LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

Chapter One
A snake spooked Mickey Chandler's horse, Bella, and she took off at breakneck speed leaving Mickey holding on for dear life. Just when she thought she was getting control, a tree branch grazed across her arm causing her to lose her grip on one of the reins. How am I ever going to get control? Really frightened now, she closed her eyes, pretending this was all a dream. Unfortunately, it wasn't, all she could do was hold on tight, hope to hell Bella would eventually tire and that she would still be in the saddle when she did.

Hank Caldwell was mending fences along the road when a horse and rider flew by him. He didn't pay much attention at first, but something caught his eye, and he realized it was the horse's rein trailing on the ground, leaving the rider in peril. Running to his truck and starting after them, he wished he was on horseback instead of in the truck because he wasn't sure how he was going to rescue the rider. He only hoped he could help before the rider fell or the horse's hooves got tangled in the trailing reins. As he neared them and then drove ahead, he jumped out of the truck and stood by the side yelling at her to jump into his arms. He could see and understood the fear on her face, but it was her only chance. She couldn't bring herself to do it and they streaked past him. Running back to the truck and getting ahead of them again, he stopped and stood on the side, and waited so he could try again. Mickey was so scared, afraid of falling and being trampled, afraid of dropping to the ground, but her fear of staying on the horse was greater. This time she jumped, and he caught her. She was trembling, and he was glad because maybe she wouldn't feel him trembling too. He'd been afraid he wouldn't be able to grab and hang on to her, and that she would fall and get hurt, but he had prevailed.

"Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not okay."

She was still in his arms, and he put her down and hugged her to him. He ran his hand down her spine, and continued that slow comforting glide. She focused on his hands and the strength in his arms. He kept rubbing her back whilst in a soft voice he crooned into her ear that she was safe and the ordeal was over, and finally felt her stop shaking.

"Better?"

"I think so. I was so scared."

"I bet you were, I was scared for you."

"Where did you come from? I didn't see anybody."

"I'm not surprised - you were going so fast. I was back down there aways, mending fences when you whipped by. At first I didn't pay attention, but then I saw the left rein dragging on the ground. It's a wonder it didn't get tangled in the horse's leg. What the hell happened?"

Elizabeth Lane glanced at her watch and realised that it was time to go. She shoved some papers into her brief case to read later at home, tidied up her desk a little, made sure that her desk was properly locked, collected her coat from the stand by the door and left the office. Her Secretary had left the best part of an hour before, but as a senior Civil Servant in the Foreign Office, Elizabeth was well used to working long hours. She said 'good night' to the security guard on the door of the building as she left, but instead of heading for her flat in Mayfair, she took a slightly different route and soon found herself 'buzzing' the entry-phone of a block of apartments not that far from her office. Within a minute or so, her friend Angela Playfair was greeting her at the door of the top floor apartment.

Angela, who was bisexual, and her husband, Matthew, had been introduced to Elizabeth by Sir John Shrewsbury and she had become good friends with Angela especially. Elizabeth's relationship with Sir John had been unusual to say the least and his death almost two months before had left a hole in her life that she found puzzling and somewhat frustrating. She had discussed briefly what she might do about that with Angela, and now they had arranged to meet again to take the matter further.

Ten minutes after she arrived, the two were sitting gazing out over the London skyline with a glass of white wine in their hands. Angela was the first to broach the subject,

"Have you thought any more about what we discussed?"

"Oh lots! Every night I think about it, Angela! But I'm still no closer to making up my mind. Somehow, without Sir John, it doesn't seem the same."

"Well, darling, I've been making some very discreet enquiries ... very, very discreet in fact. And I think there is a demand ... a very small demand I must emphasise, for what you had with John - but really with women only, and very well-connected and wealthy women at that. We agreed that without John, dealing with men could become far riskier."

Over a number of years Elizabeth had provided 'disciplinary' services to Sir John Shrewsbury and people that he knew, often through the diplomatic service. It had been a strange arrangement and one which she had grown to enjoy despite herself. In return, he had given her rent free use of the flat that she still occupied. His death had brought to an end the access that he had to individuals seeking such services, which was why she and Angela had started thinking about alternatives.

"A small demand shouldn't be a problem. After all I don't have all that time and couldn't cope with a large demand. With Sir John it was always occasional rather than regular evenings."

"From what I can gather, Elizabeth, there are ladies in high places who are interested in this sort of thing - ladies in politics, the aristocracy ... who would be interested. I think it could work."

