LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

Chapter One
The first time she saw him, he was getting out of a long, sleek limousine. Wearing a white Oxford cloth shirt, open from the neckline with the sleeves rolled up and tucked neatly into jeans which looked molded to his body, she didn't think his legs would ever stop coming out of the car door. When her eyes finally reached his face, it reminded her of chiseled stone. His ebony hair curled slightly at the back of his neck, with gray-blue eyes fringed with dark black lashes. She adjusted her eyes accordingly when he emerged; he had to be at least 6'8" and 4 feet of him had to be legs. Beautiful was the only word she could think of to describe him and even that didn't define the reality of him. She nearly fainted right there in the street. She didn't believe she would ever swoon over someone, and here she was doing it over a stranger.

Now, thirty years later, his black hair was slightly peppered with gray. He was beautiful as ever, and she still swooned, but this time those gray-blue eyes were searching the crowd looking for her and when he found her she could see the love as he strode forward to embrace her. He took her hand and they walked into the theatre together.

As she sat there waiting for the program to commence, her mind went back to their beginning. The first time Erica Sanders met Scott Carson, he had just taken over the reins of his family's company, Carson Environmental Solutions, Inc. Her employer, Jensen Manufacturing, had hired CESI to assist in making their company more environmentally friendly.

Erica Sanders had transferred from Jensen Manufacturing's corporate office to this smaller branch after her divorce five years ago. Her ex-husband, James Sanders, was the son of one of the members of the board of directors. To avoid any conflict of interest and any thoughts she might be trading on his name or their relationship, she made the move to the smaller office. The move worked well for Erica, she was able to showcase her abilities and made quite a name for herself.

Representatives from Jensen Manufacturing were all seated around the table in the board room when the receptionist escorted Scott Carson into the room. Erica tried to stand along with the others, but the heel of her shoe caught in the rug at that moment and she grabbed onto the table for balance. She was flabbergasted and star struck. Here, standing in front of her was that absolutely beautiful man who had captured her attention and taken her breath away on the street that morning. It wasn't professional to stare but that's what she was doing when her boss made the introductions.

"Erica has been doing great things for us Scott and we've assigned her as Project Manager."

England, 1876

When Mary was summoned to the parlour, she could tell by the expression on her mother's face that something momentous had happened. In a state of great excitement, Lady Ashford surged forward to greet her daughter.

"Sit, my dear. Your father and I have some wonderful news!"

"Indeed we do," affirmed Sir Henry Ashford. "You may perhaps be aware that the Marquess of Stirling has been showing more than a passing interest in you, my dear."

Mary frowned, for Walter Ponsonby, whether he was a Marquess or not, was an odious man. "Yes Papa, but the interest is not reciprocated."

"It soon will be," continued her father, "for he has most graciously asked for your hand in marriage, and I have accepted."

Stunned, Mary stared at her father in disbelief. "No! I don't believe it."

"Yes! My dear daughter, think of it - you will be a Marchioness!" gushed her mother. "What greater honour is there?"

"I will not marry him," said Mary. "He is old. He is fat. He is ... abhorrent in every way!"

For a moment, there was a shocked silence, and then the expression on Lady Ashford's face changed to one of hostility. "How dare you say such dreadful things about the Marquess! You should be thankful he has even noticed you."

"I am not thankful in the least, Mother, and I will NOT wed him."

Sir Henry Ashford rose from his chair, his face flushed with anger and outrage, matching the red hue of his silk cravat which brightened up his black Victorian attire. "You will, and you will do so with good grace." He smiled thinly and dropped the next bombshell. "It is all arranged, daughter. One month from now, you will be the Marchioness of Stirling."

"I will not," declared Mary emphatically. "I would rather die!" She rose and left the room, slamming the door behind her in a most unladylike manner. Ignoring the commands to return, she ran upstairs to her room and flung herself on the bed. Balling her fingers into fists, she smashed them down repeatedly on the lavish counterpane then burst into floods of tears.

And that was how Kitty found her. The lady's maid approached, full of concern for her mistress. "Why my lady, whatever is the matter?"

In between sobs, Mary told her what had occurred. "If I must marry, I will marry a man of my choosing. Though quite how I would meet such a man remains to be seen. I am a prisoner here, Kitty. I am subject to endless stupid balls and social gatherings full of disagreeable men and even more disagreeable vain and silly women. I hate my life here, Kitty. I hate it!"

"There, there, my lady," soothed Kitty. She frowned, for she knew what her mistress did not - that Sir Henry Ashford had acquired a certain reputation at the gambling tables, and rumour was rife that he owed a considerable debt to the Marquess of Stirling.

Cameron
Kimberley Kennedy left her younger brother's bedroom, after having tucked the young man in for the night, and felt pretty good about herself.

The beautiful eighteen-year-old's parents had gone away for the weekend and left her in charge of the house and her two younger sisters and one younger brother. Now things had settled down Kimberley was going to pop some corn and settle down on the couch with a romantic comedy, maybe something with Sandra Bullock.

