LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

Officer Burns Lends a Hand
Friday night came quickly and Ali was more then a little nervous about leaving the house while under restriction, but she was tired of missing out on everything too.

It was planned that Ali would sneak out as soon as she could and meet Katie and the boys at Jimmy's house which was just around the corner. From there they would all go to Sam's party which was supposed to be the biggest event of their entire year. Sam's parents weren't going to be there, and booze was going to be everywhere; at least that's what Sam had said. They were all excited about going.

Now, Ali was waiting impatiently for her parents to go to sleep. She'd tried being extra pleasant that evening, which wasn't too hard since her sister was gone. She and her parents had had a nice dinner and even watched a movie together on television. As soon as it was over, however, Ali had feigned being tired and had gone up to her room, hoping her parents would retire to theirs soon. Unfortunately, they were staying up later then usual for some reason. It was ten thirty and they were still down in the living room.

She made a quick call to Katie on the hall phone, making sure her parents didn't know, and told her she was still at home, and if she hadn't come by eleven to go on without her. Alex had retrieved the phone from Katie and told Ali to hurry and get her butt over there because they weren't going without her.

After hanging up the phone, Ali had a thought. Maybe if she made an appearance downstairs like to get water or something from the kitchen, her parents wouldn't feel the need to come up and say goodnight before they went to bed. They hardly ever did that any more, but sometimes they did, and with her luck they would choose that night to do it.

Decked out in her nightshirt, Ali trekked down the stairs, and as she neared the bottom step she yawned loudly and said, "Gee, are you guys still up?"

Looking at his watch, Mr. Nichols replied, "It's only ten thirty five. It's not that late."

Mrs. Nichols closed the book she had been reading and asked, "Are you having trouble sleeping, dear?"

"Nah ... I was just reading," she lied. "I'm getting a drink and then hitting the sack. Reading made me tired."

"Well, your father and I are about to turn in too." Her mother smiled, opening her book back up. "I'm going to finish this chapter first."

"Okay ... well ... I'll see you guys in the morning," Ali said as she walked over and gave them both a kiss on the cheek.

"Night, baby." Her father smiled as he kissed her back. "Have a good sleep. Your restriction is almost up."

An Informed Decision

by Paul Rosemount
The assembly hall of the local school was no more than a quarter full. The Principal and Vice-Principal sat together behind a long, heavy table on a low platform, facing out into the body of the hall. Facing them, seated on rows of benches, were fifteen women in their late thirties or early forties and behind them were rows of teenage girls - their daughters, step-daughters, or, in a few cases, nieces. The Principal stood up and began speaking.

"I'm not going to make a speech - you all know what we're here for, and what the magistrate's opinion was." This was true - everyone present was well aware of the issue that had almost split their little community: should the school use a paddle to discipline teenage girls? Arguments and counter-arguments had been put forward, sides had been taken, debates had turned into protests...

Interestingly, not all of the teenagers themselves had been anti-paddle.

"I'd rather have a few swats and get it over with, than spend my free time in detention," one girl was quoted as saying.

"Over with! If I got paddled at school, my dad would give me the same again when I got home," another had replied.

As the debate had got more heated, with no end in sight, some parents had threatened to hire lawyers, either to defend their right to discipline as they saw fit, or to charge with assault any teacher who laid a hand on their daughters. In the end, a compromise had been agreed on - a local magistrate had been prevailed upon to hear both sides and give a ruling. He had decided that the matter should be settled by a secret ballot, in which the female parent, or legal guardian, of the girls in question would be entitled to vote - but only after the school had given them the fullest possible understanding of what precisely was involved. The choice of the female parent as the arbiter was simple - all of the girls involved had a female guardian, but as some women were widowed or divorced, not all girls had a male parent.

"This must be an informed decision," the magistrate had said. "Not one based on prejudice or hearsay evidence," and he had tasked the school Principal with making sure that this was so. Thus, today's meeting. Not all of the mothers had attended - quite a few, when hearing what the meeting entailed, had given up their right to vote, but there were enough left to make the ballot binding.

