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From Fantasy to Reality
Annabelle's hand trembled as she picked up her mobile and dialled the number. It had taken her three days to pluck up the courage to do this. She had turned it over so many times in her mind and had lain awake at night, fitfully running it through over and over again, trying to decide if she really wanted this to happen or if it would be better left as an unfulfilled dream.

She had seen the article in the glossy magazine that she occasionally bought on her way to work. It was the story of a business idea that had achieved remarkable success for the two women who had dreamed it up. Quite simply, they had established a company whose sole purpose it was to bring fantasies to reality. They took only female clients, provided a complete bespoke service, ensured full confidentiality, and charged a steep fee. They promised to fulfil any fantasy, anything a woman might imagine, no matter how bizarre or unusual, just as long as it was legal. It was the perfect service for a world in which young women were increasingly confident of their sexuality, were looking for adventure and new experiences, but were also wary of men who might abuse or exploit them.

"Good morning, Felicity Henderson, Viridarium Partnership."

The woman who answered Annabelle's call sounded calm and professional, but at the same time there was a warmth in her voice that immediately put Annabelle at ease.

"Hi. I've been looking at your website," Annabelle said, "and I think I'd like to come for a consultation."

"Great! I assume that you haven't used our services before?"

"No," Annabelle confirmed, "... first time." The nervousness crept into her voice.

"Well, don't be anxious. Let me explain how things work. The initial consultation is completely free. We'll sit down and chat things through to find out what you've been dreaming of. If we believe that it's doable then we'll let you know the cost and give you a sense of how long it will take to set up. Don't worry about shocking us, we're completely unshockable. The more detail you can give us the better; we pride ourselves on getting it right, and we want to give you a truly unforgettable experience. After the initial conversation, we'll write it up and send you a formal quote. It's up to you then if you proceed or not."

"OK... that sounds fine. I'd like to talk it through."

"Wonderful, let's see when we can both be available..."

Annabelle was pleased that there was an appointment available for the next day. Now that she had summoned enough courage to make the initial call, she was keen to take the next step.

The Viridarium office was in a discrete, rather anonymous building tucked away behind the Royal Opera House, just off Covent Garden. Felicity met Annabelle at the door and led her through to a modern, comfortable office.

Chapter One
Ashley jotted down another note in her little pad as she again slowed in her pace. While she loved walking the streets of New York City, she'd long ago learned not to rush when she was distracted. It always ended in a bump, a trip, or someone getting a foot stepped on.

"Ashley, come on, keep up," Keiko said, grabbing her by the elbow.

Looking up, she pocketed the pad. "Yes, sorry, just-"

"I know, just another story idea. Shit, what, you going to write the next great American novel? Forget that for tonight. This night is about dirty nasty fun!"

Ashley let out a squeak. "Keiko, just how wild a club is this?"

"Relax, it's nothing you can't handle. The mild stuff is the same shit we've been doing since high school."

"Mild? So, that means there's... other stuff?"

Keiko nodded. "Yes, but it's strictly voluntary, okay?"

"Well, okay."

She quickened her pace to keep up, even as her heart did likewise - and not just from the physical exertion. No, that was mild, and she was in great shape. They both were. Keiko and Ashley were two of a kind. Born and raised in a quiet coastal town of Connecticut, they'd been BFFs since grade school. Now recently graduated from college, they shared a tiny apartment in Manhattan, and Keiko was determined that they should live life to its fullest. Given that they were both petite, blonde, and had firm curvy builds, dating was never a problem. Although Keiko always seemed to have a slight edge in that department, Ashley attributed that to her Asian features and killer legs and ass. She was slightly taller than Ashley too, but at four-eight almost everyone was taller than her! Yet, there was still something missing in their lives, hence this expedition. Still, the prospect of going to a BDSM/fetish club filled her with nervous energy.

They finally reached it, and she was surprised - it was an elegant-looking brownstone. She thought sure it would be some hole-in-the-wall dump hidden away from prying eyes. The doorman checked their ID and then ushered them into the main atrium.

"So, some fancy lobby, huh?" Keiko whispered, slowly turning around.

"Girl, this is way too fancy to be a lobby. This is a foyer!"

"Keiko, how nice to see you again," a booming woman's voice said.

Ashley turned and cringed, letting out a little squeak. A mountain of a woman was approaching them, and Ashley didn't need an introduction to know she was the mistress or madam, or whatever the title was, of the house. Her long flowing black gown hugged every curve of her incredible Valkyrie figure, and she was head and shoulders above them. Given the strength and girth to her arms, Ashley estimated she could easily hoist both of them aloft.

Keiko extended her hand to her.

Chapter 1
Erin attended a rather pushy private girls' school where she worked hard and did well. In spite of an August birthday that meant she was very young in her year group, she was always at the top in terms of her marks or exam results. So when the results came in and Erin had done outstandingly well with five A-Levels all at top grades even though she was not eighteen for another five days, everyone was happy. So at first was Erin, but then the normally happy, even tempered girl became unhappy and tetchy. Did she really want to go to university when she was only eighteen by a matter of a couple of weeks? She thought of voluntary service, perhaps overseas, but it was all a bit late. Erin's mum got on Skype to her sister in the US.