The blonde teenager was searching the pantry for the bag of microwave popcorn she had hidden there earlier in the week, and thinking to herself that if one of her siblings had taken it there would be a hot bottom before the weekend was out.

Her back was turned as her sixteen-year-old sister, Chelsea, breezed into the kitchen dressed for a night out, and said a quick, "Hi Kim. Bye Kim."

The older girl turned, and barked, "Freeze!"

Cursing under her breath, Chelsea stopped and faced her sister.

"Where exactly do you think you're going?" Kimberley asked.

"Out," Chelsea said, defiantly.

Kimberley's azure eyes flashed at her sister's tone, and she said, "That's not an answer, Chelsea, and you know it. Out where?"

"A party."

Kimberley kept her temper, what she really wanted to do was shake her sister for her surly behavior, but that would not get her anywhere when Chelsea was in a stubborn mood.

"Whose party?" Kimberley probed.

The younger girl started to look uncomfortable, and replied, "Cameron's."

"Cameron? Cameron Worth?"

Chelsea nodded.

"How do you know Worthless? He's my age and why did he invite you to a party?"

Chelsea said nothing.

"I'm waiting, young lady."

"Kim, do you have to be such a pain about this?" Chelsea complained.

"You're going to get a pain somewhere soon, if you don't dial down the attitude, miss," Kimberley told her sister sternly.

"Kim, Natalie is waiting for me!" Chelsea whined.

"Natalie Stevens!" Kimberley exclaimed. "I should have guessed. Let me see the invitation."

"We're not six years old!" Chelsea retorted.

Kimberley felt her palm itch, but asked, "How did he invite you, then?"

"Facebook."

"What? Let me see!" Kimberley took a firm grip on Chelsea's wrist, and dragged her over to the family computer.

"Log on," she ordered her sister.

With a put upon sigh, Chelsea logged onto Cameron Worth's Facebook page. Kimberley looked at the computer screen and her eyes got wider the longer she looked. "Chel', he has over a thousand friends here!"

"Yeah, he's pretty cool."

"No, he's not. What if they all turn up? You're not going."

"Kim!" Chelsea protested.

"No way, Chel'. Mum left me in charge. This thing could turn into a riot."

Chelsea glared at her sister and decided to play her trump card. "Mum said I could go."

Kimberley looked at her sister and smiled.

Chapter 1: Going "Home"
Katherine McCullough was a junior from the prestigious private college, Sparton, in Idaho. She was studying biology there, but really wanted to go into marine biology. Thankfully, the school had an internship program where for one semester in your junior year you would fly to Florida, stay with a host family, and work at a marine animal rehabilitation center with other educational exhibits as well, such as an invasive species room. Her job would be taking care of the larger animals at the center as well as the smaller exhibits and taking children on tours and out to seine for macro and micro-invertebrates that could only be found in salt water; this was an experience that was impossible to get in the Great Plains.

It really was a miracle that Katherine had made it this far in life. Her dad had left her mom when he found out she was pregnant with her, and her mom drank herself into oblivion. She found herself in the foster care system at the early age of six, and by age eight, she had to sneak out of her window each morning just to make it to school. Her foster family wanted cheap labor and nothing more. Punishment was lack of food or clothing and the word ‘play’ never entered a conversation. There was no time for play between trying to squeeze in homework and keep up with the chores she was assigned.

When she reached high school her biology teacher saw her potential and adopted her, but by that time it was too late. She had lost out on an entire childhood. She'd never had a birthday party, never played with dolls, never went to the park, was never grounded as she never had anything to be grounded from, and had never been spanked. That was probably the only decent thing about her foster family: they did not hit in retaliation. They just starved their children instead.

Under the new regime of Mrs. Hendrichs, her grades began to flourish and she put her complete all into schoolwork. No discipline was needed. She wanted nothing more than to please this woman who would take a teenager into her house and even give her advanced private lessons at home. By the time she graduated high school it was with honors, and she had a full ride scholarship to Sparton.

Now she waited nervously in the airport terminal. She'd already collected her larger suitcase (plus her carry-on bag) and was looking for her host family, the Meres. Supposedly the two adults were in their lower fifties, and they had three daughters, aged 8 (Sarah), 11 (Athalia, or Talie) and 12 (Chrystal or Chrys). It was a Saturday; the school wanted her to have a couple of days to settle in with her new family before having to start attending classes. She was nervous. She had never lived with a normal family with children who didn't work like sweat shop workers before, and didn't know how to respond to that.

Going to See Sir Geoffrey
London has a certain tawdry appeal for North American spanking enthusiasts. The Soho porn shops are chock full of spanking mags, books and videos. The phone booths are plastered with sex-ads inviting Headmasters to attend to naughty schoolgirls who are waiting for them, bent over their desks, any time of the day or night. Ann Summer's sex-shops offer mini-skirted uniforms for would-be maids and nurses, head-to-toe PVC outfits for budding Superwomen, and all manner of leather-goods for men who would worship at their feet.

