matter. Aunt caned Cindy because it amused her, and there was nothing Cindy could do but wince and wiggle her beautiful bare bottom in supplication and hope for mercy.

One day Cindy awoke with a special sense of excitement. Today was her eighteenth birthday! As she fed the chickens she imagined a beautiful white cake like the one her mother had promised her for her thirteenth birthday, a celebration that had been forgotten in the midst of mourning and grief.

Sister Matthews' New Patient
by Rachel Gordon
For Sister Hannah Matthews it was just another routine Tuesday afternoon appointment. The weather was unusually warm for early May so she decided to open the windows in her consulting room and keep the door open to create a flow of fresh air. Perfect weather for tennis, she thought wistfully.

For Ellen Glaister an appointment at the surgery was far from routine, in fact it was something of a rare event. After quickly glancing at the letter inviting her to meet Sister Hannah Matthews at 2.15 pm, she looked at her watch to make sure she wasn't late. Punctuality, once a weakness of hers, had improved over time, although of late she had come to realise that she had very little to be on time for.

The fact that the letter made a point of highlighting that Hannah Matthews was the 'new Surgery Sister' seemed to amuse her for some inexplicable reason. Probably because it hinted at some grand importance attached to the title which in her mind equated more likely to over-inflated pomposity. Then, for more obvious and personal reasons, the letter made her think of Gregory and the smile on her lips disappeared as quickly as it had formed.

This rare event for Ellen had arisen because, as the letter held between delicate fingers clearly stated, the results of her blood tests and a short medical questionnaire she had completed at the same time, had pushed her just over the surgery's health risk threshold. On first reading the letter she was surprised but then wondered if something sinister had been found, before she finally dismissed that idea. Gregory often commented on Ellen's butterfly mind.

Although Ellen preferred to stay out of any limelight she was, in the main, a positively-minded and healthy individual. Since moving into the area some fifteen years ago - apart from being randomly called in over two weeks earlier for this particular health check - Ellen could not recall visiting the surgery or having need of a doctor for herself. She had no children and had not succumbed to any illness except the common cold and a single bout of influenza.

As to the recent arrival of Sister Matthews, there was no reason why she should be aware of that event, but even if she had known, it would have meant little to her. Ellen had always been a private woman, leading a private life. She met few people now but would never gossip, and never meddled in the lives of others. It is true though that more recently she had often wished her conservative lifestyle could change. The opportunities for that to happen however had simply never presented themselves.

"Hello Mrs Glaister, I'm Hannah Matthews. Thank you for coming in to see me. Please take a seat." There was a pause whilst Ellen sat down, making a mental note of the brusque efficiency and informality of the Sister.

Amber Smith was worried, and for a good reason. The eighteen-year-old senior's parents were attending an assembly at Central High School. The large gathering at the school was not a parent teacher conference or a discussion about the curriculum. Rather, they were there to deliberate over the possible consequences for all of the students involved in the preceding night's celebration. Spanking was at the top of the agenda.

The teenagers in Elmwood, Wisconsin, who had attended the celebration the night before, now sat on porches and door steeps everywhere around town wondering and worrying about the conversations that were taking place inside Central High School.

The Central High volleyball team had won a huge victory over rival Roosevelt High in the state championship game in Madison, Wisconsin, the night before. The students returned home to a hero's welcome and there was dancing in the streets. Unfortunately, the celebration carried over into the nighttime hours and soon there was a major gathering of Central High students and other teens at the Stillwater Motel, by far the most popular place in all of Elmwood. It was owned by the parents of Amber's best friend, Janie Stills.

Amber and Janie who both starred in the victory, had organized the party while returning on the bus trip from Madison. They called a few close friends who were not at the game and told them of the victory and their plan to have some fun upon their return. It was clearly a cause for celebration and the students needed to let out some steam after years of being clobbered by the Roosevelt Hawks.

Janie supplied the location, the Stillwater, and Amber agreed to procure some alcohol with the help of a few college boys who still mixed in with their group. It seemed innocent enough at the time. After all what would it hurt? Both girls decided it was worth the risk. They were both elated over the victory and felt they should do something to mark the occasion. It seemed a fitting tribute after so much hard work.

Neither intended to let the party get out of hand but two six packs of beer soon became a few cases, and hard liquor quickly followed. The party soon spiraled out of control. More and more students arrived to join in the celebration. Some came from a neighboring community college and others arrived from another county. After a few hours partying, fights broke out and there was general chaos. Alcohol was now flowing freely and cans of beer were strewn everywhere. There was yelling and hollering mixed in with, what was by now, a feeble attempt at the school's fight song. Several kids were so drunk that they fell into the pool at the motel.

