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A Modern Education
Rosalyn Beauchamp carefully placed one foot in front of the other as her stylish high heels clacked their way down the parquet floor. This gave her a sashaying gait that coupled with her expensive skirt suit made her feel like a model on a catwalk. Judging from the glances of the older boys and masters alike she guessed she also looked the part, and the expression that lightly touched her lips was bordering on smug. At 40 you still have it, she thought, her smile now barely contained by her full pouting lips.

To avoid meeting any male gaze she kept her eyes and nose turned upwards in a gesture of aloofness as if eye-contact might break the spell and give her away as a fraud. It was a posture that drew her glance to the high school windows that were set too far from the ground to see out of. This and the airy wide corridor added to the feeling that the school was turned inwards and remained an elite haven from the world. And so it should be, Rosalyn thought, her step-daughter's school fees certainly cost her enough.

She smelt the old wood and polish, a scent to take her back to her own school days and a building much like this one. The only difference was that her alma mater had no boys. Catherine must be having a high old time, Rosalyn thought, and that was the trouble.

She was just pondering this as she arrived at Catherine's housemaster's study door. Rosalyn's tummy did tumbles as memories came flooding back, and her bottom twitched against the fabric of her D&G pencil skirt. Unconsciously, she fussed with her auburn red hair as if to be certain that it did not reach her collar, but catching herself she pressed her tongue to her cheek and remembered her business.

The door was cold and hard to her knuckles and she still couldn't quite suppress the apprehension of old, perhaps with good reason.

She was admitted by a handsome rugger type pushing 50. His smile was genuine and for once she made an effort to remember his name, as if being bonkable rendered him more significant than being the mere guardian of Catherine's education.

Peter, she thought, her mind in a scrabble. "Mr Trent," she managed, but saying it a shade too quickly.

"Mrs Beauchamp," he said warmly as he ushered her in.

"I hope you don't mind me calling in, I know it isn't really done." She made a grimace. "But I gather our Catherine has been rather troublesome."

Peter Trent pulled a chair from the desk and gestured her to sit. His smile became relaxed and he made a dismissive gesture. "No more so than any other spirited 18-year-old about to leave us," he chuckled. "When faced with their final term these eager young people do tend to jump the gun when it comes to obeying the rules and imagine themselves immune."

Happy that she had scored a window seat in the crowded airliner, Bonnie Ballard enjoyed the view. As always, she was amazed at the immensity of Texas. No stranger to Texas, she was even familiar with her specific destination. She would be visiting the Grant ranch, owned by Joseph Grant. Joseph was a close friend of her family and had been a figure in Bonnie's life since she was a baby. But this trip would be different from her previous stays at the ranch, which essentially had been family vacations - different in a very life-changing way. The fact that this was the first time she had ever traveled alone would have been sufficient to make this trip an adventure she would remember for the rest of her life. But merely traveling alone was a small thing compared to what was about to happen to her.

Over the next two weeks, Bonnie would be visiting the Grant ranch as a prospective wife for Joseph Grant himself, a man old enough to be her father! She had been told that she must get to know Joseph's two present wives, learn to love them and to not be jealous of them. Should she marry Joseph, they would become her 'sister wives'. Also this would be her chance to get to know Joseph in a very different way than she had ever known any man before. It would be a sort of courtship, a way to determine if she and Joseph were meant for each other.

Inexperienced in matters of courtship and sexuality, Bonnie was aware that she had much to learn, and she correctly suspected that Joseph was just the man to teach her. For the last few weeks she had fantasized a lot about this trip and about Joseph. What would it be like? She had been told that she would spend much time alone with Joseph. While together, they would be doing... what? The very thought put butterflies in her stomach. And, oh yes ... before leaving she had been told one other small detail: during those two weeks she would be spanked - spanked at least twice! At that thought, Bonnie surreptitiously scrunched her young bottom in her airline seat.

To her slight discomfort, a youngish man occupied the seat next to her and wasn't quite hiding his interest. He saw a shapely young woman with long straight golden hair whom he correctly guessed to be about eighteen years old. Her face was still so fresh with youth that he didn't even notice her lack of makeup. However her modest long dress, of a traditional design, made her stand out from the crowd.