"Well she could come and stay with us. We'd love to have her we haven't seen her, other than on this thing, since she was ten years old. Look, how about she comes to us and delays university? She can work in the business and everything will be different for her."

Erin's Aunt Nicola and Uncle Jack ran a garden/farm power equipment business (sales and repair) in a small town in a southern state. Erin's mum wasn't sure about this idea as her sister and brother in law were quite religious in a traditional and strongly religious area. Erin though had no doubts and threw herself into making the arrangements, but even so the year advanced towards Christmas and snow lay thickly on the ground in their Lancashire village before Erin flew off to stay with her aunt and uncle.

The childless couple greeted her warmly at the airport, her aunt practically hugging the life out of her. "My you've grown into such a pretty young lady. Videos just don't do justice to you." Erin blushed and allowed herself to be hugged by her uncle who tactfully went more gently than his wife.

By the time they got back to her aunt and uncle's house Erin was feeling tired and grubby from the long trip but the next day (a Saturday) had bounced back to her usual self, except more cheerful than she had been for a while. Her uncle had to run the business where she would be working as from Monday but her aunt took her to meet the neighbours. Next door lived the McWilliams with four children; the youngest aged four whose pictures covered the fridge and a whole wall of the kitchen and the oldest was a deeply shy girl with braces. Two boys in the middle were out somewhere playing. After all the introductions and explanations Erin's eye suddenly caught sight of a strange thing hanging on the wall of the family room. It was the same size and shape as a hairbrush with an oval back but it wasn't a hairbrush since it lay flat on the wall.

Cindy: A Modern Fairy Tale
Once, long ago, there lived a beautiful little girl named Cindy. She had large blue eyes and long hair of gold like her mother. But one day, the day before Cindy was to become a teenager, her father was eaten by a huge wolf. Her mother, upon hearing this awful news, collapsed into a state of shock and never recovered.

Thus poor little Cindy found herself suddenly jerked from her harsh but cozy life in the mountains, to the teeming city where she was forced to live with a distant Aunt. The distant Aunt disliked Cindy because she was so much prettier than her own two daughters, who were spoilt and vain and quite ugly. She resented the extra mouth to feed and therefore rarely did, preferring to nourish Cindy with frequent cruel strokes from her long rattan cane. She made the young girl do all the chores in the house (including her own) and wouldn't hesitate to punish her for the slightest failure in her duties.

Now most young girls in Cindy's situation would have become depressed and morose, but not Cindy. Instead she whistled and sang and seemed to be very happy, for she had been taught that one must never let circumstance get you down. And though the mean Aunt doubled the chores and whipped Cindy's bare bottom almost daily, it did not deter the perky girl's spirits. It drove the Aunt and the sisters to distraction, so they decided to ignore her and pretend she didn't exist.

Life continued in this manner for Cindy for several years. Her days were long and difficult. She was up before dawn fetching the wood for the fire and water from the well, relieving the hens of their eggs and the cows of their milk, and watering and feeding all the animals. By the time her Aunt and sisters had awakened, Cindy had hot breakfast on the table. If Cindy didn't (which was unfortunately often the case, as the farm animals were never very predictable), she found herself bent across the kitchen table, knickers down around her ankles and skirt up over her head, and Aunt's thin cane leaving red stripes of pain across her bare buttocks.

On the days when breakfast was ready on time Cindy usually still found herself weeping and gasping from the sharp kisses of the cane, as it was almost inevitable that Aunt would find something inadequate about the meal. Perhaps the bread was burned or the porridge too hot. It didn't really matter. Aunt caned Cindy because it amused her, and there was nothing Cindy could do but wince and wiggle her beautiful bare bottom in supplication and hope for mercy.

One day Cindy awoke with a special sense of excitement. Today was her eighteenth birthday! As she fed the chickens she imagined a beautiful white cake like the one her mother had promised her for her thirteenth birthday, a celebration that had been forgotten in the midst of mourning and grief.

A New Regime
The well-dressed lady, a little pink in the cheeks, came through the front door of St Angela's School for Girls, paused to look around and then went up to the Reception Desk.

"I have an appointment with Miss Montague."

The secretary looked at the diary in front of her. "Mrs Bartholomew is it? If you just follow me I'll take you along." She came out of the little office, smiled at the lady brightly and walked along a corridor a little way before stopping at a door. Holding it open for the visitor she smiled again. "If you would like to wait in here Mrs Bartholomew I will let Miss Montague know you have arrived."

Carol Bartholomew went in and took a seat in a comfortable waiting room. She was a strange mixture of extreme nervousness and tense fury. The fury was directed at her 18 year-old daughter, Elizabeth, a pupil at the school. The nervousness was about what was about to happen. Neither of these emotions eased in any way as she waited for what seemed a long time. Then when the door opened, it was only the secretary again, shepherding another visitor into the room. That was the last thing she wanted. The newcomer looked at her and smiled a little. Carol didn't recognise her and she looked on the young side to be a parent so she assumed her to be there on different business entirely.