Eventually the police arrived and a small group of about thirty students were corralled and detained in the pool area and lobby of the motel. Others fled by one means or another.

Previously Janie and Amber had made some ineffective attempts to quell what was rapidly escalating into a riot of sorts but by then it was too late.

The Bachelorette Party
There were wolf whistles, yelling and giggling, and a pair of thong panties hit me in the face as I entered. They were moist.

I studied the group. I counted seven. All young, in their early twenties, college girls. Hot, for the most part. A nice assortment of bodies: tall, short, full-figured, slender. They were all dressed in lingerie and definitely drunk.

I set down my case and started to take off my coat, generating fresh whistles and shouts of stuff like, "Take it all off!"

I ignored this advice. It came with the territory.

"So how do you ladies want to do this?" I asked. "Take turns or play a game or what?"

"Yeah!" shouted someone. Another girl whistled and clapped. Two voices simultaneously yelled out, "Take turns!" and "Let's play a game!"

I reasoned it was pointless to ask for direction as the girls were too smashed to be able to make a decision. I'd just have to take things in hand.

"Which one of you is the bride?"

The girls screamed and pointed at a cute blonde. She was blushing demurely. I had her stand up. She had an amazing body and the sweetest smile. The black teddy clung to her figure, especially at the back. Her rump was fully covered, but the black panties were nicely full. Fishnet stockings to mid-thigh completed the darling outfit.

"I'm Cami," she said, flashing me that darling smile.

"Well Cami," I said, my voice dropping deep and stern, "have you been a naughty girl?"

The pink highlights on her cheeks darkened as the surrounding girls squealed like twelve-year-olds. I winced, wishing I'd had the foresight to bring earplugs.

"Spank her! Spank her!" came the cries, with Cami flushed and looking nervous.

"Oh, don't think you're exempt because you're the bride. I've got something special in mind for you."

More screams and squeals. This was going to be a long evening. I pulled out the big oak pledge paddle, which made a few drunken eyes light up and mouths stagger open and silenced at least some of the squealing. A gorgeous blonde in a tight red camisole started giggling nervously, so I selected her to start.

"You there, in the red. Come up here."

"Go on Daphne, take your spanking!" shouted the others. Somewhat reluctantly, with a playful glare at her friends, the blonde came forward. I saw now that she was a bit sluttish, vamping on all the attention. Her large breasts were practically exposed by the strapless outfit, bouncing as she came to the center of the room where I waited with the paddle. She bit her lower lip and looked at it with fear, her friends ooh-ing and ah-ing ominously to rattle her.

"How... how many?" she asked.

Grinning, I picked up an extra-large red die from my case and handed it to her. "Roll to find out."

She took the two-inch cube and with everyone whistling and encouraging her, she rolled it across the floor.

Where did this story begin?

Was it the day that Sylvia Burns decided that she would never marry unless it was for money? Was it before that, when Gerald Peters made his first million? Or is this a story that is as old as time, where a young woman of a certain outlook, shall we say, seeks out an older wealthier man? Who can say for sure? Who even cares? Sylvia Burns certainly didn't. Not after she had become Sylvia Peters. Not at first anyway.

In any case, Gerald didn't have too much to do with his wife and that was the way Sylvia liked it. Although to put this into some kind of perspective: Gerald had three houses, a castle, seven cars, a private plane, two mistresses and one trophy wife, namely Sylvia.

Sylvia was not your typical trophy wife. For one thing, although she was pretty, she wasn't what anyone would call a stunner. In Sylvia's own view she wasn't that well-endowed on the bust front either and her hair a dark brown-black was a far cry from the regulation blonde that such women usually sported. But she had good taste and money to indulge it. In fact she had just about everything she could want, when she wanted it.

The only trouble was Sylvia was bored. She had been on three long holidays that year already and when she had asked for her allowance to be doubled, Gerald had merely signed the cheque without a word.

"I only asked, because I wanted an argument," she said forlornly to her maid.

Tatiana shrugged; she had other things on her mind.

"Are you in trouble with Lady Granger again?" Sylvia asked in a lacklustre voice when she saw Tatiana wasn't listening.

