LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

The Punishment Dinner
"Let's see how she looks!"

The servants quickly broke away, leaving Lana standing alone on the dais. She was facing away from me slightly and turned and looked at me over her shoulder. I sucked in my breath in hidden delight. She was stunning.

Lana strongly reminded me of a cat. She had the body type: slender and lithe with athletic elegance, yet with graceful feminine curves. Her dirty blonde hair hung in casual-seeming wisps down to her shoulders, every hair seemingly random, yet perfectly placed. The triangle of her petite face was also feline: angled eyebrows, large expressive almond-shaped eyes, the cutest tiniest nose, elegant high cheekbones, and a small welcoming mouth with clean white teeth. Delicious.

Around her neck she wore a black leather collar, its short leash hanging loose between her bare breasts, dainty upturned things with stiff, impudent nipples. Her waist narrowed sharply making the swell of her hips and the dip of her back even more dramatic. Around her hips was a small scarlet sash tied in a bow at the back, a short tail dangling into the valley between the bare orbs of her buttocks. These ball-like buttocks drew your eye - I'd never seen a rounder, cheekier bottom. Lana's legs were long and graceful, with flawless honey-colored skin, but her butt was the star with such a high-placed outthrust it insisted you pay attention and worship it.

Lana swiveled, her hips swaying seductively, her high bottom bobbing as she struggled to step in her three-inch spike heels. Everything about her body was centered around that spectacular ass; the cheeks were the ball joints of her sleek legs.

She looked at me, blushing and grinning and terrified at the same time. I saw that except for the collar, the sash, and the shoes, she was utterly naked. From the front of the sash hung a tiny triangle which only just covered her pubis; when she moved it would no doubt offer exciting glimpses into her secret charms.

"You look perfect," I said.

"Thank you."

"There's only one thing missing."

She didn't even need to touch her toes; her bum was splendidly taut just standing there. With the long black riding switch I gave her three cuts three inches apart. The third was low, almost to her thighs, and she stared at me silently, tears glistening in her eyes and her pretty mouth tense with pain. Already the white lines were darkening to crimson. They were swelling and soon would be raised puffy weals of a purplish hue.

"Now you are ready." I headed for the door. "Come, our guests await."

Lana followed, eyes still brimming with tears, tottering on her high heels, her breasts quivering delicately with each step.

"Gentlemen, this is my wife, Lana."

The men stood in respect. There were nine of them. They'd been carefully selected for variety, so there were tall and short, lean and stout, young and old.

Morris County, Kansas, 1870

"There you are. I've been looking all over for you. What are you doing hiding in the barn? Ma's on the warpath 'cos there's a pile of potatoes that need peeling for supper."

Eden Meyer's green eyes never once left the page of the letter she was studying. "It's your turn to help Ma with supper," she told her twin sister. "I did it last night. And I made breakfast this morning too."

Sierra Meyer pulled a weary face. "Yeah I know, but you're so much better at cooking than I am. Can't you do it?" Still Eden didn't look up and Sierra's pretty face took on an exasperated pout. "What are you reading anyway, Sis?"

Eden finally glanced up into an identical pair of cat-like green eyes. Appearance wise they were so similar that no one, except their parents, could tell them apart. Both were blessed with beautiful long black hair, inherited from their Mexican mother, along with her dazzling smile. The jade green eyes were a gift from their father, a German immigrant who had settled in Kansas some twenty-five years previously.

"It's another letter from Beau Rivers."

Sierra's pout became a teasing grin. "That's the second letter you've had from him this month. He must be really smitten with you."

Eden sighed. "He is. Look, he sent me the money for the journey out there. He wants me to go join him in Montana as soon as possible."

Sierra plonked herself down on the bale of hay, beside her twin and whipped the letter from her hand. "Oh my Lord," she declared, half in envy and half in disgust. "He really wants to marry you! Even though you ain't never even met? What a sap head."

Eden reclaimed her letter. "It's called taking a mail order bride and a lot of men are getting wives that way nowadays. Advertising for a wife does not make him a sap head. On the contrary, he seems like a fine, upstanding man to me. He's handsome too."

"How do you know?"

Eden dimpled a little smile and fished into her skirt pocket. "He sent me a likeness," she said, pulling out a small photograph and passing it to Sierra.

