LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

Her Cheating Heart
Carissa is undoubtedly the sexiest woman I have ever met. She is beautiful, flirtatious, provocative. We ended up in bed on our first date for some of the most intense love-making I have ever experienced. It was this affinity for jumping into bed at the drop of a hat that would eventually get Carissa in big trouble.

We had been dating for three or four months when I began to have suspicions that I was not the exclusive recipient of her amorous attention. When through some friends I received conclusive proof, I confronted my lover. Her first defense was to deny everything. As I recounted what I knew, however, she changed tactics.

"I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings. But we never made our relationship exclusive. You can date whoever you please. We're not going steady or anything."

"'Going steady?'" I asked incredulously. "We're not in high school. What was I supposed to do, give you my ID bracelet? We go out a couple times a week. You stay over most of those. I take you to and from the airport when you visit your folks. You come to my parents' house for Thanksgiving. I don't know what more you need. It sounds like it's pretty exclusive to me. But just for one of us, apparently."

She stood there meekly. "So what are you going to do, dump me?"

I had thought this over long and hard ever since I learned the truth. Dumping her was not something I wanted to do. She was great in the sack - there is no doubt that that was part of it. But there was more. I enjoyed being with her. She was funny. She was witty. When I had been sick, she had taken care of me; I later did the same for her. My dog liked her. We liked doing the same things - dancing, going to basketball games, biking, skiing. We liked the same music. I had seen her with my brother's kids - she was excellent with children, as might be expected of a teacher. In short, I loved her. If only she could stay out of other guys' beds.

"No, I'm not going to dump you. But if we're going to stay together, some things are going to have to change. Are you willing?"

This was the test. If she said no - if she needed her freedom to go bed-hopping, then it would be over between us. But if she said yes - if she would commit to me, then maybe she did love me. But I wasn't going to let her make that choice too easily. I had already decided what I must do to enforce her promise.

"Honey, I do love you. And I'm sorry, really I am. You're the one I want to be with. Come on, let's make up." She sidled up alongside me, taking hold of my arm, kissing my neck.

The destiny of Nations
Was made within those schools
Where slipper cane and tawse awaited
Fools who broke the rules
Where seeds were sown in clever minds
That smacked of risk and mystery
But shaped the ways of things to come
And changed the course of history
Friday 4 May 1984

Norma Nichols decided she liked Edinburgh. As she sat on the crowded early evening commuter train from Dunfermline to the Scottish Capital, she reflected on the events that had brought her there. The noisy ScotRail carriage rattled noisily over the iconic oxblood-red Forth Rail Bridge, and through the salt-stained window the 26 year-old watched the dazzling evening sunlight flicker brightly between the thick steel girders as the train flashed past.

Thinking back, Norma remembered the aptitude tests she had completed at the army recruitment office. Her outstanding talent for problem solving, and skills with both numbers and words had set her aside from the rest of the applicants they processed there, and as a result she was immediately head-hunted for special duties. Although she still had to complete a gruellingly hard condensed course in basic infantry soldiering, she was soon fast-tracked into military intelligence, where the work was far more demanding on the brain cells than brawn. Now stationed at historic Pitreavie Castle in Fyfe, the pretty young lass found her situation both exciting and satisfying, despite having to interact with an older generation of academics. It was an unusual place of work, where she found her colleagues to be rather eccentric and unpredictable. The only down-side to the job was the fact that she had yet to become acquainted with anyone she would class as a friend, and there were times when she felt a little lonely and wondered if she was missing out on the companionship of normal service life.

Following the success of the Falklands Campaign, the nearby naval dockyard at Rosyth had been a hive of activity, with battle-weary ships needing refits or replacement upon their return from the stormy South Atlantic. There was also a nightmare of lost documentation, which presented a real threat to national security. On top of that a national miner's strike was in full flow as well as threatened industrial action from refuse collectors, tanker drivers and firemen, to name but a few. To Norma, it felt like she was at the cutting edge of military intelligence. The work she was doing addressed threats which could come from any part of society, and as she rode the train home to the city, she looked out at the view over the Firth of Forth, and allowed her mind to clear of all the facts and figures she had been processing at work. To her right, framed by the giant suspension bridge, Norma watched a sleek battleship-grey frigate steaming out of the nearby naval base, and to her right, framed by the Fife and Lothian coastlines, the white-capped waves of the cold-looking Firth of Forth heralded the choppy North Sea beyond.