Beyond exchanging thin smiles neither woman spoke, and Carol continued to seethe quietly to herself. It was the damn government's fault she thought. They were a bunch of lily livered politicians. If it hadn't been for them that letter would never have been written. Although it was almost six months since it had arrived she had read it so many times now she could almost recite it.

"Dear Colonel and Mrs. Bartholomew

I am writing to all parents to inform them of the implications of the recent Act of Parliament abolishing corporal punishment in schools and to present to you a proposal from the Board of Governors relating to these implications for St Angela's.

As I am sure you will be aware from press coverage of the matter, corporal punishment in educational establishments in this country must cease by the end of the current academic year. St Angela's has, with enormous support from parents, always prided itself on the traditional approach to discipline but will have no choice but to comply reluctantly with this legislation. Not to do so would risk closure by the authorities.

The Governors have spent a great deal of time considering the implications for the school of the new legislation. Clearly we are greatly concerned about the potential for discipline at the school to become unacceptably lax once the remedy of corporal punishment has been removed. The Governors feel certain that all parents will share these concerns.

Chapter 1 - A New Broom
The car moved slowly up the drive to Collingwood's, a small but expensive private school in the south of England. Eventually it reached the front of the imposing stone building that housed the main part of the school and, after a brief pause, was parked in one of the spaces marked 'staff'. A minute or so passed and then the driver got out and looked at the building for a brief moment or two before walking to the steps that led up to the main door. The driver was a tallish, slim and elegantly dressed lady with dark hair cut just off the shoulder and with a pleasant open face that looked as if it would rather smile than frown. Reaching the door she pushed it open and entered the building. Then she paused and looked around as if not quite sure what to do next. Just then a door opened and another lady appeared.

"Pamela! It's good to see you! Punctual as always I see! Come through this way and let me take your coat."

Pamela Jameson followed the other lady through an office and into a large study.

"It's good to see you too Julia. I never expected that we would meet again so soon."

Julia Maclean was Headmistress of Collingwood's. Still in her late 30s she was relatively young, to hold the position which she had taken up some six months earlier. During that time she had discovered that there were a number of problems at her new school and after some serious negotiations with the Board of Governors she had persuaded them to allow her existing Deputy to take early retirement with a view to recruiting a new, more dynamic replacement. She hoped that Pamela Jameson, who had been her Assistant at her previous establishment, would be that person. When she telephoned Pamela to persuade her to apply she had said, "This is a very good school with a very similar outlook on education and discipline to Edmonstone's. The girls generally come from a very high quality background - we even have a number of minor Royals, both British and European. The problem is that the discipline has gone to hell. My predecessor let things slip very badly and the Governors are very concerned. They are getting a lot of complaints from parents and a number have even withdrawn their daughters. They want something done about it - and quickly before the roll starts falling further. My existing Deputy is simply not up to the job that is required and is leaving so I need somebody to come in and take charge of the discipline. The school is too big for all that to fall on the Head. I really ought to be the last resort on discipline matters."

The reference to discipline was significant as Pamela had been involved jointly with the Head in such matters in her previous post and that had included the administration of corporal punishment which was now unheard of in state schools.

The desert was hot and relentless; there was nothing romantic about it in Megan's view. She eyed the man at the wheel beside her and made a pout with her lips. Some prince he was, she thought, the white T-shirt and Ray-Bans he wore made him look more like a Californian poser than anything. It just wasn't the story she was after. Oh he was handsome enough, but if it had been pretty boys she was wanting then she could have stayed in LA.

The Range Rover slid down the highway between hills of orange sand for mile after mile and so far she had seen nothing.

"Tell me Sir, what do you do? For a living I mean?" she asked him with a yawn.

At least the air conditioning worked and her short pixie hair cupped the top of her head much as it had back in the salon. But now she thought she needn't have cut it all to accommodate the heat.

"Hey, call me Ahmed," Sheikh Ahmed Aleem Al Elohahem said, pronouncing his name in its Anglicised form. "I am an engineer, but my uncle was concerned that..." He gave her an easy smile and shrugged. "He just wanted you to get what you needed. My cousin usually handles PR, but quite frankly, well... let's say it is not his forte." He smiled warmly. "You know... well, jobs can be hereditary. I am supposed to be a soldier, but I prefer building to destruction." He sighed. "But sometimes I still have to be a colonel."

His English was better than good; it sounded almost as if he were English, Megan thought. It even made her West Coast vowels sound coarse by comparison.

"So where were you educated?" Megan asked politely.

"Kings, Cambridge and London, Sandhurst, the LSE, Harvard, Brunel..." He reeled off his list as if it was of no particular concern.

"So you are the brains of the family and they have lumbered you with babysitting." She let her professional cynicism show.

"Hardly, but if you want technical details rather than overly bold hubris, then I will prove more useful," Ahmed said with a wink.

"So you're serious then, I mean about developing solar power?" Megan slipped the question in through a row of even white teeth better matched to a crocodile.

"The oil won't last forever." Ahmed shrugged.

Megan pushed her mouth back into a pout, a thinking pose for the 32-year-old journalist. Oh hell, a man of vision and modesty, he really did just want to talk about engineering, she thought; where is my damn story?