Sierra studied the grainy black and white print. Something in her tummy gave a tiny flutter just looking at the chisel-faced stranger staring back at her with serious eyes. To mask her response she shrugged. "I guess he ain't all that ugly."

"He's gorgeous," Eden insisted.

"So how come you're not happy?"

Eden's eyes didn't quite meet Sierra's intuitive gaze. "What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean, Eden Meyer. All you ever wanted was for some good lookin' guy to come sweep you off your feet. Yet here you are, moping in the barn instead of dancing round for joy. Something ain't right."

Chapter 1
As the door closed behind the final interviewee, Fiona Hill sat back and relaxed. She was an author whose books had finally started to sell well and she had decided that she could now afford an assistant. Married with a daughter aged 18, she worked from home, but after discussing things with her husband they agreed that they could make an office in a smallish room at the rear of the house without disrupting family life to any extent. So in due course Fiona had drawn up an advert and today had been the day for interviewing the four candidates that she had selected from the dozens of applications received. It had been an interesting if tiring experience, but now she had to make up her mind and choose one. She made herself a cup of coffee, opened a fresh page in her notebook and began to go through the candidates one by one, checking her notes as she did so.

The job, as Fiona saw it, should not be hugely difficult. It would be mainly administrative, probably a mixture of a secretary and a personal assistant, although the latter certainly suggested something much more important than what she had in mind initially. She also wanted someone who could help her with research as well - and that was the problem really, as none of the candidates had any experience of that. Eventually she sat back and thought for a while. Then she decided. Of all the four, Emma Kildare was the youngest and least experienced but there was a freshness and a keenness about her. Fiona thought that she could make something of Emma. It might take longer than with the others, but she decided to back her judgement that in the long run it would pay dividends. She thought again, going over everything in her mind one more time, then reached out for the telephone.

A few miles away Emma Kildare was at home - or at least her parent's home. She certainly couldn't afford a place of her own. She was sitting with a mug of coffee feeling just a little depressed. She thought she had been very open at this most recent interview, probably even a little naive, and once it was over she thought that there was no way she would get the job. The trouble was she wanted it desperately. Not all that long out of university and not really having much experience apart from a couple of internships and working in a shop, she didn't know what she wanted to do with her life yet. However, she liked literature and reading so the chance to work for a writer seemed too good to miss.

In an attempt to sound convincing, she had emphasised her politeness, devotion to duty and sense of discipline, coming as she did from a strict upbringing. What she didn't mention was that her stepfather still spanked her regularly with her mother's full approval!

Seat Warmers Unlimited
"Good afternoon, Madam." The receptionist sat behind a large, modern pinewood desk, before which stood two shiny steel-framed chairs, the seats upholstered in red velvet. The desk was neat, uncluttered save for a red telephone, some pads of paper and pens.

"Hi," said Jessica, taking in the smell of leather that pervaded the place, wondering about its source. She was nervous and embarrassed. She surveyed the walls, noting the erotic figure drawings, the two canes forming an X above the receptionist's desk and the two large paddles on either side. To the left stood a blackboard on an easel, a mortar board with tassels perched on a corner. Chalked on the board were a list of implements and prices. Her heart skipped like a schoolgirl but she feigned nonchalance. She saw "cane... birch... riding crop ... paddle... tawse... hairbrush... slipper... hand" and prices per "six of the best".

"Is this your first visit, Madam?" asked the middle-aged woman neutrally.

"Yes, it is," croaked Jessica.

"If you would like to fill in your requirements on here..." The receptionist slid a pad of carbon-copied forms and a biro across the desk. "I think you'll find everything is made clear."

Jessica nodded gratefully, sat and pulled the pad towards her. Centred at the top was the company's name: "Seat-Warmers Unlimited" with the mission statement in italics below it: "Discipline with discretion". The page was divided into four sections. The first listed the implements she'd seen on the blackboard along with several others such as carpet-beater, gym shoe, bath brush, spoon. Adjacent to each item was a box to indicate number of sets of six, though she noticed "hand" came in sets of twelve only. The prices seemed very reasonable at £5 per set, with "birch" costlier at £8, though there was a minimum charge of £30.