A Perfect Punishment Partnership
I remember that fateful day vividly. The previous afternoon, I'd made a routine stop at Wal-Mart on my way home. While there, I ran into a friend who wanted to know if it was true that the county health department was going to shut me down because of unsanitary conditions and a rodent infestation. Of course that was total nonsense! But if such a story got around, it would cost me a lot of business even though there was no truth in it. I asked him where he heard that, and with a few phone calls, I was able to trace the malicious rumor back to its likely source. Kristi Mason! I should have known. If customers avoided my place, many of them would buy from her instead.

I'll go back to the beginning. When I was a boy, my dad opened a produce stand at a crossroads just outside of town. He started selling fresh fruits and vegetables from local farms, and business was pretty good. When I was old enough, I started helping out on weekends and afternoons after school. Dad hired a lady to help us and we opened a snack bar on the side, and also sold home-made baked and canned goods. We put up a small building and had a store in the back, with the open-air produce stand out front.

Then, when I was about fifteen, Tom Mason came along and opened his produce stand directly across the road from us. My dad was furious. There was plenty of business for one produce stand to operate, but not for two. Of course, there was nothing he could do about it. It's a free country and Mason had a legal right. But Dad went from making a good living to barely staying afloat. He asked and then offered to pay Mason to move somewhere else. After all, Dad had a permanent building and Mason only had an open-air stand under a tent. But he refused, claiming there was no other reasonable location where he could set up. He and Dad argued numerous times and became bitter rivals.

Tom Mason had a daughter, just a year younger than me, who helped him at his stand. Her name was Kristi, and she was a cute kid, kind of skinny at the time, with light brown hair and a few freckles. But I couldn't like her because she was the enemy. We would look across the road and make faces at each other. It was childish, I know. But it got to be a habit every time we'd see each other. Then she got to be a couple years older and started... uh... 'filling out', if you know what I mean. If she had been anyone else other than Tom Mason's daughter, I'd have been all over her, asking for a date. She had a really nice ass! In the summer, she'd wear short cutoff jeans, and let me tell you, Daisy Duke had nothing on Kristi Mason!

An Incentive for Discipline
"Sure, Anne. I guess can watch Nathan for a while longer. It won't be a problem." Nancy had to force herself to say that. She didn't want to hurt her friend's feelings, but her boy was often an obnoxious brat.

Anne Wilson was grateful to her friend. A single mother whose husband had abandoned her shortly after their son was born, Anne was working two jobs and struggling to provide for herself and her child. She didn't know how she could get by without Nancy, who had a son the same age, and frequently watched Nathan for her.

"Thanks, Nancy. I'll be there to pick him up as soon as I meet with Dr. Howard. We need to talk about Nathan's progress."

Actually, the issue was larger than that, but she didn't want to share the details. Anne hung up the phone and checked her make-up in the mirror. She applied a little lipstick and brushed her hair. When she was satisfied with her appearance, she considered the large, old-fashioned hairbrush she held in her hand. She had owned the brush since she was a little girl, and it held a lot of memories, not all of them pleasant. Instead of returning the hairbrush to its normal place on the vanity, she dropped it into her purse as she left for her visit with Dr. Howard.

---oOo---
Dr. Mark Howard was not a medical doctor. His doctorate was in education. A handsome man only six years Anne's senior, he was young for his position as an administrator at a local private school. But his excellent reputation for his work with young children had earned him the job.

Anne adored her son. Nathan was a sweet child, though even she admitted he could be a bit difficult at times. Due to a chronic ear infection, he had missed much of his time in kindergarten. And because of her busy work schedule, she didn't have as much time to spend with him as she would have liked. Anne was afraid he was going to be behind the other children when he started school in a few months. On the advice of a friend, she had approached Dr. Howard about special tutoring for Nathan.

Living alone since his wife had been killed in a car accident two years previously, Mark Howard had the free time to do a bit of tutoring on the side, and had been impressed by Anne's concern. Too many parents failed to appreciate the importance of a proper foundation for their children's education. He agreed to evaluate the boy's potential and readiness without charge since he knew she was struggling financially and didn't even have a car.

Anne had been overjoyed at his kindness. She took an immediate liking to Dr. Howard and sensed that the feeling might be mutual. But after a couple of sessions with Nathan, Mark reported there was a problem.

Introduction
The actual identity of the woman referred to in this monograph as 'Lydia' has only recently come to light as a result of continuing research. However, in order to protect the privacy of her family, her full name will not be revealed here. Suffice it to say that she was born into wealth, the daughter of a knight of the realm, and it is for that very reason that the career she chose to follow in the 1870's, as outlined in the pages that follow, is so remarkable.