These venues aren't buried down back alleys; they're cheek-by-jowl with mainstream British culture. The major bookstore chains have more D/s paperbacks on open display than can be found in the restricted sections of Adult bookstores in my home town. London boasts several of the greatest bookstores in the English-speaking world: Dylan's, Blackwell's, Foyles and Waterstones. On several floors, you can pore over the latest titles from the top academic presses, then wander down to the Erotica section to check out your favourite bedtime reading...

In Britain, erotic discipline is firmly ensconced in the bosom of the body politic. The French dubbed it 'le vice anglais' and they weren't joking. Many analysts have speculated that Margaret Thatcher's popularity as a righteous scold was based in part on the fantasy of being sent to the Headmistress' office for a tongue-lashing - or worse. Her mantra was 'no pain, no gain', and her most ardent supporters were upper-class men who attended elite schools where, in their student days, the cane was in regular use. Thatcher derided Cabinet Ministers slightly to her left as 'Wets'. Two have written memoirs in which they recall incurring the Iron Lady's wrath and having to report to Whitehall for verbal thrashings that went on for an hour or more. Despite such humiliations, they remained loyal to the bitter end. Might their unrequited fidelity be explained in part by the enthralling appeal of the strict Matriarch for wayward bourgeois lads?

The combination of sexual prurience and ruling-class moralism creates a culture in which erotic discipline flourishes, in which the synapses of pleasure and pain become fused and confused. It dates back a long way. From Swinburne on, flagellation themes have always figured prominently in English pornography. Today, the country's tabloids keep the home fires burning. Their stock-in-trade is the sex-scandal, where they make the traditional Christian connection between "sins of the flesh" and their public expiation. The tabloids are modern-day equivalents of stocks, ducking stools and whipping posts in the town square - scourging and titillating the public simultaneously. The kinks of the high and mighty are ruthlessly exposed. Aristocrats, vicars, novelists, sports stars, Cabinet Ministers, and half the House of Lords, it seems, have all found their illicit affairs and erotic predilections splashed across the front pages of the mass-circulation dailies.

Miles LaPage groaned loudly and put his head in his hands. "I can't do it any more," he groaned out loud, "I just can't bloody well write this stuff any more."

His study was elegant and comfortable with French windows overlooking a large well-tended lawn. It was lined with books and spoke plainly of comfort and wealth. Wealth indeed, for Miles was the world's best known and most successful writer of spanking literature. He had under his writing belt some 3000 short stories, 5 volumes of collected short stories, 12 bestselling novels, 4 plays, 2 TV dramas and 3 film scripts for highly successful films. In a world with an insatiable appetite for spanking fiction, he was the undisputed king.

So why was the undisputed king of spanking fiction groaning out loud in his study? The problem was he had six months to write his new novel and not one single idea was in his head. He had taken a leaf out of the book of a once famous author, one Ian Rankin. Rankin had been a highly successful writer of crime fiction though crime was now so passé that even the charity shops no longer stocked crime novels. However, in his heyday, Rankin had revealed some of his methods to British television. He had a folder full of clippings and notes of ideas which he maintained constantly. When a new novel loomed he would trawl through his folder until just the right idea appeared and then he was off on his writing.

Now Miles sat with his folder which, when opened, seemed to him full of dead ashes, a folder full of sterile ideas and rubbish. Abruptly, he turned the whole lot straight into his waste bin and within five minutes his Facebook and LinkedIn pages had notices heralding his retirement from spanking fiction. He sent out a Tweet and a text and lastly an email to his agent. Within minutes the world reeled with the horrifying news that Miles LaPage had scribed his last spanking. Naturally, there were responses but he saw none of them. Miles had put on his walking gear, donned his boots, and was already striding from the car park on the long winding path up onto the moors.

It had rained for days in heavy bursts interspersed with steady drizzle and everywhere dripped, but today it was dry. The sun shone and there was sparkle on everything as the sun caught the wetness and turned it to beauty. He had left his mobile on his desk which of course is foolish when out on the moors where the weather can change in the blink of an eye, but he knew he would have no peace with it.

Miles was a big man with the build of a labourer, though he had never done manual work. He had dark hair and a strong jaw and women across the globe longed to be spanked by him (as well as other things of course).

A Burning Experience
Angela was reaching the end of her first term at Midchester University, a Victorian redbrick university with an excellent academic reputation. She had taken to it like a duck to water, and was having a great time. Her weakness was partying and drinking too much, after the repression of a very strict grammar school.

That Wednesday afternoon she was frantically finishing off an essay that was due on Friday. Due to her procrastination (another of her faults) she had been working all hours to finish it, and was very sleepy.

She finished her last cigarette and realised she had none left. She cursed and decided that fresh air and a walk to the corner shop about half a mile down the road to buy some more fags would do her good. She pulled her coat on, grabbed her bag and left without checking her ashtray.

On the way back she saw two fire engines race up to the Hall of Residence. She broke into a run to see what was going on. To her horror, she realised it was her room that was the centre of attention. As she reached the entrance, her friends greeted her with, "Angela, Thank God you're all right!"