Clayton Weston dismounted and slowly walked down the rows of headstones until he came to the three he hated to see: his sister Valerie would have been twenty-one, his mother Lillian would have been fifty-three, and his Uncle Jake was fifty-seven when he died. It was nearly ten years since Clay was last here. It took him four of them to find the monsters who put his sister and mother here. Still, it was good to be back in Kansas.

His thoughts went back to when he left home at sixteen and began practicing with an old Smith and Wesson revolver. At eighteen he was a force to reckon with. By the time he was twenty, his draw and accuracy were next to none. During that time he carried the three handbills of the wanted men. As he stared at the gravestones, vivid thoughts came back to a saloon in a town called Flat Rock, and the three faces on the handbills.

He recalled giving the bills to the grey-haired sheriff who entered the saloon, and as luck would have it, the three men wanted for rape and murder were also in the saloon, hanging around at the bar. Catching sight of the exchange between Clay and the sheriff, one of the men stood up, swiftly followed by the other two. The lawman slowly drew his sidearm to make the arrest, but the three men had very different ideas. It was over in a heartbeat. The three monsters that haunted Clay's nightmares lay dead on the floor. From that day forward, Clay Weston became a name people whispered in every town he rode in to.

Shooting the three men in self defense didn't make him wanted by the law, but months later he found himself wanted by their kin or those who would make a name for themselves. Every town seemed to have a saddle tramp who wanted to prove they could do something better than him. The body count went up to sixteen. The American dime novels became the answer to the British Penny Dreadful, and portrayed him as a sociopathic killer. Around his thin waist was a gun belt with a holster set low on his thigh. A pearl-handled revolver rested squarely in it.

No one knew the real reason, and no one really cared. Clay Weston wasn't a vicious gunfighter. As a kid, he had walked into his home to find his mother and sister brutally raped and murdered, subsequently becoming a young man with a heavy heart, a young man who chose to dress in black as he rode from place to place trying to stay one step ahead of the grim reaper. But his reputation preceded him, and over time his notoriety grew.

"Clay?"

Clay turned and drew. His father, Will Weston, threw up his hands. "Whoa, boy! Now, I consider those dime store novels and a Penny Dreadful a bunch of cow pies, but they weren't talking nonsense when it came to being damn quick. I should have known better than to come up from behind you like that. I'm just damn glad to see you again, son. Your Uncle Jake asked for you in his final moments. I heard you were in Dodge City and sent a wire."

Letter of Misunderstanding
TO: Sally Weston FROM: William Gray, Governor, Stropbare Reformatory RE: Lunch

Thank you so much for joining me for lunch at my club on Wednesday. It was wonderful to meet a young woman who shares my interest in reformatory discipline, and enjoys the Blue Moon books as much as I do.

I loved the way you interrogated Lord Roberts and Sir Snowdown about why the club was still males-only; I thought the old geezers were going to have a heart attack. It was delightfully impertinent of you, in a cheeky sort of way. You're quite the little spitfire, Sally!

Given your interest in reformatory discipline, and my expertise in the manner, I was wondering if you might wish to visit my office in the city sometime, for a look at my historic collection of reformatory straps and canes?

There are several local school emporiums in the area, which will outfit you with a suitable regulation school kit, so you may look the part prior to your visit. With you in proper attire, and me properly armed, I can deliberate in detail about your conduct at the club, and elucidate to you the importance of showing deference to your betters.

Eagerly awaiting your reply,

Mr. William Gray

Governor, Stropbare Reformatory

---oOo---
TO: William Gray FROM: Sally Weston RE: Your kind offer

It is I who owe you thanks for the delightful lunch, which I truly enjoyed. I'm sorry Mr. Friar set his pants on fire with his cigar while he was arguing with me, and I feel terrible for laughing at him as he ripped them off.

And I really shouldn't have shouted, "Friar, Friar, pants on fire." How mischievous of me!

As for your kind offer of a meeting in the city, I must decline. Although I find your offer intriguing in the extreme, the simple truth is I am not a delinquent. While I understand that the miscreants in your care at the Stropbare Reformatory are routinely birched, paddled, strapped, and caned for fantastical "crimes" such as "impertinence" and "cheekiness", such a draconian sentence would be entirely inappropriate for me.

I am not a reformatory ruffian, but a young American heiress of some considerable means, summering in England. Caning the reformatory sluts in your care is justice. Caning me would be assault. Since I'm assuming you enjoy running a prison more than you would enjoy staying in one, I must respectfully decline your highly attractive offer, beguiling though it might be.

I am not interested in a role-play, for however realistic the scenario might seem it would in fact be a play.

And can we not agree that as an adult woman, I'm far too old too wear a school uniform?