Finally he could contain himself no longer. "Um, Miss? Do you mind if I ask? Do you happen to be a Quaker?"

"No, not a Quaker. I'm from a conservative branch of the Mormon faith." She had answered politely, but slightly distantly, not encouraging further conversation. Bonnie wasn't on the market for new male companionship.

A Satisfactory Tale featuring Miss MacBride
It was all rather mysterious. A few months ago Miss MacBride had applied for the post of English mistress at a shabby but genteel boys' preparatory school. There were three other applicants, all older than she was. She had gathered that the post involved not only teaching English but a great deal of pastoral care. In effect, if selected, she would be an assistant housemistress to Mr Parry who ran one of the four houses at the school. As far as experience went she had only two years teaching at a boys' preparatory school although for a year and a half she had been engaged as a tutor for two mischievous young boys. Neither of them had been very keen on hard work to begin with but after the judicious and regular application of a light school cane to their bare bottoms they found that they possessed a great deal of enthusiasm for hard work after all. Miss MacBride was an extremely competent young woman but she felt just a little nervous as she entered the headmaster's study.

The headmaster, Mr Deverell, a short plump man with ears that stuck out at a peculiar angle, conducted the interview and she quickly formed a strong impression that he was a snob of the very worst kind. He had made an off the cuff remark about how unfortunate it was that in order to make ends meet the school had to accept boys whose fathers were in 'trade'. As if it were a disease that one caught from mixing with one's social inferiors. It had made the small fine hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention and before she could stop herself, she found herself speaking as if she were admonishing a small boy for a lapse in his table manners.

"There is nothing at all wrong with being in trade, as you call it, headmaster. My father was a bus driver for thirty-five years before he retired."

She imagined that her eyes were flashing as if she were a spirited heroine in a romantic novel. She was so unbelievably angry that she could have happily reached over and boxed his rather oversized ears. Of course the headmaster had held up his hands with a pained expression on his face. He had apologised profusely but she had known then with utter certainty that she had no chance of getting the job. So it had proved, a brief letter expressing regret that she had not gained the appointment duly arrived. Then six weeks later an urgent telephone call from the headmaster himself. Apparently, he had been very impressed with her at the interview: would she be immediately available still to take up the post as the school had been let down very badly indeed.

She couldn't help speculate about just how the school had been let down but as she had no offers of employment there was only one possible answer she could give.

Chapter 1
Tyler Hampton waited as the security guard posted at the gate to her rambling Hollywood home allowed the studio limousine to take her to the front door of the large stone house. She breathed a sigh of relief at being home after the last day of filming for her newest work. Now she was going into seclusion for two weeks for a badly needed retreat so that she could reflect on her still young career and perhaps address some unfinished business of a unique nature.

She had been a top-tier actress for some time, and had found it ironic that after she had found fame and fortune it was as difficult for her to get time away from the chaos of Hollywood as when she was a struggling unknown needing to work hard every day. The fact that she was finally going to have a clandestine vacation was almost surreal to her.

After filming the last love scene in a bedroom setting on the studio grounds, she asked that her driver leave her safely inside the stretch vehicle, hidden behind the darkened windows with the doors locked, while he went inside the fast food establishment and picked up her evening meal. As far as she was concerned, her vacation was officially on.

As she began her time off, her mind was reeling from an onslaught of emotions, excitement and anxieties. To top it all off, her libido was on a rampage. It would have been sufficient for her to simply know that she was going to have a quiet evening in seclusion to enjoy a personal marathon session of watching edits of nearly every spanking that had ever taken place in a western movie or television show.

If that had not been enough, the late afternoon love scene that concluded the filming of the R-rated suspense-filled movie had an enhanced sense of realism in comparison to others she had done. During the scene she had worn just a flesh colored thong, and her co-star was wearing a male version of the same. He also happened to be the newest cinema hunk, and during the filming of the scenes she was driven by distraction (and nearly to climax) by the fact that she was distinctly and constantly in contact with the evidence that he was also finding the action more than a little stimulating.