A second column of boxes invited the client to indicate by number the order in which the sets were to be administered. Jessica felt heat rising through her middle and wished she wasn't by nature so quick to blush. She was suddenly very conscious of the woman across the desk and what she must think. She felt faintly ridiculous sitting here getting moist with excitement contemplating a mere form. She crossed her legs and then cleared her throat at exactly the same moment as the woman.

"Why don't I give you a minute to think things over?" Jessica looked up and smiled awkwardly but gratefully as the receptionist got up. Just then the phone rang. The woman smiled an apology and picked it up.

"Good afternoon," she said politely. She listened for some moments before rolling her eyes. "No madam, I'm afraid we don't supply any kind of vehicle upholstery ... no ... no ... I'm sorry ... I can't really help you there... erm, you probably don't want to know... thank you, goodbye." She seemed to have brought the conversation to an abrupt end.

Called to the Front of the Class
It must have been fifteen years since Ryan Ferris had been anywhere near his old school. In fact, forty-three years had passed since he had finished sixth form. Life had been good. Having studied mechanical engineering at university, he had set up his own company some thirty years ago, worked hard, and had reaped the rewards. Not bad for the diminutive, unassuming shy kid they called 'Carrot Top' during his schooldays.

Today he was due to see a prospective client that had a site very near to Holly Grove School, the place where, despite his inhibited demeanour, such wonderful memories came flooding back. He stopped his silver Mercedes directly outside the school gates. The place had changed somewhat, and had recently been granted academy status. But still, the old memories flowed, and so did his tears at the passing of time.

Happy school memories they were, but his biggest regret was his chronic failure to be popular with the girls. Two particular girls came to mind. He shut his eyes and could picture them both at the school gates: one vivacious, charismatic and often rebellious, giggling and cavorting with the boys, the other reserved, engaging, quietly appealing and academically brilliant. However, they both shared one thing: they were two equally beautiful girls. He had loved both dearly, but agonizingly, neither had reciprocated. He pictured them again and sighed. Never had he forgotten Chelsea Sanderson or Jasmine Cooper.

Two unforgettable days played on Ryan's mind that involved both Chelsea Sanderson and Jasmine Cooper. One was just simply exceptional, the other nothing short of astonishing, and both were intrinsically linked. The first memory that sprung to mind was the last day of term when he was in the Lower Sixth. He shut his eyes and pictured the events. The year was 1970: long hair, platform shoes, flared trousers, mini skirts and crombies. It saw the break-up of the Beatles, the World Cup in Mexico, and at that time, Mungo Jerry were battling in the pop music charts for the No. 1 spot with Christie's Yellow River, before the latter-day birth of T. Rex.

It had been swelteringly hot and he had hated it. It tortured his pale, freckle-covered skin to the point of ridicule. Bright sun had the effect of illuminating him, and the calls of 'Carrot Top' had been quite widespread that week. His emotions had been fraught on the day because of Chelsea and Jasmine.

He recalled how the calamity of approximately one hundred sixth form pupils leaving the Stuart Close entrance of the Holly Grove School had momentarily abated his irritation towards the afternoon's intense heat. Boys chanted, yelled and wrestled, while others stole last minute kisses with the girls. Boys that were considered good-looking enough indulged in passionate, lingering kisses with any one of the array of pretty girls that were happy to reciprocate.

There were four factors which led to my doing what I did. None of them were directly connected but all were crucial.

The first was that I have always been interested in spanking and wanted to be spanked. Don't ask me where that strange interest came from, I have no idea. I was never spanked growing up, not even an odd smack or swat. No school that I attended either in the UK or the USA ever even mentioned corporal punishment, and I knew no other kids who got spanked. However, right from an early age I felt all tingly at the thought, and whenever it was mentioned anywhere or I read something in a book, I'd feel drawn to be spanked myself. I longed to have very strict parents who spanked and go to a very strict school that used the paddle. Very strange I agree but that is how it was.

The second thing was that I had an inheritance. I'd already had one from my parents who had died when I was eighteen but I had put that money in a fund for the future and hadn't really touched it much. This was a huge inheritance which left me gasping. My great uncle was a self-made man and had no other family to leave it to. He despised charities and hated governments so left it all to me. I am not sure how sensible it is to leave that much to a 23-year-old girl but he did. I mean I could have gone mad and done the whole drugs, sex, clothes, clubbing and travel bit. I didn't but I was bewildered as to what to do. I didn't care for my job much, but what to do exactly?