After the initial shock had worn off, she was told that smoke was seen coming under the door of her room and one of the girls had pressed the fire alarm. The head porter had found her wastepaper bin blazing and put it out with a fire extinguisher, and apart from a scorched sheet and a soaked mattress, there was thankfully little damage.

The firemen had concluded that Angela had carelessly left her last cigarette on the ashtray, and the filter tip had dropped, still alight, into her wastepaper bin and caught fire.

The housekeepers changed Angela's bed and bedding and helped her clear up the mess. A very chastened Angela had a disturbed sleep that night, thinking about the possible consequences of her stupidity, had a neighbour not smelt smoke coming from her room so quickly.


Next morning at breakfast the senior tutor of the hall of residence beckoned her over and summoned her to a meeting at 7 pm, immediately after dinner. Angela knew she was in for it, particularly as smoking was only just tolerated, but heavily discouraged as unladylike and unpleasant.

After a dinner that tasted like cardboard, and many jokes from her friends about her foolishness, and comments that it was a good job she wasn't at boarding school or she would be in for a good swishing, she nervously made her way to Professor Wainwright's suite of rooms. She felt just as nervous as she had at school when reporting to the headmistress. Apart from butterflies in her tummy, she had a nervous twitching in her bottom, like she experienced before the slipperings she had received at school. She knocked on the door, a stentorian, "Enter!" boomed out, and she obeyed.

To all outward appearances, Jim Benson was an ordinary guy. Tall, well-built and reasonably handsome, he held a good job, made a decent salary, lived alone in a comfortable loft apartment in a trendy but not too pricey part of the city.

An affable man with an outgoing personality, he socialized with a regular circle of friends, men and women, dated frequently but with no one woman in particular, and generally seemed at ease in all social situations. He watched his diet, didn't over-indulge in alcohol and kept himself in good shape through regular exercise and workouts at the neighborhood fitness club. Given his many attributes, his friends often wondered why no young woman had yet managed to snag the 27-year-old bachelor.

The answer to that question resided in an important little bit of information to which his circle of friends was not privy. Jim was a secret spanko who spent much of his private time in pursuit of his avocation. A casual perusal of the internet browsing history on his home computer would have revealed a long list of spanking web sites.

Jim wasn't just a lurker, however. Over the years, he'd contributed regularly to a number of spanking story boards and, under a clever pen name, was a well-regarded author on one prominent English-based site in particular. He also enjoyed several of the better video sites.

As mentioned, Jim was a closet spanko. To date, he'd never yet personally experienced the thrill of giving a spanking to anyone, or for that matter, being on the receiving end either. His enjoyment of his avocation had been limited to reading and writing stories, viewing videos and the vicarious thrills he'd managed to achieve whenever he spotted a pretty young woman with a particularly spankable backside.

He would often kid himself that the real reason he belonged to a fitness club was not for the use of the exercise equipment but for the numerous opportunities it afforded him to surreptitiously view the well-toned and tightly clothed bottoms of the many young female members. Quite a few unknowing young lovelies had been the victim of more than one hot spanking in his ever-active imagination and several were often later featured in one of the stories he submitted to his favorite site.

This state of affairs seemed destined to remain unchanged as, for all his wit and charm, Jim seemed at a total loss when it came to finding a young woman who might be inclined to engage in a little spanking play, let alone making a connection with her. Oh sure, there were always the websites, but Jim wasn't about to take that kind of risk.

---oOo---
Just back from the fitness club on a dreary, rainy Saturday morning, Jim booted up his computer and started to surf his favorite sites for the latest uploads as he ate a bowl of cereal. One site was, he noted, offering its famous spanking machine for sale.

Various extracts from the Diary of Lady Lucy Harrison...

Diary Entry: Tuesday 10 March 1863
It was with no little astonishment that I today received my good and dear friend Lady Susan Blakeney, though it was perhaps more correct to say my former friend and most certainly former Lady Susan Blakeney. The entire town is abuzz with the news of the death of her grandfather, Sir Percy, who was commonly acknowledged as the wealthiest man in the kingdom. All had expected Susan, as I should call her now, to inherit his vast fortune for was it not the case that she was his sole heir and lived under his care since the death of her parents so many years ago? By all accounts both Sir Percy and Susan had enjoyed amicable relations. Certainly it was for this reason that I spent such considerable time and effort in staying on friendly terms with the girl.

Today I learned that all the rumours and innuendo that have so circulated London these last few days are in fact true. The girl had been cut out of the late Sir Percy's last Will and Testament and left with nought but the dress on her back, and furthermore the executors of her grandfather's Will have given her to the end of the week to vacate the home in which she has resided these last years.

As is understandable, the girl was much distressed and I could not fault her for that. For a time I feared that she had come to my door to seek my aid for she was quick to describe me as her dearest friend in the entire world. I confess my shock at the news left me quite speechless for a time. To think that all of those years I have spent pandering to the whims of this girl in the hopes of her assistance and companionship when she finally came into her inheritance are wasted at the stroke of a pen! Had Sir Percy no consideration for my endeavours at all?