"You also know what the ballot involves," continued the Principal. "You will be asked to vote on three questions: the main one of whether paddling should be allowed or not, and two supplementary questions - first whether such punishment should be given over clothing, over underclothing or on the bare; secondly, the maximum number of strokes permissible - this is a number between three and ten.

Chapter 1
Kate lay face down over her husband Joe's knee, anticipating her first ever spanking, wondering how on earth it had come to this. Her dress was already pushed up high on her back; her knickers were dangling around her ankles, baring her bottom to her husband. She was mortified. Was this really her gentle, easy-going husband who hardly ever got angry, hardly ever even raised his voice? She was about to find out!

"This is going to be a very painful lesson Kate. You're going to feel just how fed up I am. You're going to feel just how much I hate to see you bad tempered and sulking, taking all your frustration out on me and destroying yourself into the bargain."

Kate's mind wandered back to the events leading up to this terrible reality. She had just turned 50 years old, Joe was 52 and both their children were grown up, the youngest having left home recently. She was in good shape physically, but had ceased to think of herself as desirable. Married life had seemed to become mundane, with no excitement anymore. She had begun to feel as if no one needed her, least of all Joe. Nothing pleased her, work was just a stress and Joe's gentle manner and attitude simply annoyed her.

He had dismissed all her fears as if they were insignificant. Of course she was needed he had told her. She had a demanding job with responsibilities, the kids lived close by and they were regular visitors, but somehow, she had lost herself. All Joe's well-meaning comments just left her feeling frustrated.

She had known she was losing control, but didn't know how to regain it. She felt like a runaway train on its way to a derailment. Her temper had become harder to control, and she was using bad language, which she never usually did.

Joe had been working late a lot recently and when he came home, he was tired and couldn't deal with her sulkiness and withdrawal, so he ignored her, which stoked the fire even more. She realised that she had been deliberately trying to provoke a reaction, which was denied her up until now. At this moment, however, she was regretting her actions, his reaction was most unwelcome! Back to her uncomfortable position over Joe's knee, she listened as he continued to lecture.

"You will remain as still as you can while I punish you, Kate. If you fight me or try to interfere with your punishment, I will restrain you!" His words totally shocked her.

He was quite calm, she noted, but she actually believed this new version of her husband would restrain her. With that, he began her first ever spanking with gusto, his hand rising and falling in quick succession. At first, he covered the whole area of her bottom until it was an overall pink, warming up literally.

Semi-Seriously Yours
It all began as a high-spirited reunion with a long-lost friend...

Julia Simpson blew into town a week ago and rang me from the airport. Working as a flight attendant, she had an eight-hour stopover in Boston. I was excited to hear her voice. I hadn't seen Julia since we were college roommates five years ago so I invited her over for lunch. We sat out on our back patio on a fine spring day and dug into cheese omelettes and fresh strawberries while catching up on each other's lives. To mark the occasion, I pinched a bottle of New Zealand's finest Sauvignon Blanc from Alex's wine cellar. He's a generous guy; he'd want us to celebrate! Mind you, the girl-talk that flowed along with the wine was nothing to celebrate. But by the time Alex and I sat down to dinner that evening, Ms. Simpson was airborne en route to San Fran and the Boston Blabbermouth was tight-lipped about our little chat. What Alex didn't know won't hurt him, or me. Right? Oh sure.

My visit with Julia began innocently enough. She waxed eloquent about exotic locales she'd visited as an air hostess, then gave me her take on living in California. But the conversation really took flight when she began to rhapsodize about Richard, the new man in her life, burbling on (and on) about his "poetic soul" and "wildly inventive" love-making. She showed me the gold necklace he'd given her on Valentine's Day, taking it off and passing it across the table so I could read the naughty love-message he'd inscribed in the locket. Julia was utterly besotted! I wondered aloud what it would take to bring her back down to earth. She sobered slightly and confessed that they'd had their very first run-in last weekend.