The third factor was an article about a school that used the paddle. Apparently it didn't believe much in detentions, impositions, internal or external suspensions and used the paddle a fair bit. Someone attempted to ban it on the school board but the motion was heavily defeated. I was fascinated and researched the school and area. It was a fairly rural area with a small population and the town itself wasn't just low on crime but had virtually zero crime. It was the sort of place where dog poop was an issue! Parents there believed in spanking and used it. Doubtless they would claim the use of it kept the crime rate down but probably socio-economic factors were also at work.

The fourth factor was more an event. Normally, I shopped where I worked and lived so everyone knew me, but one day I had to leave my area and shopped for some wine and food because I had a few friends coming round.

"Sorry," said the checkout woman, "you're not old enough to buy wine."

"Pardon me?"

"You gotta be at least 21. Leave it there."

"But I'm 23. I have ID."

"Jack, where's that damn Barnicky file?" Margaret J. Kemp, Attorney at Law, bellowed from her office. "I have to leave in five minutes."

"I'll be right there, Ma'am," shouted Jack Dawson, harried paralegal and law student. His fingers flew through the drawer of file folders, but the Barnicky file just wasn't there.

Shit! What did I do with it? he thought, his heart pounding. Think, Jack, think. What was I doing the last time I had it? Then, like a lighting bolt, it came to him. The safe. I was getting the photos and video tapes from the fire safe and I had the file folder in my other hand. I was going to put it back in the file cabinet, but then Maggie started yelling for me over the intercom. I must have...

He ran to the fire safe on the other side of his workstation and frantically worked the combination.

"Jack, tick, tick," Maggie shouted from her office.

He said a quick prayer and pulled the heavy door open. Bingo! There it was, right on top. He snatched the heavy folder and hustled to the door leading to his demanding, task master's office. He got there just in time. She was already coming out, the keys to her Mercedes CL 500 coup clenched in her teeth as she slipped into her smartly tailored, navy-blue suit jacket. "Barnicky file," he said, handing her the folder.

She buttoned her jacket, and snatched the keys from her mouth before accepting the folder, turning an icy stare on her subordinate as she did so. "So where'd you find it?" she asked. "It obviously wasn't in the file cabinet where it belongs."

Jack's stomach lurched. He hated it when she gave him that look. Her deep blue eyes seemed to cut right through him as if she were looking right into his soul. "I left it in the fire safe when I was getting the tapes out, Ma'am," he admitted. He knew better than to lie about it. Maggie Kemp could smell a lie five counties away.

She pursed her lips and shook her head. "Pretty careless, Jack," she said, popping him lightly on the forehead with the folder for emphasis. "There would have been hell to pay if I had to postpone this meeting because you couldn't find this. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, Ma'am," he said, wishing desperately that he possessed the power to disappear. "It won't happen again."

"It damn well better not!" she said. She ran her fingers through her thick black hair and glanced at her Rolex. "I don't have time to talk to you now, but we will discuss your unacceptable loss of focus when I get back. Understood, mister?"

"Yes, Ma'am," he said, swallowing hard. It wasn't a discussion he was looking forward to.

She spun on her heels and was gone in an instant, a blur of conservative, navy-blue heading out the door.

Chapter 1 - Personal Needs
Miss Elizabeth Semple, soon to be Mrs. Jeremiah Pickens, was outraged! She was in the most ignominious position imaginable: laying across the lap of Mr. Jeremiah Pickens, a man she had met in person only a few scant hours earlier. She struggled, but not enough to extricate herself from this position. In fact, she wasn't so sure that she could escape her predicament. Mr. Pickens was a brawny man of uncommon height, and at 30 years of age with years of living and working on a ranch was ... what was it the sheriff in town called him? "One tough sumbitch."

Adding to her concern had been the look of utter disdain that had creased Mr. Pickens' face just prior to his upending Elizabeth as he sat down on one of the crude chairs in his home. Worse still, Elizabeth could feel her skirts being lifted by Mr. Pickens. "Don't you dare!" she seethed. "Don't you dare do this to me!"