Foolish as she is, Susan mistook my understandable fury for shock. I had it in my mind to explain to her that under no circumstances was I prepared to compound my wasted efforts on giving to her money and resources I could ill afford so that she might regain some small measure of her standing in society. She could starve in the gutter for all I cared or sell her body as a common whore. It was at this point that I learned that as shocking as the morning's news had been I yet retained a capacity to be confounded further.

The girl wishes to enter service! She was abashed and frightfully shamed to make such an appeal and I could only imagine the indignity such a request imposed upon her. For a woman of her breeding and education to seek a servant's position! Who could endure such debasement?

The Crystal Ball
Irish Cream Liqueur

Think of a bottle of Irish cream liqueur. Consider its promise of sultry decadence without falling foul of social norms. Picture in your mind's eye the warm color tones of the label and the liqueur, painted in shades off a rich, golden palette; patterns that blend as they swirl, an illusion of motion, airbrushed to look quite static. Using your imagination, savor the delicate sip which delivers that delightful yet subtle blend of tastes, one that simultaneously tantalizes yet satisfies, piques yet soothes, calms yet arouses. Imagine swooning as the sensual elixir caresses your lips and your palate, every contact with the creamy potion satisfying a sensual need.

It's a sensory experience that oozes dreamy eroticism, caresses your senses, calms yet arouses.

I like to think of my entering into her apartment as being a 'Baileys experience', from the deep piled cream carpet that cuddled my toes, to the warm cream-colored walls topped with ornate crown mouldings. A fire glowed in the hearth, radiating gentle waves of heat to warm and comfort, embrace and seduce. There were off-white, deep leather chairs, bookshelves with leather-bound books, display cabinets with exotic displays - glittering lead crystal vases filled with cut-glass beads, Waterford crystal ornaments sparkling with life, and a brass clock with its mechanism whirring around.

Anastasia herself was the epitome of grace and old fashioned charm. Her appearance was graceful, chic and stylish. Long bangs swept to the side of her head in a blond, curly bob, while a few stray wisps demonstrated a refreshing will of their own. Anastasia's fair complexion offered an unblemished canvass. Glossy, moist lips hinted at a seductive spirit; deep, intelligent hazel eyes expressed her inner soul - intuitive, sensitive, dominant yet compassionate. Teardrop sapphire earrings sparkled in the soft light, a glittering diamond choker circled her graceful neck. Her deportment and movements exhibited ballerina-like grace, her manner and expression conveyed as much as her words.


The Crystal Ball

She invited me to sit at the round mahogany table, a central pedestal and turned legs accentuating its elegant simplicity. A black cloth covered its surface, a flawless quartz crystal ball stood on a rosewood stand at its center. It seemed to have a way of pulling my attention towards it, the tantalizing and elusive gift of prophecy on offer.

"Will it be able to predict my future?" I asked in a wishful tone.

Anastasia's laugh was like the tinkle of delicate crystal bells, cheerful without being frivolous, laughing at me sans malice.

"No, Adèle, it is your mind that will create the future, not the ball. For wherever your mind goes, your body is sure to follow. Only you can create the future for which you yearn."

I looked at her, a smile flitting across my lips. I was smitten with her beauty and bewitched by her charm. She was so self assured without an ego, so assertive without an attitude.

The Request is Granted
She had asked for a spanking!

Kat and I had discussed this request at some length over lunch, and agreed that her request would be granted. She had told me why she wanted to be spanked, and what she felt it would be like, or should be like. From what she said, it was clear that her ideas about a spanking shared between two adults were very much the same as my own. My fear, of course, was that Kat might find the reality was not the warm and comfortable means of dealing with a problem of behaviour that she either imagined as a woman, or vaguely remembered from when she was a little girl of ten, several decades ago. It has been said that pain leaves no memory, and that is probably partially so, but only partially. The intensity of pain experienced does fade in time like all bad memories, but never fully disappears. Then, too, there is the reality of pain at the moment it is experienced.

It had been more than four decades since Kat had been placed across a parental lap, her panties lowered and her bottom smacked. It seemed that she remembered the position and being held firmly in place for her spanking, and the awareness that despite being punished for a misdeed, she was still wanted and loved. Still, a spanking given as a consequence for poor behaviour hurts. That was the point of the exercise then. I wondered if she had forgotten that reality about getting spanked. However this one was going to turn out for her, our conversation had not deterred Kat's wish for her first adult spanking. She had repeated her request, and I had accepted. How could I not?

As the agreed time approached and I drove toward her home, just a few minutes away, those last few moments in the restaurant as we parted to await this private meeting together remained vivid in my mind and fed the imagination. There was the deliciously soft yet firm femininity I had felt with that love pat I had finally dared to give her, and the amazing spark of electricity I'd experienced on briefly touching her chastely clothed bottom. Her wonderful smile that followed promised much. Then the view as she walked away from me, the delectable, undulating motion of her hips as she moved, and the curves hidden yet emphasised by her skirt, its pleats outlining her hidden womanly shape. I could see nothing and imagine everything.