Lydia was a submissive who performed in houses and small theatres given over to the perceived pleasures of flagellation. Unlike many of her fellow submissives, whose origins were to be found almost exclusively in lower classes of society, there is no evidence at all that Lydia was a prostitute (if by that term we mean 'one who engages in sexual activity for pay'). She was paid for most of her performances, but these involved solely the submission on her part to various forms of flagellation.

Houses and brothels catering to a broad range of sexual proclivities became ubiquitous in London throughout the 1860's and onwards, despite the apparent contradiction posed by the commonly-held view of the Victorian era as being excessively prudish about sexual matters. Such establishments were frequented by many of the highest-ranking officials and aristocrats, and houses specialising in flagellation were among the most popular. Estimates suggest that as many as three to four thousand such places existed in various locations around London, though their existence was often fragile and transitory.

Evidence for research into this subject is of necessity restricted to a range of private and often elusive sources. Flagellation as a source of sexual stimulation and pleasure is to this day regarded with a mixture of condemnation and mockery. It is taboo, and will no doubt continue to be so. In the absence, therefore, of any official documentation (beyond occasional police or court papers detailing charges of 'lewdness' and the like), I have had to draw on the letters, journals, notices and sundry writings of a number of contemporary participants. I have also been fortunate enough to gather the spoken testimony of some witnesses yet living.

Before we turn to the outline of Lydia's career that is the main purpose of this monograph, a brief explanation of the titles of the three parts is required. They are explained by reference to Shakespeare's Twelfth Night, from which Lydia chose to borrow her stage names. In the play, a young woman (Viola) is shipwrecked on the shores of the fictitious country of Illyria, ruled by one Duke Orsino. Fearing for her safety, she adopts the disguise of a young man, taking the name Cesario. After many plot twists, she reveals herself as Viola, and marries the Duke Orsino.

"Hey Doc, got a new patient for you to look over." Sheriff Jack Keen walked into Springrock's doctor's surgery, almost dragging a petite figure behind him.

Sam looked at the young girl and frowned at the egg-sized lump on her forehead. His perceptive gaze quickly swept the length of her body, looking for other outward signs of injury but, apart from the bump, she appeared unhurt.

"Found her slumped against the wheel of her car on the Corby Road," said the Sheriff. "I figure she took the sharp bend too fast and skidded off into a tree. Damn lucky she ain't more hurt than she is."

Dr Sam Baxter's frown deepened in concern as he took the tiny girl's hand and gently led her towards him. "She still could be, Jack. The full extent of a head injury isn't always apparent straight away. Was she unconscious for long?"

The plump Sheriff shrugged. "Not sure she was unconscious at all. Just seems in shock to me. Hasn't said a word since I found her."

Sam smiled down at the girl. Wide, frightened green eyes stared back up at him from beneath a thick cascade of auburn hair. She really was beautiful. Her mouth was a perfect bow and the full bottom lip quivered slightly as though she were about to cry. "Hey Sweetie," Sam murmured, every protective instinct within him reacting to her forlorn expression. "You gonna let me take a look at you?" She didn't answer but stood passively still, her little hand still clutched within Sam's warm palm. "You wanna hop up onto the bed for me?" When she still didn't respond, Sam took matters into his own hands and spanned her tiny waist to lift her up onto the examining table. She was as light as a feather. "You say she was slumped in the driver's seat, Sheriff? She doesn't look old enough to even have a licence."

"She's twenty-one, according to the ID I found in her purse. Name's Emma James. Judging by the rucksack on the backseat, I'd say she was probably just passing through." Jack's mouth set wearily. "She won't be going anywhere for a while though now, her car's bent up pretty bad."

"Anyone else hurt?"

"Nope," Jack sighed. "Didn't look to be anyone riding with her and no signs of another car being involved in the crash either."

In his capacity as Springrock's Sheriff, Jack had seen many a car accident in his day. It wasn't unusual for there to be no other cars involved. The small West Virginian town had its share of narrow winding roads, some with steep inclines. City folk came speeding through without a thought to wandering wildlife or dense stretches of road with no street lights.

"Hi Emma," Sam said and smiled. "I'm Sam." Green eyes studied him warily.

"Stan? You mean Stan Geller?"

April nodded, closing her eyes dreamily. "Yesss. God, I've been trying to get him to notice me since winter break, but he, like, just keeps being there."