She had filmed several such scenes, though none quite so steamy as that one. She could certainly not quite fathom how she could experience such arousal with cameras operating and a crew present as she writhed and pressed downward on her co-star's midsection. She also knew that at least one camera was positioned behind her as she enthusiastically did so in order that some flash glimpses of her now legendary bare backside could be inserted in the final production.

She also knew that the release of the film would set off another argument in the entertainment media over whether there was a distinct difference between some R-rated films and those getting an NC-17 rating.

Curfew, Panties and Lies
The Curfew

Leaning against the front door, Ali waved a last goodbye to Alex as he pulled his little red bug out of the drive and puttered silently down the street. She loved that little car. The fact that it was smaller than most of her friends' cars only made it more endearing to her. And of course she had no car to compare it to because there was no way her parents would ever buy her one. They were so archaic.

After watching Alex completely disappearing down the block, Ali started shuffling through her purse to find her house key. Of course, as usual she found it lying at the bottom. Pulling it out, she carefully slid it into the lock, trying not to make any noise that might wake her parents or little sister. The last thing she wanted was to confront any of them.

Opening the door noiselessly, Ali stepped inside and locked it behind her. So far so good. No lights were on in the living room to indicate that anyone was still up. She knew if her parents heard her coming in they would be all over her for being past her curfew. They always were. Her parents were stricter then most parents. It seemed her friends were always able to do things she couldn't.

Tiptoeing to the staircase, she put her foot on the bottom step just as she saw a light snap on in the room behind her.

Turning her head slowly, Ali saw her father sitting in his lounge chair staring at her with a fury that only he could display.

"Crap," she muttered under her breath as she turned around.

"Young lady, do you know what time it is?" Mr. Nichols asked in a low voice.

She did know the time unfortunately. She was an hour late but it hadn't really been her fault that she was late. No one else had a twelve o'clock curfew and it was too embarrassing to make Alex bring her home before everyone else. She'd rather die first.

"I asked you a question, Alison, and I expect an answer," he snapped after several moments of silence had passed.

Swallowing hard, Ali decided to play the innocent as she choked out, "A few minutes after twelve?"

Mr. Nichols pursed his lips together tightly as he continued staring at his daughter for several long seconds.

"Try again," he snarled, finally breaking the uncomfortable silence.

"Daddy, I'm sorry I'm a little late," Ali apologized, walking slowly towards the living room. "We had to go to a later movie because the earlier one was sold out and..."

"Come in here and sit down, Alison," Mrs. Nichols interrupted.

"Momma?!" Ali cried in surprise. "I didn't know you were here too."

"You know your mother can't sleep until all you girls are in for the night," Mr. Nichols replied angrily.

Chapter One
"I see you wore the appropriate outfit, young lady," Chase whispered into Priscilla's ear as he slowly circled around the elegant and beautiful lady who stood before him.

"Yes sir," Priscilla responded in a soft, nervous voice. She was a tall, red-headed, fair-skinned, green-eyed woman in her late forties. And yet here she stood in the middle of her living room floor dressed up like a young schoolgirl in a white blouse and plaid skirt, her hair in pigtails tied up with pink ribbons.

"Good girls always do as they are told," Chase said while gently tugging on one of her pigtails.

Chase Fredericks stood tall at six foot two. He wore a black tee shirt so tight the muscles of his abs could be seen through it; not that he was trying to hide them. He kept his dark hair short. His light blue eyes gave his face a certain kind of softness, yet his chiseled jaw said otherwise. He possessed what some might call movie star looks. In fact, it was those looks that inspired him to leave his small Midwestern town to pursue his dreams of fame and fortune in Hollywood. While some minor success had come his way, fame and fortune still eluded him.

"I want to be a good girl sir," Priscilla said with a little more confidence in her ability to play the role of the young schoolgirl.

"I know you do. Unfortunately, you've been a very, very naughty little girl lately, and naughty girls have to be punished."

"Please sir, I promise I'll be a good little girl from now on."

"I'm tired of your promises," he said in a stern, strict voice that sent a chill down her spine. "I've given you enough opportunities to behave yourself young lady, but you continue to disrupt my classroom with your bratty behavior. It's now time for me to put this delinquent behavior of yours to rest."