---oOo---
The solar array was impressive. Mile upon mile of silver grey glass all facing heaven. But even after she heard the numbers Megan had nothing that she couldn't have got on the website from LA.

"What about the desert? The real country, the real people out there?" she asked, narrowing her gaze as though it would suck a story from the man.

Chapter One - A Morning Reminder
"We need to take a little trip to the woodshed before you leave for work."

Jacob Miller's cup jittered slightly in his hand, sending a splash of coffee over the rim and into the safety of his empty breakfast plate. His wife Mary had calmly dropped the statement as she swept away the remnants of the morning meal. Their two children had long since left for school. One of the advantages of being a banker had always been the mornings together. He had always cherished those precious moments alone, the window of sanctuary between being a family and being a businessman, the daily hour when they could just be a couple.

Only this morning Mary had other intentions. Jacob was well aware of the purpose of the trip out the back door and into the sturdy little shed that housed their supply of firewood for the approaching winter. The shed was stacked full, but there would still be plenty of room for his wife to swing her leather strap. It was a trip they had made together countless times and one that never failed to leave him with damp eyes and a red and welted behind.

Why? He racked his mind to find the answer. Nothing sprung forward. What had he done? After fifteen years of marriage, Jacob had become familiar with his wife's expectations. He had by the same token become just as accustomed to her methods of dealing with her displeasure, only today he was at a loss to find the cause for any need for his spouse to deliver her preferred brand of marital discipline. "Mary, I don't understand. What did I do?"

"Finish your coffee," Mary replied, leaving his question unanswered. "When you are done, go saddle up your horse and then come back in. I should be done cleaning up by then. We will discuss the matter further once your bottom is bare."

Jacob knew better than to push the conversation any further. Mary was a loving wife, a giving mother and a committed partner but she was also a formidable disciplinarian. She had made up her mind he was to be punished... and he would be. Soon he would be bent over that familiar sawhorse with his pants around his ankles awaiting her ministrations with the strap. Anything he said now would only make things worse. He sighed quietly and tried to make his coffee last.

Mary went about her morning routine, inwardly chuckling as her husband delayed the trip to the woodshed as long as possible. She had given him a playful swat on the butt when he finally drained his coffee cup and headed to the stable to make ready the horse. The ride into town would feel more like ten miles than the actual one this morning. She would see to that. She loved her husband with all her heart. They had a good marriage and two happy, healthy children.

Prefect's Punishment

by Mike London
Mrs Scott-Blythe burst angrily into the headmistress's office without knocking. Jean Taylor looked up in surprise and then compressed her lips at the sight of the chairman of the Board of Governors of Evershead Girls' Grammar School (Mrs Scott-Blythe refused to be known as a 'chairperson'). Since her election the elderly former pupil had become rather a thorn in her flesh.

"What is it now, Margaret?" she asked.

Still looking like thunder, Mrs. Scott-Blythe explained. She had been waiting at the bus stop for a 245 that morning and when the bus pulled up, rather late, a schoolgirl waiting behind her in the queue had pushed past her to be first aboard. Mrs Scott-Blythe noticed that the blue school uniform jacket which she was wearing bore the distinctive emblem of Evershead School.

Once aboard the bus, Mrs. Scott-Blythe had marched up to the girl and remonstrated with her.

"What difference does it make? You're on the bus, aren't you?" had been the response, but the school governor had continued to admonish the girl, demanding that she give her her name. "I'm going to report you to your headmistress!" she had said.

The girl had remained silent, however. Finally, having had quite enough of being stared at by half a bus load of passengers, she had got up intending to leave the bus at the next stop.

"What's your name, girl?" Mrs. Scott-Blythe had demanded, grabbing hold of her by her arm.

"Shut up, you stupid old cow and mind your own business!" had been the indignant answer.

The outraged Mrs. Scott-Blythe had refused to let go and was still holding onto the girl and demanding to be told her name when they reached the platform of the bus. Still trying to shake herself free, the girl had jumped off the bus and Mrs. Scott-Blythe had tumbled off after her. The girl had glanced round to check that her tormentor was not badly hurt, and had then made good her escape.

Mrs. Scott-Blythe was, in truth, only slightly grazed, but the injury to her self-esteem was worse. Breathing fury, she tidied herself up and, pausing only to have a cup of tea in a local tea shop to steady her nerves, made her way to Evershead School. Now she demanded that Mrs. Taylor expel the girl concerned immediately.

"Really, Margaret," said the headmistress, trying to calm the elder lady down, "I know you're upset, and the girl's behaviour was certainly inexcusable, but this isn't really a case for expulsion. And, in any case, I thought you said you didn't know the girl's name!"

"I know her face, though! I'll recognise her, you can depend on it! And if you won't expel her, at least you can cane that young madam's behind until she won't sit down for a week! And you can get her parents to pay for my dry-cleaning, too. The impudent minx! Pushing me off a bus!"

Chapter 1
"Finally!" Anna jumped up on the couch, doing her own little dance of excitement.