They were sitting on the couch in their dorm room, chatting during a commercial break in Dexter. Sara was a tall, athletic redhead; she ran track, played tennis, the works. April, who currently wore a slightly downtrodden expression, was a short, dishwater blonde girl with a soft, curvy figure. Sara listened curiously to her roommate's plight. Sara and April were part of the same weekly study group, which Stan had joined late last semester. Sara had known Stan before that (she was friends with an ex-girlfriend of his) but April had not.

"He is cute," Sara agreed, "and he knows how to cook. I ... guess he's not a bad choice."

April gave Sara a curious look.

"You guess?"

Sara flashed her a 'if you really want to know' smile. April looked on impatiently.

"Well..." Sara said, not sure if she should really be spilling the beans, "Jen told me that part of the reason they broke up was ... um ... spanking."

April raised an eyebrow.

"What do you mean? Spanking?"

"She told me Stan was, y'know, into it. Like, as a sex thing. He kept wanting to do it, she didn't."

April looked shocked. She knew that kinkiness wasn't all that uncommon, especially among their offbeat circle of friends. But Stan? Hitting a girl? That image just wasn't something she could get her mind around.

Sara smiled again. "So yeah. That's the story."

"Huh."

April thought deeply. Sara watched, somewhat amused.

"Still want to date Stan?"

"Spanking? Wow, um ... I think ... yeah, I could see myself there, I guess. Like, sure, even if he's sort of freaky, he's still the same guy, right?"

Sara shrugged. "I'm not the one to ask."

April frowned thoughtfully, evaluating this new information.

Sara shook her head. Whine, whine, whine. Sometimes, when April got into these moods, it seemed like that was all she could do. What really got on Sara's nerves about this was that April was the last person who should be complaining about not attracting men. When they went to parties together Sara often felt overlooked, as it seemed like all the guys had their eyes glued to April's chest and butt. April did have quite a butt, Sara had to admit. As big and round as a pair of soccer balls, and jiggly as a mound of jell-o. Haha, maybe Stan really should give April a try, just so that fat ass could get paddled! If ever there was a bottom that needed that, Sara had to admit, it was April's.

The show came back on, and they watched Dexter kill people for the next fifteen minutes. Or at least, Sara did. April wouldn't shut her damned mouth.

Evie glanced in the mirror. An angelic face stared back at her with flawless creamy skin, cute nose and liquid hazel eyes beneath arched brown brows and dark lashes, contrasting with a tumble of blonde curls. She had always considered her waist-length pre-Raphaelite tresses to be her prize asset, and given her current desperate financial situation her hair was her only asset. She sighed, tied her unruly locks back in a pony tail, then applied a light coating of mascara and a touch of pale pink, shimmery lipstick.

"You'd better get this job girl," she told herself, "or ..." Her face fell. If she didn't get it there would be no option but to sell the house.

Pushing away the encroaching negative thoughts, Evie smoothed her dress and slipped on a matching navy blue jacket, then picked up her shoulder bag and left the house. Her interview was scheduled for 2pm, and she could walk the short distance to the department store in under twenty minutes.

---oOo---
She arrived fifteen minutes early and was shown to a small waiting area at the end of a wide corridor lined with offices on the top floor of the store. This floor housed the administration, personnel and accounting staff. Barkers was a family business and had been operating in this location for over 100 years, and in spite of the recession was managing not only to keep afloat but to make a profit in each of the twelve stores located throughout the country.

Evie sat and tried not to fidget. She glanced at the two girls seated opposite. One was an attractive yet tarty-looking brunette with a rather snooty expression. Heavily made up, she was wearing a designer-label outfit, ridiculously impractical high heels, and reeked of expensive perfume. She stared at Evie contemptuously, taking in her rather plain attire.

The other girl was totally different - she had a round friendly face with lots of freckles, and her ginger hair curled softly, framing her face. A pair of lively green eyes sparkled as she smiled at Evie. "Hi."

"Hi." Evie warmed to the girl instantly and returned a smile.

"I'm here for the job in Ladies Wear. Which one are you after?"

"The vacancy in the cafeteria," said Evie.

"Good luck."

"Thanks, and you too."

"You'll need more than luck," said the other girl dismissively. She gave Evie a snooty stare.

"Oh?" Evie felt intimidated but was determined not to let it show.

"I'm here for the cafeteria vacancy too and I happen to know I'm exactly the person they're looking for," she sneered.

"Well as you've both been selected for interview, you both stand an equal chance," said the ginger haired girl. She shot Evie a supportive look.