Such thoughts and visions occupied me, swirling about in my brain as the car and I covered the final few blocks between the restaurant and Kat's home on Lady Street. With such distractions, the other drivers on the town thoroughfares and I were mutually fortunate that no mishap occurred.

The house, while being unique in its design was still typical of the town. It was quite large, with a friendly, welcoming appearance.

Hilda was completing her morning household routine. The washing-up had been done, the dining room and hall carpet swept, the kitchen floor mopped, the tea towels hung up to dry and now it was the turn of the bedroom; nothing much to do here but make the bed, ensuring the blankets were straightened with military precision and the counterpane turned down by the exact distance on either side of the bed, all under the watchful gaze of her husband from his photograph on the dressing table: confident, appraising, commanding.

As always, she was doing her duty. All through her married life with Hubert she had done her duty, from the first night of their honeymoon, afterwards as a stalwart support on the canvassing trail when he had first entered local politics, then as his private secretary (unpaid), coping meanwhile with the bringing-up of two children, bearing the brunt of domestic activity so as to leave Hubert free to advance his career. She had sat through interminable dinners and after-dinner speeches, attended coffee mornings and local bazaars - being seen everywhere as the wife of the rising young counsellor, later alderman, then mayor, chairman of the district council, always at the side of the man with his confident, appraising, commanding manner which stood him so well in politics and who insisted everything should be just so and correct, a quality he did not hesitate to bring to his domestic life.

As befitted a man of Hubert's status, their children had done well at school, going on to university and good careers, then good marriages and settlement in good residential areas, doing no damage whatever to their father's self esteem since it enabled him to speak loudly of their achievements whenever an occasion presented itself which not surprisingly he was able to discover so often. His cup was full to the brim when both pounced on highly paid jobs in the financial world of the United States, one in New York, one in Boston.

Hilda quietly put up with all this. She had long since given up the attempt to keep abreast of whatever it was the children she once adored did to earn their enormous salaries, and it pained her to think of the direction their lives had taken compared to her own: the daily round of long hours and decisions taken under high pressure, whereas she liked nothing better than to be left alone with her box of paints, her sketch pad and the garden with its never-ending chores. Of what use was their old mum to them now? she thought. Better to stay away, not to interfere.

It accorded with her upbringing, the way she coped, the sense of duty instilled in her by her father, the Methodist minister. She had learnt from an early age the power and satisfaction of private contemplation and cherished over the years a dream world to which she would escape when the world outside became too demanding, or rather too boring, although she would never admit to such an extreme as she felt sure the fault lay with her.

The Merry Wives of (West) Windsor
"It's so good to be home," Carol exclaimed as she unlocked the door with the key from under the mat. It was her husband who lugged the suitcases up the front steps.

"Home?" Bob asked. "Don't you mean Alice and Ted's home?"

"You know what I mean. Here - West Windsor. New Jersey. I can't believe you talked me into a move to Ohio."

"Me? You were the one who wanted to be closer to your family."

"Oh, right - them. Well, anyway, it's great to be back, if only for a visit."

"Can you bring in the rest of the things from the car while I get the bags upstairs?'

"Oh sure. Say, look who's taking a trip to Hawaii." Not-so-casually going through the papers on the table in the foyer, she had come across her friends' itinerary. "How come we never go anywhere?"

"We did go somewhere - we're here," Bob replied, coming back down the steps. "Hey, you can't go through their stuff like that." He grabbed the papers from her hand and put them back on the table.

"Why not - you go through all their financial stuff."

"That's different. I'm their accountant. I do their taxes."

"Sure, you always have an excuse for everything."

"C'mon, honey," he said, pulling her into his arms and giving her a kiss. "Let's just enjoy this little trip, ok?"

Feeling better in his embrace, Carol gave a coquettish smile. "You're right. Let's enjoy it. We could have a little fun." Her one hand began to caress him in the most intimate of places.

"Mmm, yes - but not right now. Thanks for reminding me about the taxes. Ted said he'd leave everything out in his study if I wanted to get started. Doing it now should leave us more time to visit for the rest of the weekend." He laughed as he pulled away. "I'll never understand how Ted can be such a genius at quantum physics, without having a clue about numbers with dollar signs in front of them."

"What I'll never understand," Carol mumbled under breath, "is how you can be such a genius at being a kill-joy."

"Huh? What was that? Oh - how about you look into ordering some Chinese or pizza or something? I'm sure our hosts would appreciate a bite to eat when they get home from work. We won't have much time before heading into the City for the show."

Bob whistled happily as he headed back upstairs to Ted's study.

Carol sighed. Bob and his stupid accounting. Bored, she began circling slowly throughout the first floor of the house. She had spent countless hours here before the move. The familiar furnishings and pictures comforted her.

My name is Carla. I was raised by parents who were strong believers in corporal punishment. It's fair to say that I was spanked on a fairly regular basis and usually by my mother. Many a time I was over her lap while she applied the business end of a wooden spoon to my rear end. Of course, they were delivered to my bare bottom and she was very thorough. There was no such thing as a few swats and then being sent to my room.