"What is it, Anna?" Gabe entered the room as Anna pumped her little fists in the air, twirling a circle, and shaking her behind. He smiled when he saw her, watching her sweet little body move through the air. Before he could laugh, she lost her footing and took a head-first dive off of the front of the couch toward the coffee table. Reaching her just in time, he snagged her around the waist and stood her up in front of him. "Jesus, Anna. What on earth is going on? You nearly cracked your head on the table."

"I'm fine," Anna laughed, looking up at her handsome fiancé. She couldn't believe she was engaged to the gorgeous man towering over her. Life couldn't get any better right now. "Guess what?!"

Gabe could feel the excitement rolling off her body and chuckled at her display. "What, honey?"

"I just got an email from Sammy, and she's coming to visit!"

"Sammy, your old college roommate?"

"Geez, Gabe, we're not old ladies. We only graduated two years ago."

Gabe raised an eyebrow at her sarcasm. "Watch the 'tude, young lady. You know what I mean."

"Sorry," Anna muttered, glancing up to see if he was still giving her the look. "I've been trying to get her to visit for almost a year now, and she finally agreed."

Gabe led Anna into the kitchen and pulled out a chair for her. "That's great, honey. When is she coming?"

"I don't know. She said really soon though. We're going to have a blast! I'll take her riding, we can go hiking, and I'll take her to all the local shops. It's going to be amazing! We haven't hung out in so long!"

Gabe walked toward the coffee maker to start brewing as he listed to Anna's excitement. He loved her spirit. She was always upbeat, happy, and smiling. He only worried her unbridled excitement would lead her to doing things without thinking, which seemed to be a consistent problem for her. She constantly worried him with her spur of the moment adventures, and he'd warned her plenty of times already that she needed to be more careful when she acted. He couldn't bear it if something bad were to happen to her. Before she went on another outburst about her future escapades with her old roommate, he turned around to face her, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter.

"Anna, you know the same rules apply when she is here, right?"

"What do you mean?" The look on Anna's face was nothing short of shock. He couldn't mean what she thought he meant. There was no way he would do that with her friend staying in their house.

Andrea & Kimberley
Kimberley Kennedy watched Wendy Haverforth's departing back and could not help a little smirk at how the girl minced when she walked. Unless the eighteen year old was mistaken, there were two very sore hot bottom cheeks rubbing unpleasantly together under Miss Haverforth's skirt.

The smile evaporated when she heard the stern voice of her employer Andrea Mahoney, who the girl regularly called Aunty Andrea, say, "Kim, may I see you in my parlour please? Grace Nielsen showed me something very interesting."

It wasn't so much what Andrea had said, it was the tone and the mention of Grace Neilsen. Ms Neilsen was a new client. Kimberley had babysat her delinquent son, Trent, not all that long ago, and she had made a rather foolish decision at the end of that engagement. Andrea's mention of the woman, who had been over the chestnut-haired disciplinarian's lap earlier that afternoon, could mean that Kimberley's chickens were coming home to roost.

"Ummmm... it's nearly five ma'am," Kimberley said, flustered and fussing with her immaculate mane of honey blonde hair as she did so, which she was prone to do when nervous. "Mum's gone home, do you want me to close a little early?"

Andrea's green eyes looked Kimberley up and down as she tried to decide what to say. She settled on, "Yes, Kimmy," making the teenager blush as she used the childish diminutive of her name. "I think closing for the day would be a good idea. I'd also like a cup of coffee, do you think you could arrange that when you come in?"

"Yes, Miss Andrea," the girl replied respectfully as she shut down her computer and put her work things away in their desk drawers.

---oOo---
As Kimberley made coffee for her employer, her mind worked overtime. She and Andrea regularly had performance reviews, although they were generally quite informal. The two would take tea in Andrea's parlour after work and chat about things. Sometimes it was afternoon tea with cakes outside in reception, which Kimberley's mother, Gabrielle, also attended in her capacity as the Spank Shop's part time employee. This, however, did not sound like that. There had been an edge in Aunty's voice this time. It was an edge that she generally honed by smacking someone's bottom.

As a junior employee of Clarkstown's Spank Shop... in fact Kimberley didn't know why she or anyone else called it Clarkstown's Spank Shop, she was almost entirely certain it was one of a kind, although she did fantasise about opening a franchise elsewhere one day, Kimberley had a rather unique job description. Like most young office workers, she made coffee, organized appointments and did bookwork; however, unlike many of them, Kimberley also dispensed spankings.

The girl did not spank as often as Andrea or Gabrielle, but then they were both older and more experienced, and that was largely their job descriptions.

Independence, Missouri, April 1848

"What?! Reuben?! You're going to stay here and marry Reuben Bolton?!" Rosalind stared at her sister in disbelief. "Like hell you are! I won't allow it!"

Jane tossed her head defiantly. "I am. He asked me and I said yes, and there ain't a thing you can do to stop me."

"Jane - you can't do this." The enormity of her sister's unexpected announcement would change everything. In that brief moment, Rosalind saw her dream of a bright future crumble into dust. "What about our plan?"

"Oh, stuff the plan. Life will be a great deal safer for me here in Independence as Mrs Bolton than it would be spending 160 days in a covered wagon, having to contend with Lord knows what dangers on the trail."

