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Spanked by a Stranger
"Trespassing is a criminal offence."

Cathy nearly leapt ten feet in the air when the smooth, deep voice suddenly whispered in her left ear. She gasped in fright and spun around to see... no-one! There was no-one there. Had that masculine drawl been the voice of her own guilty conscience? She shook her head and tutted. "Get a grip, Cath. Just collect the apples and get out of here, girl." She reached for another piece of fruit from the low hanging branch and put it in her bag.

"And so is theft."

This time the voice whispered in her right ear... and she could almost feel a cool breath bathe her lobe. She turned again in fear. "Who is that?" she demanded when, once again, there was no sign of anyone behind her.

"Leave my garden... now!"

Cathy frowned. Irritation was swiftly overtaking her initial fright. This was no-one's garden... not any more. The house that joined the rear of her own property had been empty for over twenty years. At least that's what the estate agent had told Cathy during her initial viewing.

"Look... if you have a problem with my being here then at least have the guts to come out and face me," she challenged. She watched for any signs of movement amongst the nearby fruit trees and sprawling blackberry bushes but all was eerily still. In the end she shrugged dismissively and turned back towards her intended bounty.

"Steal one more apple, young lady, and you will find yourself so far over my knee, you will be counting blades of grass as I spank your bare bottom."

Very deliberately, Cathy plucked the biggest apple she could reach from the tree, as hot angry colour suffused her cheeks. Then she spun on her heel again with the intent of seeking out and confronting the annoying man who dared to threaten her. "Oomph!" Her nose collided full tilt with a solid wall of masculine chest... so muscled that the impact made her eyes water.

"I only give one warning, little girl. It was foolhardy of you to ignore it."

Cathy looked up into the darkest, most hypnotic pair of eyes she had ever seen. "Where the fuck did you spring from?" She hadn't heard his approach, hadn't sensed his presence so close behind her, at all... it were as though he had appeared out of thin air.

"It seems we can add foul language to your rapidly growing list of transgressions."

Cathy's mouth fell open in awe. He was beautiful, there was no other word for it. From the dark sweep of his jet black hair, to his square chiselled jaw... he was truly beautiful. But he was also very large and intimidating. Cathy took a small step backwards.

"Wh...who are you?" she stammered, dropping her precious horde of apples to the ground.

"A man who does not tolerate misbehaviour."

Chapter One
The town of Dorlin shimmered white in the desert sunlight: white-washed mansions, colonnades interspersed with palm trees, fountains playing in courts, rivulets feeding cool arbours. Gram the Barbarian and Sandra the exiled Warrior Queen reined in their horses and looked down upon Dorlin from the hill just above.

"The first town in the Republic of Gorst," said Gram, "after you pass through the desert. I have a powerful thirst."

"I also," said Sandra, wiping the sweat from her high forehead and swinging her long sand-dried auburn pigtail back over her shoulder. "Should we be wary when we go down to this rich-looking little town? What know you of this land?"

"I know little, save that it is ruled by Mocatu the Tyrant. What manner of man he may be, I know not."

"The clue may lie in his name," replied Sandra tartly.

Gram turned to look at her with a glint in his eye. "Were you perhaps exiled from your kingdom for excessive sarcasm, my lady?"

"No indeed! I was exiled for always being right. Last one into Dorlin buys the beer!" And she urged her horse down the slope. Gram watched her bottom in tight leather trews bouncing in the saddle for an appreciative moment before chuckling and pounding after her.

---oOo---
They made a striking couple riding into town. Gram sat high upon his white stallion Skyrmir. Unlike many professional barbarians, who look more like bodybuilders, he combined knotted muscularity with a lean grace and an intense, single-pointed physicality. His long blond hair, matted in locks and barely restrained by a head-band, cascaded over his shoulders and down his powerful back. He wore a white cloak to keep out the sun over a chimera skin loincloth and high brown soft leather boots. Slung over his back was his broadsword, Blood-drinker. A two handed sword was attached to Skyrmir's harness on one side, while a mace and a bow and arrows hung on the other.

Sandra rode a bay mare, Lucy. Her stately bearing and tall poise belied both her mischievous nature and the intensity of her battle lust. Green eyes glittered with amusement and wonder as they surveyed the cruel world around her. Her royal nostrils were held high above the common stink, though when need arose she could wallow with the best. Beneath her shimmering cloak she wore ample breastplates of gold, and the aforementioned knee-length skin tight trews on legs like muscular scissors. She glistened with sweat from the desert crossing, for which skin tight leather was probably not the best outfit. However, she was not given to compromise, as the matching broadsword, Skullsplitter, over her back demonstrated. From her pommel hung a bolas, a net, and a double headed Argelian death stick.

They rode steadily through the town, ignoring stares and comments from the plump prosperous townsfolk, until they came to a bar with its striped awning and clustered vine leaves to keep out the sun.

The Mistress of the House
by J Wackford Colton
Mrs Laura Hambleton was in a distinctly foul mood as she and her husband drove into town, in response to a letter from a firm of solicitors.

"I don't know why you arranged this meeting this afternoon, when you knew I had a hair appointment at 3.30. I think you did it deliberately to spite me."

Leslie Hambleton sighed.

"This meeting happens to be regarding the will of my late Uncle Silas, and the solicitors' letter mentioned that it was to our advantage to attend. I would have thought that had some precedence over a weekly hair-do."

"You should have told Mr Whatshisname that we would attend at our convenience and not his. He is no doubt paid handsomely for his services, and is no different from the women in the hairdressing salon I attend. They fit in with me, or I take my trade elsewhere."

Again, Leslie heard that remark in a mood that verged on despair. He wondered how many hairdressing salons Laura had fallen out with this year, and whether there would be any left for her to patronise after the inevitable falling out with her latest. Presumably she'd start again and hope the one she had been to first would have forgotten how awkward she could be. Aloud he said, "Be reasonable Laura. Our investments haven't done at all well this year, and whilst we're not on the breadline, a legacy from Uncle Silas would come in very useful."

"I'm not surprised our investments haven't done well with you in charge!" said Laura viciously. "Only a madman would have invested all that money in that so-called Mexican oil well, which turned out to be a complete fantasy."

Leslie bit his tongue at this last remark. It was Laura who had had this "sure fire tip" from one of her friends at her health club, and had bullied him into investing £20,000. He was not surprised when his money disappeared into thin air. The directors of the company had decamped overnight, and were now no doubt in some Middle Eastern or Far Eastern tax haven, enjoying their ill-gotten gains from the ignorant and the credulous.

To his relief they had reached the solicitors' office. The firm of Lishman, Siddle and Stokes was down an unobtrusive side street, with a dingy entrance. Laura snorted with contempt. She was more used to her lawyers occupying multi-story blocks with opulent offices, justifying the enormous fees they charged.

The receptionist looked almost as old as the building, but she smiled and said: "You must be Mr and Mrs Hambleton, I'll tell young Mr Stokes you're here." With that, she disappeared into the back regions.

"What a shambolic office," Laura said crossly, "I expect 'young Mr Stokes', is as ancient as that TV character, young Mr Grace."