That hard object would have connected many, many times by the time she considered the spanking over. However, as bad as they were, the ones I really feared were from Dad. I hated it when she would say the dreaded words, "We'll see what your father has to say about this when he gets home."

She may have thought it was a cute euphemism for saying that I was in for another spanking later that evening, but I never saw the humor in it, and as I said, it was going to be a second spanking for the same offense. I was usually over her lap when she let me know the spanking she was about to give me was not going to clear the slate. Rather, it was just the beginning of my penance, and she never felt it necessary to go easy on me just because I was due for an extra long and very painful session with Dad that evening.

If anything, I think she would spank me harder so I would be exceptionally well prepared for the first kiss of the brush on my backside. That was his choice as the most effective implement. He would use my own well loved and very expensive hairbrush.

I got it as a present when I was very young and at first I was thrilled. It felt so grown up to brush my hair with it. However, it wasn't long before I found out it had other functions, and no matter how mature I thought I was, it could reduce me to a little girl getting a well earned spanking when it was wielded by Dad.

I still have it, and it feels so luxurious as it runs through my hair, but to this day I can't pick it up without remembering how many times it was in other hands and being used very effectively for its other purpose. I also have to chuckle when I think of yet a third method of utilizing my old friend, but I'll get to that later.

It wasn't only at home that my bottom and I would be on the receiving end of an attitude adjustment conference. I quite often stayed at my Aunt Joan's house when my parents went out of town. She wasn't really related, but was an old friend of the family and I always enjoyed myself when we visited her.

Prologue
It had been a glittering occasion: the ballroom magnificent; the band had played wonderful music; and the diners, dressed in the finest evening wear, had behaved graciously. The dinner had been to its usual high standard; the dancing had been enjoyable and as a result there were sparkling eyes and flushed faces everywhere. Having played for the last dance the band had remained to provide some musical accompaniment to the closing treat of the evening.

A few chairs that had been occupied as courses were served were now empty, and although the last drinks had been served to the diners, the waitresses and waiters had not left but stood in neat lines at the back.

Then the lights dimmed on all, including the band, but one stage is now lit up and onto it comes a man. He is rather typical of the type who at functions makes a windy speech and introduces the main speaker; he has clearly enjoyed many a banquet and his face is rather flushed, but surprisingly he is brief and to the point.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is now time for Accountability."

The applause is enthusiastic. The waiters look excited but the waitresses rather less so, grinning nervously at each other and perhaps trying to stop a giggle or two.

Two waiters come in from one side pushing a strange device on wheels. It is upright like a portable display board with a roulette-type wheel on it that clearly is intended to be spun, stopping at one of a number of places. From the other direction comes another contraption carried by two waiters. It is a spanking bench. The low platform at the front is to kneel on, there is an angled riser and the top platform slopes downwards allowing the person kneeling to bend over, their upper body angling down to become lower than their bottom.

The excitement is clearly building as onto the stage, with musical accompaniment by the band, come six naked women; their ages range from early twenties to mid-forties. They are of course the usual range of body types with the forty-something woman voluptuous while the one in her early twenties is slim with small breasts. The younger one looks very nervous and embarrassed but the older one looks quite comfortable, acknowledging the applause at their entry with a smile and wave.

"As you will know Ladies and Gentlemen, all these ladies have received penalties for some breach of our rules. They have already been chastised twice of course but third time pays all and this is to ensure that you all see and know justice has been done."

A ripple of amusement greets those last words of his but he continues unabashed, his face gleaming with the good food, alcohol and the heat of the lights on him.

"We have, in order of the number of penalties, Michelle Riley with one penalty which is her very first since becoming a member."

Company Rules
Laura Harper joined the staff of Gilbert and Mayes from university five years ago. She had graduated with a First Class Honours Degree in Psychology from Cardiff and then decided to use these skills in the world of advertising.

Gilbert and Mayes were one of the foremost London agencies founded in 1952 and had quickly developed a respected reputation in advertising and were rewarded with a number of high profile multi-national accounts. Their success continued to blossom to the present day and they now employ more than 300 staff in a prime office accommodation off Regent Street in London.

Laura Harper was a bright and attractive girl with a bubbly personality. She had excelled in academia and was also a competent sportswoman, representing her university in hockey. She had impressed the Board of Gilbert and Mayes and was offered a graduate training position with them in September 2003.

Since then she had secured a number of promotions and was now a Senior Account Manager reporting to her Account Director, Chris Hughes.

She married her long term boyfriend, Terry, some 15 months ago and they were blissfully happy together. They managed to buy, with parental help, a mortgage on a small two bed-roomed flat in Balham, South London. Laura commuted to her office and Terry, an IT consultant, was starting his own business working from home.

Laura was highly regarded by her work colleagues and the success of the agency enabled her to enjoy a high level of remuneration - a basic salary of £35,000, but in good times the opportunity to share company bonuses.

Gilbert and Mayes was founded by Albert Gilbert and Stephen Mayes, long since retired, but the Company remained in the private control of their descendants. Through careful selection and nurturing, the Company employees were loyal, hardworking and totally committed. Few left the Company - a rare phenomenon in the world of advertising.