"But ... but we've talked about this for months ... planned it all. You can't opt out now. You can't! We're going to Oregon."

Jane's expression softened. "I'm sorry, Rosalind, but my mind's made up. It was a silly, harebrained scheme anyway. I don't know why we even considered it."

"Well we did consider it - most carefully," snapped Rosalind, "and planned things out to the last detail."

"Oh well - guess we'll leave the adventuring to others, little sister. Reuben says you can come live with us. There's a small room above the saloon earmarked for you. You'll love it."

"I will not - and if you think I'm going to live in some flea pit of a bordello, you're very much mistaken."

"It's a respectable saloon," sniffed Jane, "which my Reuben has turned into a fine and profitable concern." She lowered her voice. "And if there are one or two working girls plying their trade upstairs, so what? Reuben takes a slice of their earnings ... a mighty big slice. Think of all the fripperies and fine gowns we can have. Making do will be a thing of the past. I'll look after you, Rosalind, like I always have since Ma died. You listen to me now, I know what's best."

"Huh. You may think you know what's best for you, but you sure as hell don't know what's best for me. I can't believe this ... you must reconsider, Jane. What do you want to marry Reuben for anyway? He's old and fat and has warts on his nose."

"Oooh - he does not have warts on his nose!"

"Yes he does."

"No he doesn't."

"Does too. And if he's been sampling the charms of the likes of Pearl and Laura, he's likely got warts on another part of his anatomy."

"Why, you little ..." Incensed, Jane threw up her hands. "My Reuben has eyes only for me! Enough of this stupidity. There's been a change of plan, but you'll soon adjust to your new life."

Anyone for Tennis?
Sometimes life comes along and kicks you repeatedly in the teeth, but then relents and, quite unexpectedly, a great huge silver lining beams out of the cumulonimbus.

This is just what happened to me...

It had been a bad couple of weeks; Denise had finally ditched me for being too boring, although she claimed that her intolerance and short attention span was her problem, not mine, to try to make me feel better. It didn't, and when I had a prang on the way to work and the roof began leaking into the spare bedroom, in the next couple of days I felt that life was dealing me a particularly shitty hand. This was a bit self-pitying, I admit, since I did still have a job, a car and a house; however, when the features editor called me into his office I wondered whether those were also soon to be taken away.

But Rex was smiling.

"Do you know much about tennis?" he asked.

This was an unexpected cross-court volley which left me flat-footed.

"Um ... I play a bit," I admitted. "Why?"

"Thought so, your CV said you were sporty. Thing is, we've got an interview arranged with Wynette Monsoon, she's playing an exhibition match and Des has gone down with the flu and Robbo's covering the Man U fixture in Russia, so we're a bit stuck for sports coverage. Do you think you could step in?"

As a junior reporter it was normally my job to follow up on any lost cats and to lurk around the magistrates' court trying to pick up on any mildly interesting civic misdemeanours, so to bag an interview with a British Wimbledon ladies quarter-finalist - albeit a losing one, of course - was quite a coup.

"Sure Rex, when is it scheduled?"

"Eleven-fifteen tomorrow, Mercure hotel small conference suite. Her Rottweiler might be there, so make sure you're polite."

The Rottweiler was a reference to Gus, a Balkan-American who'd long since given up trying to win a major championship himself and was aiming for the reflected glory of coaching one. And Wynette was our Great White Hope of bagging a Wimbledon title for an English player, although she was barely eighteen.

"Always am, Rex," I assured him. "Especially when interviewing young ladies!"

I did some internet research on Wynette in the evening, and discovered that her father was a prominent businessman from Ghana, and had sent Wynette back to his home country for schooling prior to her returning and soaring up through the tennis rankings in less than two years. That would provide a springboard for the human interest angle rather than discussing tournaments and tennis shots, I thought, and wrote out a few open-ended questions for the following day.

As it happened, Gus was nowhere to be seen, so at the appointed time I rather self-consciously sat myself opposite Wynette in a room which would have fitted thirty people.

Discipline for Alison
Alison Arrives Home

"He that spareth his rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes." Proverbs 13 verse 24 AV

When Alison arrived home she could see her daddy was already home. She sighed. It was inevitable of course, for in this small town the inspector in charge of the police station heard about everything. The fact that his daughter had told off the headmistress of the large secondary school and used some 'inappropriate' language in doing so would almost certainly have been too choice a titbit not to have reached him. She entered the house sighing again and expecting to be called into his study.

"Alison, I'd like a word with you. I'm in the study."

She sighed a third time, straightened her back to match her father's ramrod posture and, calling, "OK, Daddy," went to the surprisingly large study.

"What's this I hear about you?"

"I don't know, Daddy. What have you heard?"

"Don't get pert with me, young lady."

Alison went pale. The use of 'young lady' was very bad. It was rarely used, and when it was showed that her father was seriously annoyed. "Sorry, Daddy. I suppose you're talking about me having a go at Miss Ford."

"You suppose right, Alison. What possessed you? She is the headmistress, for heaven's sake."