Chase grabbed her by the wrist, leading her over to the white leather sofa that was placed against one wall of the magnificently decorated room. She followed him obediently. For someone who was new to the world of spanking and role play, Priscilla behaved like she had done this many times before. And she had done it before many times in her fantasies, but this would be the first time in her life that Priscilla Burke was spanked for real.

Chase took a seat on the sofa before slowly guiding her over his knee. Her heart began to race as the moment was finally at hand: she was going to get the spanking she had always dreamed about. The anticipation was getting to be too much for her. She had waited until she was almost fifty-years-old to work up the nerve to find a man to give her the spanking she so deeply craved, and the last few seconds waiting for it to happen was killing her.

Chapter One
Gwyneth reclined on the couch, her head on a pillow, and her hand buried deep in a bag of cookies. Nick droned on about something, but she didn't pay much attention. It had to do with money and some bad press she'd gotten recently, which meant it wasn't important. After all, there was no such thing as bad press.

Why couldn't he ever figure that out?

"Gwen, are you listening to me?" he snapped.

"No," she said simply and rolled her head toward him.

He sighed and shook his head. "Gwyneth Elaine Parson, this is serious!"

"Yeah-yeah, I know, you want me to review my latest damage report and the cost. Who the fuck cares?"

"You should, you little twit," he said, rising from his desk and waving the pages at her. "Look at this: damage to the hotel, damage to your car - your new car - the neighbor's hedge and front porch, and then there's that tiny 'incident' at the mall."

"Nick, the little bitch wouldn't leave me alone."

"She was a fan, Gwen, was being the operative word, and all she wanted was a picture. Not only did you smash her phone, but you pushed her into a fountain, and did it in full view of the media. The video has already gone viral."

She perked up, sitting up straight on the sofa. "Really? How many hits has it gotten?"

"Gwen, this is serious!"

"Oh, what of it? Shit, toss some money at her like everyone else and she'll be happy."

"You don't have that much money."

She rolled over, bit another cookie, and opened another teen fan magazine to look for articles about herself. "Please, I've got more than enough money to buy anyone I want, and I'll have even more once my new album comes out."

Nick rubbed his temples and grunted. "Yeah, right, the new album. And, just where are you on the songs for that?"

"It's a... a work in progress, Nick. Chill out, I'll be ready by the time we head to the studio next month."

"Week," he said simply.

"Huh?"

"Next week, Gwen, we're scheduled to lay down the tracks in seven days. So, how far along are you in writing them?"

She swallowed hard. "They're... coming along. I need to... stretch my legs."

She got up, tugged her snug little hot pants down as much as she could, which wasn't much, and sauntered off to her suite. Gwen really loved her house. Not only was it decked out just the way she wanted, but it truly was hers and hers alone. Years ago, when she was a child star on that silly TV show that she couldn't even remember the title of now, she'd essentially bought her freedom from her parents.

It had only cost her a house and two cars for them, and they didn't even want fancy cars.

"Take off your clothes."

Emily blinked. "What? Um ... you don't mean all of them?"

"I do. All of them. Every stitch."

Emily visibly squirmed. She pulled her best cute little girl face and batted her eyelashes, a tactic that so often worked ... but not this time. Leo merely stared impassively as he waited for her to obey, the only sign of emotion a warning predatory gleam in his blue eyes. Slightly narrowed now, they fixed intently on her. She knew that look so well. When he was in 'strict daddy' mode he wouldn't be dissuaded from his purpose no matter how hard she tried to deflect him, and she knew full well his purpose right now was to spank her naughty bottom. In an attempt to delay the inevitable, she tried another tactic.

"Sorry," she said contritely. Sir. He expects to be called Sir at times like this. "I'm very sorry, Sir."

Leo shook his head. "It's no good being sorry after the event. You shouldn't have misbehaved to start with, and telling lies about it has only served to prolong your punishment," he said sternly, reaching for the little red leather paddle on the table.

"But Daddy," she pleaded, "it was all a misunderstanding."

"That's what you said last time ... and the time before."