Turns out they'd gone to a party on Saturday evening and bumped into his old girlfriend. Taken aback, Richard introduced Julia to Jackie before departing to fetch them both drinks. In an awkward attempt to make conversation, Julia had asked the red-haired beauty where they'd met. Jackie's response was so glowing and nostalgic that Julia felt her stomach churn. The only things Richard had told her about this prior relationship was that Jackie had ended it and it had taken him several months to get over her. Julia felt threatened. She feared that if Jackie changed her mind and decided to lure him back, Richard might fall for her all over again. So when he returned, she decided to burn their bridges for good by inviting his old flame to dish the dirt on him. "Tell me dear, given your feelings for Richard, I can't understand why you broke up with him. I mean, did he leave his smelly socks under your bed? Did he fart out loud at your dinner parties?"

The Caning Academy
Belinda Dickinson attended her old grammar school on a warm August morning to obtain her A-level results with some foreboding. Although the exams had been completed many weeks before, she had a knot in her stomach. Although she hoped for the best, inwardly she knew that the exams had not gone well and she feared that she would not get the grades required to study Biology at Durham University where she had been offered a conditional place. She had been predicted an A and two B's but only needed an A, B and C. Her form teacher handed her a sealed envelope without any indication of what was contained therein.

With trembling hands she took the envelope to a corner of the classroom and opened it. Her eyes tried to focus on the script. She blinked a few times before the reality became apparent: a B and two C's. Belinda burst into tears and rushed out of the classroom and made her way straight home, ignoring the concerned looks and comments from her friends and form teacher.

Her mother Elizabeth, or Liz as she was generally called, was waiting anxiously for her only daughter to come home. When she saw Belinda's red eyes she was instantly aware that all was not well.

"Oh Mum! I've really messed up. I just don't know what I'm going to do now."

"Don't fret darling - we'll find a way to move forward."

Elizabeth was an elegant woman who looked much younger than her 39 years. She had been tragically widowed five years previously. Her husband had however made good provision for the family and they were moderately well off. Their son John had completed his first year at medical school and seemed very settled. He was abroad with friends enjoying a brief break from his medical studies. Elizabeth worked part-time as a receptionist at a local GP practice. Although the income helped, it was not essential but the work gave Elizabeth an interest other than just being a mother and housekeeper. Elizabeth kept herself in trim having joined a gym and managed to play badminton to a high standard.

Belinda had been devastated by the death of her father when she was only thirteen. It had taken her some months to overcome the trauma. She was like her sibling, extremely bright and soon caught up with the studies she had neglected in the months following her father's tragic accident. All seemed to be going well. She passed her GCSE's with flying colours and it was only in the second year of sixth form that the wheels started to come off. It was probably the hormones and discovery of boys that deflected her focus. Even so, her teachers were confident that she would easily make the grade for her university placement.

Belinda inherited her mother's striking good looks and shared her enthusiasm for keeping fit, although on reflection her motivation may have been to ensure she always looked her best.

A Visit to the Headmaster
Picture the utopia of being a fly on the wall in the Headmaster's study. Coming in through the open window, I arrived at Grayfriars Grammar early one morning...

There was a stark silence in the school's main corridor. From above a wooden staircase to my left came a powerful early morning light through a long stained glass window. Walking down the corridor, I observed several empty classrooms, each housing neat rows of desks with their accompanying wooden chairs pushed under them. The polish from the shining wooden floor gave off an atmospheric aroma. From white walls hung paintings, many of which had been created by former pupils. On the walls, too, were exceptional academic pieces, which bore testimony to the school's excellence. Its orderly appearance gave the impression that it did not tolerate slack, sloppy attitudes and that moral standards and respect were high on the curriculum.