"Daddy, she is an out and out bully. She bullies the teachers even, but today she was going in hard on two helpless, timid Year 7 girls. I tried to divert her attention but she wouldn't leave her prey alone and I... well I..."

"You lost your temper and were extremely rude to her. I do hope the two Year 7 girls weren't present."

"No, Daddy, she sent them away in order to deal with me, so it sort of worked."

"This is a serious matter, Alison. I do know the woman is a bully and an exceedingly unpleasant one at that. I have been in enough meetings with her to know that but it is not your place to upbraid her, even if it was that her language and tone were not the right ones. By losing your temper, however good the cause, you lose the moral high ground. You are now a subject for delicious gossip all around town. It simply isn't good enough, Alison. I regret this, but I shall have to punish you."

Alison sighed again, and the thought flitted through her head that she was doing rather a lot of sighing this afternoon. "Aren't I..." her tone was pleasant and conveyed the impression of being a tiny bit amused, "just a bit old for that sort of thing?"

Her father's tone was calm, relaxed and in turn just a tiny bit amused. After all, he had first heard that when she was ten years old and other dads told him of similar remarks while they played golf.

Stinging the Future Son-in-Law

by Bill Board
Lori Jennings was concerned. Her 21-year-old daughter, Carolyn, was involved with a young man named Jamie. Heavily involved. Doing the things with him that 21-year-old girls do with their boyfriends. It looked as though 23-year-old Jamie might be joining the Jennings family pretty soon.

Overall, Lori liked the young fellow. Carolyn could do a lot worse, she figured. But Jamie had a major failing - Lori believed that he was an inveterate snoop.

Lori could feel Jamie's wheels turning constantly behind his intelligent brown eyes and he was always probing - always curious - always sticking his handsome nose in where it didn't belong. These nosy characteristics, combined with a touch of arrogance, grated at her. Yes, Jamie was a little too full of himself. The boy needed his comeuppance and she knew it. She just wasn't sure how to provide it.

His snooping bothered her deeply. She had a secret or two of her own and she didn't want young Jamie to know any of them. That's why we call them secrets.

But Jamie was insufferable, always probing, trying to find out what she was up to and Lori was 'up to' something that she surely didn't want to share with Jamie. You see, Lori had a spanking fetish.

It was her deepest, darkest secret. It was such a deep secret in fact; she had never even overtly discussed it with her husband, Calvin. She had probed him enough to figure out that he was a 'pure vanilla', which means he attached no sexual significance to spanking, and was not much interested in the topic at all.

Thanks to the internet, though, Lori had recently expanded her horizons. Out of curiosity, she had typed 'spank' into Google and was amazed at what came up. She found that there were many sites that linked people with the interest and permitted them to 'chat' with one another, either in a blog format or one-to-one. She had found a person with a spanking interest that mirrored hers in uncanny detail and they had become pen pals, discussing all aspects of their spanking interest.

He called himself 'Bill' and Lori called herself 'Hannah'. Neither of them knew the other's real name and they had agreed they'd never ask. They were both 'very married' and totally devoted to their respective spouses, but Bill's wife was vanilla also. Part of what they chatted about were strategies for discussing their interest with their spouses and getting them engaged in meeting their unusual needs.

Lori made no secret to Calvin that she had an internet pen pal named Bill. She told Calvin many 'vanilla' details about 'Bill' and Calvin and Bill had even exchanged e-mails on some safe topics. Since she couldn't even broach the topic of spanking with Calvin, she surely wasn't ready for him to know that she chatted about it with Bill.

Chapter 1
A tall, pale-faced woman, with soft, brown, shoulder-length hair stood in the dock, her name: Anna Dobson. Perhaps one should refer to her as a young woman, for her age was twenty-eight. One could sense the tension in her yet, all the same, there was a look of defiance in her attractive features. She was smartly dressed in a tunic blouse and a figure-moulding trouser suit. The outfit showed her generous but well-proportioned figure to advantage and the colour - a powder blue - seemed to emphasise her femininity.

Before Anna Dobson were the three magistrates who had been conducting her trial; they had just returned to the court after a brief consultation in an adjacent private room. The moment of their verdict was at hand. The young woman's hands suddenly gripped the brass dock-rail tightly, and she swayed slightly. In her heart, she already knew that verdict. The trial, without jury, had been a mere charade, a formality which had to be gone through, for those accused of her 'crime' were invariably convicted. Even so, being human, Anna Dobson held on to thin strands of hope until the last. One never quite knew. Perhaps her appearance, her manner, might soften them.

The chief magistrate was a man in his sixties: balding, greying, his rounded features gave a first impression of joviality which was quickly denied by the coldness of his pale blue eyes. He was flanked by two women magistrates of similar age, both lean, hatchet-faced creatures, with angular, bony bodies. All three gazed at the young woman in the dock, coldly and dispassionately. If the chief magistrate saw her sway in the dock, he did not comment on it, nor did he suggest she be offered a seat by one of the two female guards who stood with her in the dock.

"Anna Dobson," said the chief magistrate, after a prolonged pause, "you have been accused and put on trial here for a serious offence." Another pause. "Taking part in an unlawful demonstration is a serious offence. You do realise that?"