"Oh." She pouted. Crap.

"So stop prevaricating and do as you're told. Strip."

Emily sighed. Doing as she was told wasn't something she was particularly good at. And she hated it when she had to strip for a spanking - it was so much more fun when Leo undressed her. But fun wasn't within reach right now. She had been a bad girl and now it was time to face the consequences. Catching sight of the paddle, she gulped. It was only small, but it was very hard and stingy. She knew then that she would be eating her dinner standing up. Pulling a wry face, she began fiddling with the buttons on her blouse. Off it came, followed by her bra and skirt. There was a slight hesitation, then she slid her panties down over her chubby bottom and creamy thighs, and stood before him naked. Though he had regularly seen her naked, she felt heat rising to her cheeks, her embarrassment manifesting in a sudden blush. She shuffled her feet awkwardly, stared down at her toes then began fidgeting with her fingers. Feeling the power of his gaze burning into her, she looked up.

Their eyes met in a perfect harmony of submissive green and dominant blue, then Leo glanced meaningfully at the pile of discarded clothes on the floor by Emily's feet. Meeting her gaze again, he raised an eyebrow. Knowing what was expected of her, Emily bent to pick up her clothes, folded them neatly, and set them on a chair. She watched nervously as Leo pulled out a straight-backed chair and sat down on it.

Diary of an Aristobrat
"Owww!" mewed Elizabeth Winslow Jones, ruefully rubbing her aristocratic bottom as she climbed the spiral staircase of the great house. "From now on, I'd better mind my tongue when speaking with strangers!" The blond beauty made her way along the upper hallway to her bedroom, closing the door softly behind her, taking care not to slam it lest she be called back for an encore by her parents who were visiting with the new neighbours in the drawing room directly beneath her.

Approaching the dressing table, she turned her back to the huge vanity mirror and carefully eased her cream coloured jodhpurs and matching bikini knickers down over her voluptuous hips. Out popped as scarlet a pair of seat cheeks as ever you've seen! With pants around her thighs, she waddled over to the closet, rummaged around in the mess on the back shelf, and came up with a small electric fan. Setting it down on the chair before the vanity, she turned it on and stuck her glowing posterior a few inches away from the grille. "Aaaaahhhh, that's better!" she sighed, as the wind swirled over hill and dale.

Peering over her shoulder in the mirror, fascinated by the inflamed flesh, she skimmed her finger tips back and forth over the seething mounds. Mother's right hand had painted the entire surface a sunset pink, and father's strap had stained the twin summits a darker shade of crimson. "Golly! What a sight for sore eyes," she muttered. "Daddy really laid it on!" After a session with the Rear Admiral - as the tawse was called in the Winslow household - Elizabeth's bottom needed more relief than the fan could offer, so she reached for her second aid, a jar of Estée Lauder's finest moisturizing cream. The lotion was called a face cream; given the price, it was evidently meant to be used sparingly on a woman's smaller pair of cheeks. Defying convention, Elizabeth daubed great gobs of the stuff all over her big cheeks, gently rubbing it into the scalded flesh. Then she thrust them back before the fan. "Ooooohhh, what a relief!" she shivered, as goosebumps arose on the glistening flesh.

They say time is the healer of life's hurts, and that was certainly the case with Elizabeth's bottom. In half an hour, the searing sting had subsided to a faint, itchy throb. But instead of putting the ordeal out of mind, Elizabeth's impulse was to write it all down. So she slipped her diary from its hiding place beneath the mattress. The little red book with her name embossed in fancy gold script on the cover already contained two vivid accounts of spankings she had received in the past year, one from her mother and the other from the headmistress of her finishing school.

The real reason she dwelt on these expiation rituals lay well beyond the twenty-year-old's consciousness, but the way she explained it to herself appealed to a theatrical sense of her own self-importance.

Chapter 1 - The Contest
The first slaves were led out, stripped naked for the ordeal ahead, trembling and nervous. Aliera watched, tense, from her cushioned seat above the arena, shaded by coloured silks and screened by fine gauze curtains. Her future would be decided today.