"Equal? No way. I've been doing the job for the past four weeks," retorted the snooty girl. She smiled smugly at Evie. "So you may as well leave now. No point in wasting everyone's time. Why don't you just piss off."

Hi, my name is Megan. I was working on my Masters degree and didn't have a lot of money so I readily accepted Aunt Eva and Uncle Fred's invitation to live with them. Their son Tommy, who's about six months older than I was doing his post-graduate study at another university and wasn't at home so it was just the three of us in the house. I should probably mention that Aunt Eva and Uncle Fred weren't actually related to me. They had been my folks' best friends for years until they moved away and we still considered them 'family'. As far as I was concerned they were my aunt and uncle and during my stay they were wonderful hosts. They let me come and go as I pleased and never asked questions other than when I expected to be home. I think I was a good boarder. I helped with the chores and fitted right into their family. They said they always wanted to have a daughter and, in some aspects, they spoiled me by buying clothes and other presents.

My academic program was fairly intense and I was glad I didn't have to work at a part time job so I could focus on my studies. I was pretty wild in my undergraduate days but now was the time to settle down so the last thing I needed was a steady boyfriend to distract me. However, as a normal heterosexual female I did enjoy male companionship from time to time but I limited my dates to about once a month and never with the same guy more than twice. Those dates invariably ended up in some young man's bed and Aunt Eva and Uncle Fred knew I wouldn't be home until the next morning. Like the rest of my out-of-house activities, they were noncommittal about my periodic sexual liaisons.

Sounds like the perfect arrangement doesn't it? Actually it was except for their unusual idiosyncrasies. And in retrospect, even they were. Never mind, I'll tell you how I felt about them later but suffice it to say that I was directly involved. I guess the best way to explain it is to tell you about the first of my ventures into their special world.

When I wasn't out screwing some young man I usually stayed home with Aunt Eva and Uncle Fred and we'd play cards or watch movies on TV. The Saturday evening I'm going to tell you about seemed quite normal until Aunt Eva asked if I would mind putting on some special clothes she had made for me. I should mention that she's a very good seamstress and had already made me some beautiful dresses. I eagerly agreed to wear whatever she had made. She led me upstairs and showed me her latest creation. It was not at all what I expected. It was a frilly dress such as a little girl would wear to a party.

The Lesson
Elmhurst Academy was a private high school dedicated to high standards in education. The founder had come to the U.S. from England and, discovering the public education system did not meet his requirements for his own sons, he had established the institution in the traditions of a strict English boys' school. But after the elder gentleman's passing, the school had gradually become a bit more modern and liberal. It had become co-ed and now the faculty and Board of Directors, as well as the student body was an almost equal mix of genders.

One thing had not changed: students were expected to be well-behaved and respectful. And no student was admitted unless his or her parents gave permission for that expectation to be enforced with a cane, strap, or paddle on the backside of the errant pupil.

But now there was a new development. The school year had just started when the aging headmaster, who had occupied his position for many years, was suddenly forced into retirement due to health problems. And when the Board of Directors needed to quickly select a replacement, the most qualified candidate was a much younger educator. But though only twenty-eight years old, the applicant had a PhD in Education, stellar references, and an excellent record during the past two years as assistant principal at another high school. Her name was Miss Karen Wood.

A couple of the older men on the board were concerned about choosing a woman. As administrator, it would be her duty to administer corporal punishment to the male students as well as the girls and that might be a problem, they said. The women on the board stifled that sexist objection, pointing out that the headmaster had been punishing the girls as well as the boys ever since the school became co-ed; so what was the problem? A woman could swing a cane just as well as a man and if those who raised the objection had any doubt of it, they would be happy to provide a personal demonstration.

The school was abuzz with rumors. It was said the headmaster was going to be replaced by a woman. And a young woman at that! The girls were ecstatic. They felt they had been discriminated against and would have someone more on their side. The boys had mixed emotions. Some thought it would be great. Others weren't so sure. On the morning the new administrator was scheduled to arrive, several of the senior boys were standing outside when they saw a car they didn't recognize pull into the headmaster's parking space. They stared in amazement as the occupant got out.

"Oh, My God!"

"That can't be her! Can it?"

"No way! She's not old enough."

"She is fucking gorgeous!"

"Are you sure that's not a new student? Maybe she just parked in the wrong place."

"THAT'S the new headmaster!?

Julie, or WPC Julie Storey to give her full title, was furious. She had just been hauled through a gruelling disciplinary process lasting weeks, and eventually been officially warned for inappropriate behaviour.