Lady Granger was what the household jokingly called Mary Granger the housekeeper behind her back. It was on account of this woman that Sylvia had long since given up on the illusion that she had any say in running the house. A situation made perfectly clear to her on her very first day when she had asked for the rust-red curtains at the front of the house to be changed for blue ones.

"Blue ones," Granger had said slowly as if addressing a child. "I hardly think so."

And that had been an end to the matter.

The other peculiarity concerning Mary Granger and how she ran the house was her predilection for corporal punishment. The entire female staff lived in acceptance, if not fear, of the woman, who viewed their bottoms as a casual target for her wrath.

Sylvia, who thought she had seen it all, was so perturbed to be living in what to her lights could only be described as a BDSM nut house, that a month before the wedding she had complained to Gerald.

"Oh, I don't concern myself with such things as much as I once did, but it is rather fun don't you think?" he had told her dismissively.

Android
I was fourteen days out of Base IX on a two-month return to Earth when I found him. I'd become incredibly restless. I had made four consecutive runs without a real break and the boredom was catching up with me.

I wandered the ship looking for entertainment. The trivid recordings no longer interested me, and I did not feel like reading. I wanted human companionship, particularly the male kind. I wanted to feel sexy and desired and to desire.

There were reports to file and lectures to study, but I felt exhausted and everything seemed old and the ship felt cramped and minuscule. I would take as much time as I could with my chores, but even then I would have 95% of the day left.

But on this day I decided to check the cargo. There was nothing wrong and I knew it, but I decided a personal inspection was necessary, just because it would give me something to do.

The first two crates contained standard supplies and research data discs. But the third container was different. I immediately saw the coffin-shaped box with the red warning sticker attached. Ignoring it, I peered inside the box.

At first I was horrified - someone was shipping a dead body! But then I realized it was only an android. There was a packing slip in the box and I pulled it out and read it.

'Sexual Deviant Model IV' read the paper. 'Serial number RT-89. Reason for return: Malfunctioning deviant programs 'SM01' and 'BNDG' in motivation in excess of established parameters.'

I didn't know what any of that meant, but I decided to try out the robot. Even malfunctioning, a sex deviant robot might be amusing.

I opened the carton and rolled the robot out. Its access panel was standard, and in a moment it was awake. I watched it open its eyes.

"This is not earth," he said in a deep male voice that thrilled me. "I sense rocket engines and minimal gravity. Why have I been awakened?"

"I awoke you," I said calmly. "We're still six weeks from earth. Are you functioning well enough to, uh, perform your duties?" I blushed as I said this. I had never used a sex robot before, though of course I had heard stories. I was amazed at how life-like he looked.

"I am functioning adequately," he said smiling at me seductively. "My name is Art Eighty-Nine. What is your name?"

"Kari," I said shyly. "What exactly do you do?"

He smiled at me without saying anything for a moment. "Can I take a tour of the ship?" he asked quietly. I agreed and quickly led him through all the rooms. It wasn't much of a tour. A T-class ship, the Candlelady isn't very large.

Art Eighty-Nine was very nice, but he seemed particularly interested in the kitchen implements and my spare parts and tools bin. He was also extremely sexy, I thought as we headed into my cabin area.

Class
Through the walls came the sound of rhythmic slapping and heartfelt little grunts. Candy touched a switch and drowned out the neighbors' horizontal bop with the raspy voice and liquid guitar work of Dirty Joe Fritz doing Motherfuckin' Blues: Mamma's in the kitchen/Papa's in the jail/ Sister's on the corner yellin' 'tail for sale', and then a long heart-wracking riff, like, does life really suck or what? Somebody knocked. Candy dialed her noise down several notches and fussed with the hem of her too-short skirt. Show time.

She opened the door and smiled. "Hi," she cooed. "I'm Candy."

The john's name was Tom and he came bearing gifts, a bottle and two glasses. He looked her up and down, they always do. "Um, hi," he said. Nervous. So maybe he's new to this. That's sweet.

"Hi," said Candy. "Come on in and we can get comfy."

He grinned. "Your bio says you're working your way through college," he said. "I'd love it if that's true, but if I had a buck for every Comfort Girl who says she's working her way through college, well, you know."

And Candy giggled. "Even a cliché gotta be true sometimes," she said. "I was working my way through law school. Just took the bar exam last week, so you're probably my last date."

"Cool," the john said. He touched her shyly. "How do we do this?"

She felt a little zing. Not as much as she used to. This is getting old, she thought. High time for moving on. "I'm naughty for not wearing any panties," she purred. "I should be punished, don't you think?"