The blonde head bowed fractionally, the light brown eyes wavered.

"Yes ... Your Honour," Anna Dobson answered in a low, well-modulated voice.

"Speak up, girl," ordered the chief magistrate sharply. Frankly, he admitted to himself (and only to himself, of course) that he had enjoyed this morning. He liked trying that sort of case, especially when the prisoner was as attractive of face and figure as Anna Dobson was. She had the looks and shape which made her a menace to society - and to herself.

"Yes, Your Honour," repeated Anna Dobson in a louder voice. Her head came up again and her jaw had a rather more defiant jut to it.

A spell in one of the special Reform Schools will do this arrogant trollop a power of good, thought one of the women magistrates. Just look at her standing there, flaunting herself, still shameless. She, who had admitted two charges of unlawful assembly.

Kelly-Ann on Vacation
We were in South Carolina driving east on Hwy 17, a two lane affair that winds its way though scenic country side until it finally reaches Charleston on the coast. We had in fact just passed the sign that put Charleston ten miles down the road. I glanced over at my beloved Kelly-Ann. She had her bare feet propped up on the dashboard, as was her habit during long car trips, and her nose buried in one of those romance novels women like. This one had something to do with pirates, but then it seemed like they all had something to do with pirates.

"Almost there, Honey," I informed her. Charleston wasn't our actual destination. We were going to near by James Island where a friend had graciously loaned us the use of his beach house for a week.

"Yeah, vacation," she said. "I can't wait to lie on the beach."

"We have a beach at home," I reminded her. We live in South Florida near Fort Lauderdale.

"Which we never go to," she countered. It was true. Getting all the stuff together, finding a place to park, fighting the crowds; it was a hassle. We were lucky to get there four or five times a year.

"Well, we'll get to this one," I assured her. "It'll be right outside the back door."

"Yep, and remember we're going to go out every night too. You promised, Tom. No sitting in front of the TV."

"I have every intention of keeping my promise, sweetheart," I assured her.

"You better, mister. I don't want to have to take those britches down," she warned sternly. She was being sarcastic of course. Those of you who have heard me speak of Kelly-Ann before know that it is she who routinely has her britches taken down.

Yes, it turns out the love of my life has herself a little spanking fetish. I was in my mid thirties when we met and I'd been around the block a few times. I fancied myself to be pretty savvy about the fairer sex, but Kelly-Ann was my first, and to date only, spanko. I have to admit I was quite surprised when she confessed this dark little secret to me. I was also more than a little intrigued. Still, it was a pretty sharp learning curve for me those first several months, but I must admit I've come to enjoy tanning her plump little fanny cheeks.

I took the turn off for James Island. "Speaking of britches coming down, I'm afraid we're going to have to have a little discussion when we get to the house," I informed her.

"No way!" she said. "What for?"

"For that spit ball fight in the Stucky's restaurant in Georgia," I reminded her, giving her my best stern look.

"What? He started it."

"He was a twelve-year-old boy. You're supposed to know better."

Kelly-Ann's Request
My name is Tom. I'm 35 years-old. Like most men my age I've been around the block a few times with the fairer sex: high school, college, a five year stint in the navy. I finally settled into a fairly conventional career in the telecommunications industry. I had at various times during that journey shared my life with a number of women of different types, some on a long term basis, some short; and like most men probably, I was actually naive enough to think that after all that, women couldn't surprise me anymore. That's when Kelly-Ann Flynn came into my life.

We met during a party at the house of a mutual friend and clicked from the first moment. It was one of those rare times when the conversation was so engaging that I didn't really start to notice her looks until we were well into our talk. Six years my junior she was of average height with beautiful red hair worn in a shoulder-length bob. She had fair skin and green eyes and she was just a little plump for her frame, but it was arranged quite nicely - 'all buns and boobs', to use her own words. That was a typical female exaggeration of course. The overall effect was very pleasing to the eye. Well, to the male eye anyway.

We started dating. Things went well as the relationship progressed through the usual stages. We learned all about each other. The mundane things. She was from a large Irish-American family - four brothers, three sisters, she was the next to youngest. Eventually the intimate subjects were discussed, all of our little secrets, or so I thought at the time.

Before I knew it, five months had gone by and things couldn't be better. We had survived our first out of town trip together, a big milestone for any couple. 'I love you' was regularly exchanged. Sleepovers were now common, usually at my place where a number of feminine products had taken up residence in my bathroom. Not that I was complaining. She really was one heck of a girl. I'm not just talking about the physical stuff either, though like so many apple pie, wholesome, girl next door types, she was a real tiger in the sack.

No, the thing I really love about Kelly-Ann is that she has heart. Do you know what that means, heart? It means she would rather die than let down a friend in need. It means that she won't back down when she's sure that she's right. It means she would move heaven and earth to keep a commitment. It means that no matter how outmatched she might be she's always in there swinging with everything she's got.

I like heart. Heart is important. I stress that point because I want you all to understand that Kelly-Ann is not some simpering, mush-pot of a girl who wants the man in her life to make all of her decisions for her and tell her what to do.