She was seething, and seriously considering throwing the job in. All she had done was to pointedly look the other way and make no comment when a furious mother had pulled her unruly brat of a son's trousers down and walloped him twice in the supermarket. She was on her way to arrest a shoplifter who was a known troublemaker and a potentially violent junkie and considered the woman's behaviour, although rather crass, to be perfectly understandable, and that it was her duty to deal with a proper criminal rather than a harassed mother.

Unfortunately, the whole scene had been witnessed by one Alexandra Smart, a prominent civil-rights lawyer who adored being the 'rentagob' media mouthpiece for all kinds of groups who were supposedly discriminated against. These ranged from immigrants, asylum-seekers, detained terrorists, to single mothers and children.

She had videoed the whole scene on her mobile phone, taken Julie's number and reported the incident first thing Monday morning to the Chief Constable. Using her contacts in the liberal press she had turned it into a cause célèbre and made the police-force take disciplinary action against Julie who point blank refused to apologise.

Her inspector, a wise woman who had seen it all before, had eventually persuaded Julie to take a holiday in the sun and try to forget it, reminding her that the vast majority of the force and population regarded her as a martyred heroine rather than a wrong-doer.

Julie eventually returned to work, and on reporting back on Monday morning was summoned to a meeting with her inspector and the same Assistant Chief Constable who a couple of weeks previously had very reluctantly issued her warning.

She walked along the corridor, by now in a foul mood; the benefits of a fortnight of sun, sea and sin had worn off in a flash. I'm fucking well going to resign, take the bastards to a tribunal and sell my story to The Daily Post, if they fuck with me again, she thought as she entered.

To her surprise she found her seniors relaxing in armchairs, drinking coffee, and was summoned to sit down and offered coffee herself. The atmosphere was positively warm and friendly.

Julie wondered what kind of stunt the bastards were going to try to pull this time.

The Assistant Chief Constable opened with small talk, complimenting her on her tan and asking about her holiday. He then cut to the crux of the matter.

"Now constable, you will doubtless have seen all the press interest in your return to work. I had to run the gauntlet of a pack of idiot reporters asking me fucking stupid questions, as I'm sure you did. I also understand there is no significant other in your life at this time... we therefore consider it would be in the best interests of you and the force if you agreed to be seconded away for a few months."

Chapter One - The New Neighbors
Paula Auburn was a unique woman living a unique life. She was a genius toymaker, which was how she'd made a couple of million dollars from a licensing deal with a major toy company. Now, at the age of twenty-eight, she had her own computer game company in Norfolk, Virginia. To look at her, no one would believe she was a 'Type A' personality. At well under five feet, she was proud of her petite build, although she did wish she had a better figure. Without make up and her sexy clothes, she was practically boyish, and could easily pass for a pre-teen girl.

Bruce Putnam was everything she wasn't. Although tall and powerfully built, he was a quiet gentle fellow. Friends and co-workers called him Mr. Mellow. And yet, he could be strong and firm when necessary.

Recent events had thrust Paula and Bruce together. First Bruce had come to work for her company, then Paula's doctor had told her she needed to relax. She said Paula had a 'Type A-Plus' personality and she was destined for early death due to overwork if she didn't calm down. That led to Paula dating Bruce - at Paula's insistence.

Then came the accident. Paula was texting and talking on the phone while driving, and ended up causing a crash. In the aftermath, Bruce stepped up to the plate and helped her. He moved into her house, an old colonial-type place located in a secluded area along Kings River, and he took care of her. While she initially hated it, especially when he forced her to relax and play with her collection of toys, she eventually grew to enjoy their time together. Then he spanked her, and afterwards they made love and she experienced her first orgasm.

Now Paula's life had entered its unique phase. She was still CEO of her company and was incredibly creative. Yet she only worked three days a week, and often wore little girl panties under her business suit. She and Bruce carried out an age play relationship at home, one they kept hidden from friends, family and co-workers. He set out certain rules and chores for her, and punishment followed any infractions. One thing he definitely insisted on was her cutting back on work and relaxing more.

As the days ticked off, Paula began to feel an itch and it was one Bruce could not help her scratch. Her Type A+ personality was re-asserting itself. She wanted to create more, talk to more clients, and just plain work. So, being a genius, she came up with a simple solution. At night, after Bruce was asleep, she'd slip out of bed and go down to her office, and work. She was so light that she could walk around without making any creaks or squeaks of the flooring.