I'm shocked at you, Governor Gray! Aren't you getting a little old for such antics? I have quite a tight little bottom, and I wouldn't want you to injure yourself. Ha!

Smoky Hill, Colorado, 1865.

Caroline screamed as the stagecoach tilted precariously sideways onto two wheels as it flew across the bumpy terrain. A cloud of yellow dust billowed in through the open window, churned up by the galloping hooves of the fleeing horses. The high-pitched war cries of the pursuing Indians grew louder by the second as they closed the distance between them and their prey. An arrow whistled passed the window making Caroline shriek again in horror. Instinct had her gathering her bag and parasol close to her chest before huddling down on the stagecoach floor and closing her eyes.

I'm not gonna die! I'm not gonna die! The silent mantra ran through her brain over and over as she was jostled and bumped around the rocking carriage. Suddenly there was an agonised cry of pain from overhead and the driver's body fell past the window with an arrow protruding obscenely from his chest. Oh God, I'm gonna die!

Caroline barely had time to register that the stage was now a man-less, runaway vehicle. Her panicked mind just wanted it to keep right on running. The sound of an Indian whooping came from almost inside the stage and her head jerked up to see a savage leap from his horse and climb aboard. Seconds later the stage began to slow and Caroline knew she was caught.

She gritted her teeth to prevent tears of fear filling her green eyes. She had to stay focused. Wild hysterics would serve no purpose now. Her grip tightened on her parasol and bag as she held them in front of her like a sword and shield. The stage drew to a rocky halt and the door was wrenched open. The Indian looked inside and seemed disappointed to discover that Caroline was the only occupant. He shouted something in his own language before lurching forward to grab her arm and literally dragging her across the floor. Caroline tried to poke him with her parasol but there was little room to swing her arm between the bench seats and she soon found herself pulled outside the stage and thrown into the dirt. He stood over her, his painted face contorted with loathing. The rest of the small attack party remained on horseback at a short distance.

Caroline decided there and then that if she was going to die, she would die fighting. Releasing her bag, she wrapped both hands around the parasol and drove the metal tip into the savage's foot. The open moccasin shoe did nothing to protect him and he yowled as a stab of pain exploded just before his toes. The unexpected attack had him hopping on one leg, much to the humour of the watching tribesmen. Caroline took advantage of her momentary triumph to leap to her feet and swing the parasol at his head. It landed with a satisfying thwack over the Indian's ear. This time the watching group openly laughed.

Crash
by Anthony Alba
"How can I be lost?" William muttered to himself. It was not as if he was a stranger to the area. He had grown up around here, gone to school near here and he had only been at college a year. Yet the shortcut he had chosen to beat the traffic was turning into a disaster.

The cul-de-sac ahead told him clearly that this was not the way to cut back onto the main road. "Damn it to hell," he muttered. He glanced at his watch, he still had time but that would change fast if he did not find his way back onto the main road soon.

"When I graduate and can afford a half decent car, I'm getting sat-nav," he promised himself as he put his car into reverse. There was not enough room ahead to turn around but he could reverse into one of the driveways and then try again to find his way to the party.

William glanced at his rear view window, there was a silvery grey car in the drive way but there was plenty of room for him to manoeuvre. Then his mobile beeped. He picked it up from where he had left it on the passenger's seat. It was a text message from Garry. 'Where R U? Party starting. Girls hot!'

"Damn," he muttered again as he texted a quick reply. He had felt more that a little self-conscious dressing up in his schoolboy uniform complete with cap and short trousers but that was the theme of the party. The trade off was going to a party full of hot college girls all dressed up as schoolgirls!

BANG!

The impact shocked William and he slammed on the brake but he knew it was too late. He had hit something. With a pounding heart William glanced in his wing mirror. "Please, please... don't let it be a person..." He could not see clearly enough so he turned off the car and threw open the door and got out.

His breathing began to slow a little once he realised that he had not accidentally knocked anyone down. He had hit something though, the silver car parked in the driveway. Thankfully he had not been reversing too fast but the impact had still been enough to knock a dent in the side bumper.

A minute or more must have passed as he assessed the damage. He did not really care about the dent to his own car; it was so old and battered one more dent would hardly be noticed. It was nothing much to look at and he had picked it up cheap. Still it got him to and from college and that was all that matted, not to mention cheap was all he could afford at the moment. Then the front door of the house opened, spilling light into the twilight.

Prologue
"Take off your clothes."

Dana blinked. "What - all of them?"

"Every stitch."