Down in the arena the women were urged into a line by the guards, then a roar went up from the crowd as the candidates strode out into the bright sunshine. Aliera leaned forward to catch a glimpse of Kevan; there he was, so handsome, his hair golden in the sunlight. Kevan who whispered sweet words to her, who kissed her hand, who promised he'd be the one chosen for her ceremony. He just had to win today.

The men lined up, stripped to the waist, flexing muscles and limbering up for the trials. Aliera counted twenty, the best of the best, every man sure he'd be the one. The huge form of a town blacksmith; a wiry miner from the mountains, one of those ageless little old men who are stronger than they look; soldiers of fortune trying for their big chance; solid burghers from the town; a few priests, hard-eyed and dedicated; half a dozen young lords, patrician and superior; two wild-eyed tribesmen from the plains. And Goran, the Commander of the Palace Guard. Aliera shivered. Goran, so arrogant, so sure of himself, always there whenever she wanted to do anything with his, "The Princess is mistaken, she will not be doing this today... My lady, this is not how a Princess behaves... I am sure His Majesty would not approve." His dark eyes sweeping over her without the awe and respect she received from the rest of the palace staff. Arrogant pig! He looked so huge and uncouth beside her lovely Kevan.

It began. Each of the contestants reached for a slave, then dragged her towards a line of seats. The men sat down, depositing their reluctant assistants over their knees. Twenty pale rumps pointed to the sky.

Twenty hands raised, waited for the signal. Whimpers from the miserable slaves sounded loud in the sudden silence. The High Priestess, Tiarna, stepped forward and looked down into the arena. At her gesture a gong sounded and twenty hands descended. The spanking began.

Aliera watched, knowing that the winner of the contest would soon be spanking her the same way. She noticed several different techniques: some hit slow and hard, some fast and light, some concentrated several strokes on one spot before moving to another, some seemed to strike at random following no pattern at all. Yelps, squeals and wails rose louder as twenty bottoms reddened. Legs kicked, hands beat on the ground. The sounds of determined slapping went on. The sand ran through the timer. Aliera began to suspect that ten minutes could seem like quite a long time.

Aliera wriggled on her cushioned seat. She had never been spanked, never felt an angry touch.

Charley in Charge
Charley knew he would be in charge the minute he came up behind his wife, Charlene, in the kitchen and put his hand under her sweater to rub her tummy. He knew he was in charge as Charlene leaned back into his embrace and turned her head so he could kiss her long slender neck.

He stayed in charge as he gently lifted the sweater over her head and unclasped the bra that held her breasts in place. His feelings of being in total control of the situation increased as he reached down and undid the button on her jeans, sliding the zipper downward. She increased his feelings of being the boss by turning toward him and placing her hands around the back of her neck, showing she would not fight the removal of all of her clothing.

She furthered his feelings about being in total control of his woman by willingly allowing him to carry her to the bedroom and place her in the position he desired. After his tongue outlined her breasts, lower thighs and everything in-between, she needed no further play to increase her desire for him.

His entry was slow and deliberate, something he knew she would like and he continued that slow action for the first few minutes, even though at times he wanted to speed things up. To show his control, he would pretend to pull out entirely, making her ask, almost beg to keep him going. There was not a chance in hell he would actually withdraw.

He kept going until she shivered and shook three times in response to his efforts, and then sped up considerably as he sought to satisfy his own urges. His actions were all his to decide how and when things would happen in the bedroom, and she followed every lead he gave. When they finally separated, she snuggled close to him and gave a happy sigh. Things were just perfect between the two of them.

Charlene knew Charley liked the feeling of being in control and because he always looked after her desires first, went along with him. She just had to smile when he got up to go to the bathroom and she saw the paddle marks still showing across his butt cheeks from two days previous.

Charley was in complete control of the bedroom activity and she was a willing submissive. His control, though, in their household only extended to those hours each week that they spent making love. The rest of the time, Charlene was in control and Charley knew it. He not only knew it, but he loved it.

She recalled the scene two days ago when he had failed to show respect for her mother. He argued that her mom was interfering too much in the household and should mind her own business. Charlene put up with his ranting for a few hours and then picked up her cell phone to talk to her mom.