Her words had no effect as Jeremiah Pickens went methodically about his business. And that business right then was to give Miss Elizabeth Semple a taste of what she should expect if she dared to ignore the warnings of her husband, or what she should expect if her sassy, 'back-East' mouth should run off as it had just done.

Her bloomers were quickly parted in back by the man holding her in place and she struggled harder to no avail. Though it was still summer, the air was cool and felt especially cold against her now bared bottom. Elizabeth had told Jeremiah she wouldn't stand for a spanking and he had replied it was not her choice.

Both were correct. She had no choice and she wasn't standing; she was lying across her soon to be husband's lap as he bared the target area. Elizabeth was also about to discover one of the side effects of ranch life: it calloused your hands and made them very tough. Jeremiah's hands were both calloused and tough, and they were spanking hands to be respected. His hands were large, but in proportion to the bulging biceps and shoulders that led up to a very broad and brawny chest.

SMACK!! His calloused hand swatted her alabaster white bottom and Elizabeth yelped shrilly.

SMACK! SPANK! SWAT!

With casual, but purposeful, intent, Jeremiah walloped the bare backside of his betrothed and each spank resulted in a high pitched shriek that would have bothered the neighbors back east, but with the nearest ranch several miles away, Elizabeth could yelp and scream all she wanted. Even the echoes of her cries would die out before reaching any human ear other than the ones attached to the big man who was inflicting this pain.

Her pristine white bottom soon turned pink and then red. She began to plead her apologies and offered excuses such as "I had no idea" or "I didn't know!"

Heads turned for two reasons as Abby walked into the small town bar: firstly, she was one attractive woman with her hourglass figure, dazzling blue eyes, and long red hair swinging jauntily in a ponytail; and secondly, she was clearly in one hell of a snit. Her eyes blazed with anger and frustration, and with her chin thrust out aggressively, her mouth was set in a firm unsmiling line. She approached the bar purposefully in a series of long strides, drawing attention to her shapely jean-clad legs and swaying hips, and as she perched on a bar stool the eyes of all the males (and some of the women) in the room focused on admiring the rear view of her full, round bottom.

As for the frontal view, the bartender's eyes were drawn to her chest. A pair of large breasts rose and fell with each breath, their owner wearing a white low cut t-shirt beneath a blue and white chequered shirt. With some reluctance, the bartender lifted his gaze and smiled appreciatively. But before he had chance to speak, the new arrival cut in.

"Get me a Jack Daniels." She fixed him with a frosty look. "Make it a double." She exhaled slowly, trying to calm herself and quell the rising feeling of panic.

"Comin' right up, ma'am." He slid the glass over the bar and watched as she downed the contents in three gulps. "Hey lady, you sure can drink your whiskey like a man." He meant it as a compliment but all his words merited was another icy glare.

"Same again." She fished in her back pocket and slammed a twenty dollar bill down. It was her last one. She swallowed.

"New in town, huh?"

"Yeah," she said noncommittally. Clutching her drink, she slid off the stool and moved to a small vacant table nearby. The bartender shrugged as Abby took a chair by the wall in a small recess where there was just one other table, occupied by two guys talking. One of them looked up at her approach and tipped the brim of his Stetson as he nodded and smiled.

"Hi," he said as he moved his chair, giving her more leg room.

"Hi. Thanks." She took another sip of her drink, annoyed that her hand was shaking as she held the glass. The two men resumed their conversation as Abby sat there wondering what the hell she should do next. The whiskey burned the back of her throat, and gradually a feeling of warmth suffused her whole body as she began to relax.

The bartender and most of the other customers in the bar turned their attention elsewhere, and after a few minutes, the redhead sitting quietly in the corner recess was pretty much forgotten - except by the two men sitting close by. They observed her agitation as she clenched her fingers repeatedly, her anger fading into something like despair as she stared disconsolately at her empty glass, her face pale, her blue eyes brim full of tears that threatened to spill over.

Bruce headed for his front door, his shoulders slumped, and a slight tightness in his gut. It had been a long hard day at the clinic. He was feeling very down. On the one hand, he was a good doctor, but on the other hand, he had trouble getting patients. Ever since the changes to the medical insurance laws had pushed most people into an HMO, the old-fashioned type of doctor's office - like his - had suffered.