Chapter One - The Toymaker
Paula Auburn had a gift for thinking like a child. In her case, this was quite useful as she was a genius toymaker. She'd created the Hoop-de-Doo toy when she was a senior in high school, and then made a couple million dollars from licensing it to a major toy company. Once she graduated, she used the money to start her own computer game company. Two years later, the first of the Heidi Cooper Fantasy games came out. It was a smash hit, and the series made her company the newest of the Fortune 500 hits by the time she was twenty-eight. She was definitely a 'Type A' personality, even though she didn't look it. Several inches under five feet, she was petite, and proud of her firm build. Regular workouts at the gym were yet another way she exercised control over her life. The other was dominating at work, where she was the absolute authority on all things. With Paula, management was simple: do it my way or leave!

Into this organized chaos came Bruce Putnam - tall, powerfully built, and yet a quiet gentle fellow. He was called Mr. Mellow by his friends and his co-workers quickly followed suit. By the end of his first month at the company, a number of things had coalesced in his mind. He noticed that while the business was doing well, he could see trouble on the horizon. The place was disorganized and needed structure, and although he didn't know Paula too well, he could see that the company was like her life! The staff were frustrated with how things worked but they loved the benefits, pay, and working conditions. The place was a great working environment, and Bruce could see that the level of creativity was incredible.

The first clue as to the company's troubles came early. They were supposed to have a staff meeting every other Monday. So when the appointed day and time arrived, Bruce armed with his yellow legal notepad and notes on his projects, walked into the conference room and took a seat. The room was like everything else in the office: designed to impress and intimidate. It was large and spacious with a huge wooden oval table and colorful art on three walls (the fourth was a massive picture window that afforded them a spectacular view of Chesapeake Bay), and there were a few touches that indicated the purpose of the company was fun. In the corner was a football table, dart board, pool table, and a bookcase full of old fashioned board games.

As Bruce organized his notes, he was soon aware that no one else seemed ready for the meeting. Several people were starting a game of football, others were chatting about the latest movies, and Anne (the office manager) was dialing the local pizza parlor.

"So, who wants what on their pizza?" she called out.

1885. St Elmo, Colorado.

"Damn it, Charlie," said Hank, "what the hell is all that racket going on outside my saloon? Can't a man get a decent morning's sleep around here any more?"

Charlie continued to clean whisky glasses without even looking up. "Sorry boss. My guess is it's that new little lady in town - the one holding meetings every Sunday after church. She's been preaching about the sin of alcohol and gambling and getting the women folk hereabout all fired up."

Hank Reynolds frowned and scratched his dark shaggy head. "What new lady? For crying out loud, why would anyone be against a man having a drink and a game of poker?"

Charlie shrugged. "Don't ask me, boss. I ain't even married. Women and the way they think is a total mystery to me. But there's a whole bunch of females outside who wanna see this place shut down... reckon it's a den of wickedness, they do."

"A den of what?" Hank stopped trying to work out what his barman was going on about and instead marched out through the swing doors to assess the situation himself. There in front of his saloon were a group of women holding placards. Their annoying chants reinforced the messages on the white-painted boards, clearly aimed at ruining him. Slogans like 'Wicked Whisky' and 'Satan's Saloon' caught his eye. He held up his hands to attract their attention and hopefully shut them up. Their high pitched squawking was giving him a headache.

"Whoa there," he finally shouted as their raucous protests grew louder. "Hold up there and quit all the yelling, will ya?" His deep voice must have penetrated their determined throng, for the voices petered off and a dozen pair of female eyes turned on him with resentful glares. "You ladies are blocking my doorway and making a racket. You all have five minutes to disappear before I send for the Sheriff and have you arrested for disturbing the peace." His piercing blue eyes scanned the cluster of indignant protesters, recognising the majority of them. "And I'm guessing most of your husbands and daddies won't be too pleased about you causing trouble in town either."

There was a low ripple of muttering across the group and Hank hid a grin of triumph as several of the protest boards were lowered dejectedly into the dirt.

"My Sam would take his belt to me if he knew I was here," one woman admitted loudly. Several others nodded and there was a low murmur of assent.

"Daddy said he'd whup me if he ever caught me within ten yards of the saloon," announced a young girl. "And Daddy's strap hurts something awful when he takes it to my bare backside. I'm sorry, Eliza but I think I'd better be getting home."

As the women all began to slowly disperse, a petite figure dressed in black stepped forward and raised her hands urgently.

The Romantique Legacy
"I get it," she said rolling her eyes up. "I'm a screw up, what can I say?"