"Oh. But..." She cast him a pleading look which was answered by an impassive stare from midnight-blue eyes and a slight quirky raise to his eyebrow as he waited for her to obey. She pouted and fluttered her eyelashes - it was worth a go - it sometimes worked. Alas, not today.

"Now, Dana." He strode across the room and sat on the edge of the bed, watching her as she resigned herself to the inevitable and slowly began unbuttoning her shirt.

"I said I'm sorry," she ventured, as her bra and jeans joined the discarded shirt on the floor.

"Not good enough. I warned you not to ride Black Jack, yet you disobeyed me - again."

Dana gulped. It was true. Black Jack fascinated her - he was a beautiful, vibrant horse, all muscle and solid bone, with a sleek black coat, a fiery glint in his eyes, and a temperament to match; he responded only to Ethan, a fact proved all too clearly as he whinnied his outrage and reared only moments after Dana struggled to mount him, sending her tumbling from the saddle to land ignominiously in the dirt. Stunned and winded, she had lain there as Black Jack towered above her, thrashing the ground with his powerful hooves. If Ethan hadn't come rushing over to scoop her up out of harm's way ... She pushed the thought aside, tacitly acknowledging that she deserved this spanking.

"Sorry," she repeated, biting her lip apprehensively.

Ethan looked pointedly at the pile of clothes on the floor. Following his gaze, Dana quickly picked them up, folded them, and set them on a chair, where she lingered wearing only the briefest pair of panties. With a sigh, she slid them down her creamy thighs and placed them on the chair.

She stood before him, keenly aware of her nudity, and the fact that her rose-tipped nipples had hardened in greeting. She hated it when she had to strip for a spanking - it was much more fun when he undressed her. But fun wasn't exactly on the agenda right now. She had been disobedient and foolish, and now it was time to pay the price ... on her naughty bottom.

"Come here, Dana." Ethan's left hand shot out and patted the bed. Such a large hand. Hard, like the cast iron skillet she used for cooking pancakes.

Her feet carried her reluctantly forward as her eyes remained fixed on his hand. Then that same hand raised to cup her chin and tilt her head up. His eyes met hers.

"Why am I going to spank you, Dana?"

"I messed up," she admitted. When no immediate response was forthcoming, she elaborated. "I was disobedient, and I put myself in danger. And I'm sorry ... real sorry."

"I know," he said, in a tone that was soft yet firm. "You know the score. Over you go."

1. Punishment
I voted for our government and supported without reservation all the changes they wanted to bring in: lightening the rules about spanking at home; partial restoration of corporal punishment in schools; return of corporal punishment for certain offences within the criminal law. Well, like many others, I was worried about the deteriorating behaviour of young people; not all obviously, but I felt that some authority had to be returned to the world of adults. But that was for other people's children of course! I never dreamt my own daughter might get caught up in it all, yet here I was pulling up at the Ministry of Justice's coyly named 'Therapy Centre'; my daughter, my lovely eighteen year old daughter, next to me.

We walked past a large sign which read, "Protecting the public, stopping re-offending" and up to reception. Amy handed over the pink form and the bored receptionist checked her details.

"You are Amy Rivington, date of birth 17th August 2007?"

"Yes."

"So you were eighteen last month?"

"Yes."

"And this is the correct address?"

"Yes."

"Do you have your doctor's certificate to say you are fit for therapy?"

Amy handed it over.

"Now you have chosen to receive this therapy rather than one of the other sentences open to the magistrates, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Sign here and put this security badge on; take a seat over there."

I too was checked in as Amy's father and chosen escort, given a badge and we both sat down, but I appeared the more nervous and wondered how much justice there was in this. Amy hadn't really done anything wrong. She had simply been present when a group of youngsters at the sixth form college got stopped by a random police patrol. Two of the lads had fairly large quantities of what I call 'pot' in their pockets, so under the Collective Responsibility Act of 2024 all the others were found guilty of "inappropriate association".

The magistrates were brisk. "Miss Rivington, you are hereby fined the sum of £60 and to undertake 50 hours of community service. The Clerk will inform you about alternative options."

The alternatives were a good idea I thought. A youngster found guilty of even a minor offence had a criminal record, but for certain offences there was an alternative "therapy" (read corporal punishment). If the therapy was taken and there was no re-offending within a certain time frame, then all record of the offence was expunged. It was an option increasingly taken by youngsters, more of whom were being caught up in the relentless crack down on behaviour. Amy had chosen the therapy option and here we were.

A girl of about sixteen, maybe younger, came out with a woman obviously her mother. The girl was crying and holding her bottom but her mother was unsympathetic. "Well I warned you again and again. I hope you've got the message this time..."