"Oh, yeah," the john said.

She felt a real spark from him, alertness, real lust, a hint of danger. Oh yeah, she thought, a live one. This one's going to work. And Dirty Joe Fritz played funky, and naughty Candy smiled.

---oOo---

This wasn't a show office. It looked worked in, stacks of printout, a well worn data terminal, books laying open with pages marked with post-its. The Chief Judge rose as Candy entered. I wonder what this is all about, she thought.

"Candice Berman, sir," she said. "You wanted to see me?" I passed the bar, she thought. Being a Comfort Girl isn't against the law. There shouldn't be a problem. But maybe there is?

The Chief Judge smiled. "Please take a seat, Miss Berman," he said. "Now look this way for a second, please."

There was a little buzz. She shuddered. A mug shot? "Is there a problem, sir?" she asked. I sound too timid, she thought. I haven't done anything wrong. Just things that High Class folks don't like.

"You passed the bar with a 98," the Chief Judge said. "The next highest score was an 89. And your essay was so concise, so thoughtful it almost deserves publication. I thought I'd like to meet you."

"Okay," she said. Here it comes, she thought. "You're wondering at my choices," she said.

"I'm curious," the Chief Judge said.

Weekend Spanking Games
The two couples, until recently relative strangers to each other, had spent a very enjoyable, energetic and refreshing weekend together under the vast cloudless skies and endless landscapes of Northumberland. They were now heading back South to re-engage with their various pursuits with renewed enthusiasm and with considerably enhanced knowledge of each other.


It had been mid-September. John and Julie, both feeling the effects of a very exhausting day in their respective workplaces, were chatting about their forthcoming venture with their new friends. They had met Mike and Helen through an online community made up of individuals of all descriptions who shared enjoyment of a somewhat individual form of social practice. Their meetings with Mike and Helen had gone even better than they had expected, to the point where all four of them had felt that it would be great to get away for a long weekend together and to enjoy another shared interest - fell-walking. Given their intimate knowledge of Northumberland, where Julie had spent many a summer holiday with her family during childhood and adolescence, she and John had highly recommended a beautiful remote location not all that far from Alnwick, where an isolated building had been converted very tastefully into an extremely comfortable and well-equipped pied-à-terre for fell-walkers.

They had decided that they would all travel North in John's off-road vehicle. A scan of the long-range weather forecast for Northumberland had suggested that there was likely to be an Indian summer at the end of the first week in October, so they had booked a four-night stay at Hepburn Bothy, where they knew that their new friends would have the best chance of feeling relaxed and comfortable and where they would be able to see which way their new-found friendship would take them all.

As Julie outlined her thoughts on who should have which rooms, and as John exercised his mind in anticipating the logistical demands of the trip, their thoughts were only partially focussed on the 10 o'clock news. But they did see enough for John to comment, with no hint of cynicism, in response to a news item featuring hurricane Amethyst, that was expected to knock seven bells out of the Gulf of Mexico and the southern coast of the USA - that he could not understand why people would want to go to the Caribbean in the hurricane season. He went on to add that we should be thankful that we are spared such climatic excesses in the UK. Julie, who was close to succumbing to the allure of waiting Morpheus' arms, nodded in half-hearted concurrence with her partner's comment.


The plan had been to get away mid-morning on the Thursday and to be clear of the Newcastle-upon-Tyne western bypass before the evening rush-hour started. The plan had gone well and there had even been talk of an early arrival at the Bothy until they became victims of a combination of impatience and bad temper, commonly referred to as road rage that had led ten minutes earlier to the complete closure of the northbound A1 at the Ripon/Thirsk exit.

Chapter One
Call me Tiffany. There came a time when I decided, having far too much money to even bother keeping track of, to get away from my usual routine. The fjords of Norway were boring, and I didn't feel like sushi, so Japan was out. As summer was just around the corner, it was Memorial Day weekend, I decided to visit Uncle Donald and Uncle James on Cape Cod. As an added bonus, my BFF Lisa also lived in the area; she owned a small place in Woods Hole. I always thought that funny - Hole!

Anyway, Don and James were actually my 'uncles', but I had long ago removed the quotes from around their designations. I couldn't remember a time when they weren't in my life, as opposed to mom and dad, who were usually off doing... well, whatever it was/is they do. Donald had been the Household Manager for our main home out in the Hamptons, and James was our Head Butler. However, those titles were as meaningless as calling them my 'uncles'. No, the two of them spent most of their time keeping me out of trouble. My earliest dimmest memory is of them - I think I was three or four at the time - chasing after me. I was buck naked, running through the great hall of our house, and they were trying to get me to put my clothes back on.