The Company had traditional values and rules which were designed to maintain the highest standards. Employee gender was almost equally split and there was an emphasis on total equality between the sexes. Employees were required to adhere to the Company dress code - males wore smart suits, shirt and ties and the females, skirts, blouses and jackets - trousers were not permitted.

A Disciplinary code was in place and employees were required to sign up to this when they were engaged. Acts of general misconduct were recognised with demerit marks. Gross misconduct fell outside this system and was dealt with separately by the Board. Ten demerit marks in any six month period resulted in the imposition of a disciplinary award. This caused the employee to receive a formal written warning together with a financial penalty which was not inconsiderable - a fine of £250 for each demerit mark. This could however be mitigated by the employee's submission to an alternative punishment, that of a caning. This was not however available if there was a repetition in the following 18 month period.

The Explanation
I do a lot of travel in my business and I have grown to dislike the nicest restaurants in the world, so I am always pleased when my itinerary takes me to a city where I know someone. On one trip I looked up Bill, an old friend, and invited him to join me for dinner. He reversed the proposition and induced me to have dinner at his house. I was reluctant to go since I remembered his wife as the most unpleasant woman I ever met. Debbie's biting tongue and cruel sarcasm would have made Shakespeare's Kate seem less like a shrew and more like a gentle kitten.

I had hoped to go to a restaurant in the hope she would curb her caustic nature in the presence of strangers, but he wouldn't hear of anything but a home cooked meal for a lonely sojourner. Well, anything was better than another meal alone with sneering waiters so I accepted. Besides, I hadn't seen them in many years and maybe she mellowed.

I was welcomed enthusiastically by both of them and was pleasantly surprised to find her a totally different woman. She was warm and gracious and a darn good cook. The food, conversation and all around camaraderie made for a very pleasant meal.

Although I offered to help clean up, she chased both of us out of the kitchen and into the family room where in a few minutes she served fresh brewed coffee. Bill and I talked of old times and nearly forgotten friends till she joined us. They were a funny looking couple. She stands about 5' 2" in high heels and he's well over six feet. She sat on the sofa next to him and snuggled into his arms. Their affection for each other warmed my heart.

I was somewhat taken aback when she asked, "Well Mike, what do you think of the new me?"

How does one say, 'You were a complete bitch and now you're human'?

I didn't have to; she said it for me and added, "It's all your fault, you know."

I didn't have a clue what she was talking about, so Bill explained. "Remember your going away party?"

I admitted that it was just a blur in my memory. He laughed and said, "That doesn't surprise me. You were pretty drunk by the time I drove you home. You probably don't remember what you said either."

I shrugged and he continued. "She was her usual self that night and left the party early in a huff. I stayed till the end and volunteered to see you safely tucked in. It took two of us to load you into my car, but you woke up along the way and told me I was pretty stupid for putting up with, and I quote, 'The bitch from hell'."

I immediately started to apologize but he stopped me.

Thoroughly and Soundly Spanked
It was going to be a good spanking, but he knew that there would be much of it that he would not enjoy. Sandra would not enjoy it either, once the process was well under way. Are spankings good for you? That had been a question posed for discussion. He intended that this one would be good for Sandra, in the sense that bitter medicine can be good for the ailing patient.

Would it be good for him? He had to admit that some aspects would be. He would enjoy the closeness of the spanking, her warmth and softness pressed against him, his arm holding her in place. It would be impossible, he was sure, not to enjoy the visual effect of her voluptuously generous bottom that had always sent tingles through him, stirring places that refused to remain quiescent at such a view. He was a man, she a woman. Her body was pure femininity, and her bottom always a delightfully firm softness under his hand.

He knew that in the past she could lie across his lap for hours at a time, being petted, stroked and spanked. She had enjoyed his touch, and there was pleasure in a little pain, an exciting sting and glow had been the spice of their relationship in the past. It would no doubt return, although for the past few years they had been apart and she belonged to someone else. He had always gained pleasure from her pleasure and her spankings with him had been times of combined excitement, intimacy and comfortable indolence. Spankings had been their shared delight and pleasure, as they revelled in the delicious sensations of bare hands applied to bare bottoms, and although it was not a frequent thing, on occasion they had changed roles so each could experience everything about a sensual spanking.

Having a relationship along those lines, life had been good in the years they had been exclusive partners, despite the vastness of geography that separated them in their lives. Spanking was what had brought them together, and they were almost kindred souls. Discipline was seldom mentioned between them, and they were essentially agreed that spankings were about pleasure and not punishment, at least for them. Let others choose to play as they would.

Despite all that and a propensity toward leadership and equality herself, Sandra still had a streak of submissiveness that surfaced from time to time, just as there were occasions when the dominant side of her partner emerged from time to time. On one occasion she had said, "If I ever need a good spanking as a reminder, I hope you'll give it to me."

"If that's what you want, of course, But you'll have to ask me, make your need clear."

"I will," she had said. "Count on it." She had then talked a bit about a domestic discipline website to which she belonged.