That was why he now drove a Ford and had to sell the BMW. At least he still had one simple joy in his life: his little baby. Just the thought of her put a spring in his step and got him standing up straight. He entered their modest home and looked at the playpen in the corner of the living room. Ah, yet another disappointment. It was empty.

Damn, that means she's working again.

He was right. The sound of computer keys being typed on was coming from the study. It brought him down, as it made him sad that she had to work. He headed for the study. The sight before him did make him smile. Little Shania, his petite darling, sat there in one of her cute little girl outfits: short skirt, bright green blouse, and a big green bow in her straight ebony hair. Yeah, she might be twenty-three, but she looked all of about twelve.

---oOo---
Shania sat at Daddy's desk. A slight creak of the floor made her turn her head. Daddy Bruce was standing in the doorway. He didn't look happy. She tingled at the sight of him, both from fear and excitement. He was such a magnificent figure of a man. Well over six feet, solid build, sparkling blue eyes, and almost white-blond hair.

"Hi, Daddy, how are you? Yeah, I know, I'm not playing. I'm sorry," she said.

He sighed and stepped over to kiss her on the forehead. "It's okay, baby. But what happened to Nanny Marsha?"

Marsha was the Domme that Bruce had hired to not only watch over Shania while he was at work, but also taken care of his office - schedule patients, file billing, organize the staff and so on.

"Daddy, I caught her stealing from petty cash and your jewelry case. She tried to browbeat me by being all 'I'm the dominant here, Missy.' Well, that's fine when it comes to playtime, but this was theft from my daddy, and I won't stand for that from anyone! I fired her and sent her packing."

"Ah, that's my little girl, always watching out for her daddy," he said and kissed her again. "But, Daddy is home now, and he is feeling stressed, which means...?"

"Daddy needs to de-stress. Yes, sir, I'll go wait for you," she said with a nod.

She plodded off to her playroom.

The Intruder
"Are you Bobby?"

The strange girl marched inside past me without even waiting for an answer. She was not my type at all: high school age, an open-mouthed noisy gum-chewer, arrogant and snotty, and had a bizarre silver nose ring.

"I thought you were supposed to be in college," she was saying, and I realized she'd been talking non-stop. I vaguely understood she'd been critiquing the cheap standard-issue furnishings of the condo, wrinkling her nose at the abstract painting my mom had done, and brazenly flipping through the items in our mail basket.

"Excuse me? Who are you?" I was about to get stern when she threw off the large overcoat she was wearing - though it was close to 80 degrees out it was raining - and I was presented with a completely different girl. This girl was slim and feminine with the skimpiest short-shorts I had ever seen. They were glued to her ass as though they'd been sprayed on. And what an ass it was! Totally scrumptious, tight and round and springy, twin balls of quivering blubber that thrust outward at me impudently, demanding the same reaction, which they received in spades. In a second I was hard, my erection painful I was so aroused.

I hadn't yet come to terms with this beautiful creature suddenly emerging from her raincoat like a butterfly from a cocoon, when she turned to face me, her chest poking out at me impressively, straining the tight T-shirt she barely wore. Her belly was bare and I could see she was an "innie" and for some reason that turned me on.

But even as my brain struggled to process all this information, more data was rapidly supplied. The girl must have been holding it inside her coat because I hadn't noticed it before: a narrow yellow stick about a yard long.

"Name's Amy Madigan," she said through her gum. "Live next door. My mom knows your mom, I guess. Told me to come over. Said I need my ass caned and you could do it."

Without another word of preamble she casually handed me the rod and turned and bent at the waist. She moved lithely, like an athlete. She touched her toes perfectly, her legs utterly straight. It was a practiced move, with no effort. Her ass quivered and hung in the air, taunting me with its saucy goodness. I had a tremendous urge to rip the shorts off those cheeks and thrust my hard cock into the warm valley between, but I resisted.

"Well? Are you going to take all day?"

She was looking up at me over her shoulder, her eyes huge and round and - I now realized - beautiful. She was striking. My first impression had been all nose ring and snotty attitude and bulky raincoat, but seeing her like this I was enraptured.

"Uh, Amy?"

The perfect buns twitched sending a slight shudder through the taut flesh.