Oh, I had a nanny, I suppose I should say nannies, but she/they never lasted. I lost count after about number fourteen. No, it was Dandy Don and Quiet James who raised me. Everyone called Donald 'Dandy', even me - although at the time I didn't get the significance of the term. No, that 'coming out' took place when I was twelve, when Donald and James revealed to everyone their feelings for each other. As it turned out, about ninety percent of the staff already knew! Almost everyone was overjoyed, everyone except one particular person.

My dad.

And, as he was their employer, his word was what really mattered. He fired them that day, and I cried myself to sleep that night. Yet I did not let my dad stand in the way of me continuing a relationship with them. No way was I letting go of those old goats! Thank God for email, IM, and Skype. While not there in person, they still managed to help me get through high school. Unfortunately, college (colleges!) was/were another matter.

Now, staying with them in their nice little place right on the beach, I insisted on taking them out to eat for every meal, and every night Lisa and I hit the clubs. There was one place that covered both bases - The Pour House. It was a great little restaurant by day, and a hot club come the night. I loved their motto: The Pour House, Where the Spirits Flow.

One day, sitting down to lunch, nestled between 'my men', I just basked in the glee of their friendship.

Conscience
"Oracle 12.2 restarting... ready," the Old Thing said in a young woman's calm but thrilling voice.

Finally. Finally it had absorbed enough sunlight into its decrepit power cells so she could try again. Brianna swallowed hard. "I'm tired of my life," she said. "Tired of being a party girl. I want work. A sense of purpose. But when I bring it up to Papa, he brushes me off. He doesn't think I'm ready."

Why did she bother, really? The last time the Oracle had rebooted she'd told it the self same thing and it had said 'How nice for you,' and turned itself back off. But still she waited, breathlessly, heart pumping double time. And this time the Old Thing answered.


The Wizard paced the three by three meter hovel he called an office, hands behind his back. "It's somewhat of a misnomer, you know," he said. He reached a hand's breath of the far wall and wheeled. There was something a bit disreputable about the Wizard, but there aren't any reputable Wizards left, these days. And the Oracle had been quite clear: you know what it is you're missing, it had told her. Go tell it to a Wizard.

"Beg pardon?" said Brianna, trying to be polite.

"An artificial conscience," the Wizard said. "Conjures up the idea of some great moral calculus we could embed inside your head so you'd become an expert in philosophy. Isn't that way at all. More just self-awareness, really. You won't have any moral qualms you wouldn't have had otherwise. Merely be more aware of them. Have to come to grips with them, couldn't pretend they weren't there. Are you sure that's what you want?"

What she wanted was to convince Papa she was ready. "I think so," she said. "Help focus the mind, at least."

"There's side effects to self-knowledge," the Wizard said. "You could become so indecisive you were dysfunctional."

That made her smile. "If I'd started out too thoughtful," she said. "But people say I'm impulsive. Slowing me down a bit isn't going to hurt."

"And you sure there's enough credit in your account to pay for the process?"

"Not a problem," Brianna said, now grinning from ear to ear.


It was dark. She felt a tickling inside her mind. "Pass one complete," a woman's voice said. "Calibration complete. Please select mode." It was the same voice as her Oracle. The voice of the Old Things.

"Default mode," she heard the Wizard say. "Give her what she needs most and don't be gentle."

"Commencing pass two," the Old Thing said, and Brianna smelled fear and tasted regret and felt helplessness and lust.


"A Wizard?" Papa said. He was looking straight at her and hadn't touched his wine. For once she had his full attention. "You went to see a Wizard? What, cure your lack of a love life, finally?"

Brianna flinched. "No. An augmentation of conscience, Papa. I want work. You think that I'm not ready. Well, dammit, I'm trying to make myself ready, okay?"

Clare's Corporal Punishment Weekend
Clare Rogers leant back from her desk and computer screen feeling very pleased with herself. She had just completed a highly complicated currency transaction involving Euros. At one time she was showing losses amounting to millions - which would have resulted in her being abruptly fired and her reputation in tatters. However, in the end she closed the deal showing a very handsome profit. This would add a few noughts to her year end bonus, which was already looking very healthy. Last year her bonus had helped her move to a very smart apartment in Fulham.