Zoe Frayne sat with her arms folded across a pink mohair pullover crushing her small but prominent breasts. The pink matched the tinge of dye in her black hair, the only visible concession the punk-come-Goth girl had made to her femininity. Her black faded jeans were ripped and the whole parody of an ensemble was covered with masculine leather biker jacket.

"Look at you, you're 25 and... what are you wearing?" Masterson sighed, "You have no job, you have spent the allotment your uncle gave you at 18, and you have given up on that PhD in what was it... the impact of music on Western Civilisation?"

Masterson, Zoe's late uncle's lawyer, listed her deficiencies on his fingers.

"I said I get it." Zoe shifted uncomfortably in the overstuffed leather armchair of the lawyer's office. "I had to make something of myself by the age of 25 or no filthy money." Masterson sighed again and sat back.

"That's it then, I'm screwed." Zoe threw him a sour expression as she got up to leave.

"You want to hear about plan B first?" he said wearily.

"I can see from your face that I won't like it," Zoe grunted and gave him another eye-roll as she slumped back down.

"Your late uncle Benjamin Romantique was a very wealthy man, but an eccentric one." Masterson let out a long breath.

This was nuts, he admitted, wondering how he was going to broach the subject.

"He was out of the Ark, I know that, but I always thought he was kind of cool," Zoe snorted.

"Old fashioned, yes, that's a positive take I suppose and that brings me to the point." Masterson leaned forward and made a bridge of his fingers as he clasped them as if in prayer. "There is a man called Anthony Barnwell Steel..."

Zoe shifted uncomfortably in her seat and blushed.

"...He was your uncle's friend... I see you know of him?" Masterson put in.

"We met when I was a kid..." The words clung to her mouth like a childhood lollipop being removed from a saucer.

"If you spend the summer with him, on his terms, then however it works out you get an indexed £30,000 a year until you are 30 and then a first payment of 10 million with a second 10 million when you marry or when you turn 45, whichever is first."

Zoe was still thinking of Tony Steel and that summer not so long ago when the 'second 10 million' got her attention.

"You mean I get 10 million quid when I marry?" she said incredulously. "But what if I don't want to get married?"

"You have to spend three months with Mr Barnwell Steel first. On the same terms as you had when your uncle was alive. I believe you know what that means?" Masterson let the question hang.

As Beth drove into the church parking lot, she was relieved to see it empty except for Dr. Lee's car. It was almost time for her regular 'Contrition' appointment with her Pastor, Dr. Lee, and she greatly preferred for it to be in private, especially today!

She let herself into the side door of the church. Her steps sounded hollow in the empty sanctuary as she headed for the basement stairway. She could have changed in the main ladies' room, but somehow using an empty Sunday school room felt more private. After a nervous glance at her watch, she quickly disrobed, removing first her blouse and slacks, and then her bra and panties. Naked except for her socks, she pulled her white 'Truth' gown over her head.

The gown was diaphanous and pure white, but otherwise unadorned. They were all lovingly made by Sister March, a retired seamstress. Dr. Lee had suggested the sheer material to 'let the truth shine through'.

She looked down at herself critically. The gown modestly obscured her well-preserved private charms, but the outline of her shapely figure seemed to project itself through the material. Her body was rounded in all the correct places. Her flaring hips accentuated a narrow waist and a tummy she kept flat only with great effort.

---oOo---
The adult church members called him Dr. Lee, out of respect for both the man and for the Doctor of Divinity degree displayed in an ornate frame in his office. Dr. Lee was a young man, and Faith Temple was his first church. He was still unmarried, but two of the members' daughters had recently reached marriage age and were showing distinct interest. Although single and younger than much of his congregation, Dr. Lee had become a popular and respected fixture in the church. In fact, all considered him a loved and trusted family member.

Catholics call it 'Confession', a system that has worked for them for centuries. At Faith Temple, they expanded on the concept and called it 'Contrition.'

After his first year as Pastor, Dr. Lee began to identify certain problems in the congregation, many of them leading to preventable marital problems. It was a middle class congregation, but most of the households were single-earner with the wife home all day. Dr. Lee felt that this was leading to trouble, so he decided to devote extra time to counseling the wives. At first, this was just a series of private pastoral talks with the ladies, but as he began to understand the problems, he began to take more direct action.

The sessions evolved into a scheduled biweekly private meeting with each female congregation member. They would go over everything that had happened in the lady's life over the last two weeks. At a suggestion from a parishioner, those special 'Truth' gowns were introduced. Wearing them for Contrition appointments set the proper mood and made everybody the same, removing all barriers of class and age.