"Next year?" she mused. "Chelsea? Maybe even Belgravia or Knightsbridge..." Her thoughts were interrupted by a sharp ring on her phone. "Clare Rogers," she answered. The disagreeable voice of Mrs Summerson, the CEO's PA came on.

"Mr Manners wants to see you immediately. Don't be late!" And with that she slammed the phone down.

Clare sighed, and addressed her neighbour. "Would you mind the shop for me Kevin? God wants to see me."

"Sure thing, Clary Baby."

"And no poaching my clients!"

"Now would I do such an ungentlemanly thing?" Kevin replied innocently.

Wouldn't you just! Clare thought to herself as she made her way to the lift which would take her up to the top floor. Not for the first time she knew the dealing floor consisted of a lot of sharks waiting to pounce at the first sight of blood. At the same time, she was a mite concerned at the reason for her summons. Guy Manners, the CEO of Charnley Wilton Merchant Bank very rarely summoned his staff for a pat on the back. Usually the blow was administered much further down.

"Well you took your time," Mrs Summerson rasped as Clare walked into the outer office.

"Do I take it I'm to go straight in?" Clare asked, wondering not for the first time, why, when he had the pick of all the best PA's around, he should have picked this bad tempered old bat.

"Well, you've kept him waiting long enough! And don't spend all afternoon wittering. He's very busy today!"

Clare walked in to the office and Guy Manners, a good looking forty year-old, stood up and waved her to a settee. He then moved over to sit on an adjacent chair.

"I've been hearing great things about you, Clare. Adrian, your section head is delighted with your progress, and a little bird tells me you have completed a very juicy transaction today, which will benefit both you and the bank greatly."

"Thank you Mr Manners. I had a few anxious moments but it all came out good in the end."

"Oh, call me Guy, please!" he said with an expansive smile, "But I'm not the only one who has been most impressed by your abilities. I think you met Boris Ulyanovic last week. He's been singing your praises to the heavens!"

Clare certainly remembered him. A large and unbelievably wealthy Russian, who had taken advantage of the fall of communism to acquire oil wells and steel works at knock down prices. "Yes. Adrian and I took him out to lunch last week."

Birds and Stones
Dinner in the Residence is a lot less grand than you might think. I mean, sure, Papa goes in for pomp when pomp is called for, but in private he's actually quite frugal, so the great porcelain chargers and the gold washed silver and the hand cut crystal were all locked up safe and what we had was a rack of lamb with little caramelized potatoes on tin glazed earthenware and a decent mid-priced Red with a little bark and a little bite. There wasn't even a servant except between courses, so we didn't have to be on our best behavior.

"I take note of the fact you're lonely," Papa said. He only uses the royal 'we' for company.

"Because I'm moping, or because I mention it at every opportunity, sir?" I asked. That 'sir' was very calibrated. I needed to afford him a modicum of courtesy, without letting him think he'd got the upper hand.

He grunted. "Been looking for just the right thing," he said. "Finally, I found just what I wanted, a servant who grew up as the daughter of a noble house which fell on hard times. Someone with decent manners, someone you might become friends with."

A servant. Papa wanted me to make friends with a servant. "And since you own her, you can still control everything, right, Papa?"

He sipped his wine. A little dribbled down his chin. I touched mine to let him know, and he grimaced and used his napkin. "Yours, actually," he said. "I'll give you title. She can be your confidant, and I won't pry. But you know how fond I am of killing two birds with one stone? She'll also be your disciplinary surrogate. Your whipping girl."

I felt a sudden chill. "Oh fine. Let me get close to someone and then torture her to make me behave, I get it."

Papa smiled at me. He does that when he thinks he's winning. "You're kind hearted," he said. "Your basic empathy will out, whether you're very good friends with her or not. But there's also a broader symbolism, my dear. When a ruler messes up, it is usually subordinates who suffer. It's a lesson well worth learning."

Birds and stones were flying 'round my head. Oh how I hate it when he corners me. "I'll agree to meet her," I said. "Give it a try, at least. But if it works out to be a net minus in my view, I'm going to give her back." I knocked back a rather large slug of wine. Papa took the decanter, and calmly refilled my glass.


She was a shy little thing in her servant's short hair and her servant's way short linen shift and her eyes were huge and she looked as if she could bolt at any time, like a wild thing in the woods. "Your highness," she said timidly.

Hearing that hurt my teeth. "Sonja in private, please," I said. "Being 'her highness' is not my favorite thing at all."