In the distance could be heard the faint sound of footsteps. Now they grew louder and more rapid. The heels, crashing on the hard surface, drew closer, heavy and pounding. This person was obviously in a hurry. The fury of the footsteps was coming from the masters' study block. Then in a flash, a tall thin man appeared from around the corner, dressed in a mortarboard and gown. He passed under a wooden alcove and it was here that I observed he was the Headmaster. His crashing heels continued to echo, breaking the hushed silence, as he moved with the speed of a panther. His black academic gown swayed in the breeze he created. He bore a grim look, similar to that of an exorcist on a mission to seek out what was evil. He carried several books under his arm as he strode purposefully in the direction of the lecture hall.

A din from inside the hall could be heard as the Headmaster drew closer to his destiny. As soon as he entered through the two swing doors there was an immediate cessation. A silence fell. Not a single whisper from any of the pupils. This was the disciplined environment that the Head demanded: total respect for the man in the gown who now climbed the steps to the stage, and then looked down at the pupils. He gripped the dais, which bore the school crest and its Latin motto.

The Head surveyed the scene: three hundred boys and girls up to the age of eighteen stood in a sea of maroon and grey. The Head cleared his throat. However, he would not speak until he had their complete attention. By his high standards, although he had complete silence, there was still too much twitching and fidgeting going on. Bushy eyebrows narrowed. He wore a deep frown of impatience. Then at last he was satisfied.

He spoke in a rich, clear voice that filled the hall, but today there was something harsh about his tone.

"Before we proceed, the following girls will leave the lecture hall immediately and report to my study."

"Wouldn't the employees at Mogollon Financial be shocked to see me like this," mused Jade Chen silently as she stood in the corner with her nose firmly touching the walls. She was dressed in a white, short-sleeved blouse and tiny red plaid skirt, though that skirt was tucked up into its waistband to reveal her bottom. And, it was revealed, as Miss Chen's white cotton panties were puddled about her ankles, causing her pristine bottom to be well displayed.

Still musing to herself, Jade knew the staff at Mogollon Financial would find her current circumstance impossible to imagine. Miss Chen was a high powered and demanding executive of the Investment Division at Mogollon Financial. Her office demeanor had earned her several nicknames, always uttered behind her back and never to her face though she was well aware of them. The 'Bamboo Dragon' was her favorite though she had heard of 'Madame Dragon', 'Bamboo Bitch', 'Genghis Chen' and several other colorful, if coarse, appellations.

"Come to me now, little girl," she heard the familiar masculine voice call out to her. She had to turn and walk over to him, but with her panties at her ankles she had to take small mincing steps. Keeping her eyes to the ground, it was all too reminiscent of the stereotypical Oriental woman wearing a restrictively tight dress and wooden sandals. She found it shaming, not just because of the shuffling, mincing, steps, but because she did so with her skirt tucked up and panties down to make her bottom bare and available for the spanking that was just about to happen.

Looking down, she stood just to the right of the seated man and meekly said, "I'm sorry, Daddy!"

His reply was warm and kindly, but not unexpected. "I know you are, baby doll, but you have earned this spanking and you are about to reap what you have sown. Over my lap, please. Let's get this unpleasant business behind us."

She slowly lowered herself into position across his lap and waited for the spanking to begin. But, maybe we are getting just a bit ahead of ourselves and should explain how we got to this point. How could anyone anticipate such a scene? Jade Chen was a 28-year-old woman, the youngest (and arguably the smartest) President of any division at Mogollon Financial. What anyone knew of her was that she was dynamic and demanding; a woman who ruthlessly pursued her goals; and the last person you wanted to cross or disappoint. Anyone, that is, other than the man who now had Jade Chen draped submissively over his lap with her bottom bared waiting for ... and fully expecting ... a hot, stinging spanking.

Despite having been born in the United States, Jade spoke fluent Mandarin and was easily conversant in several other oriental languages. Her parents had instilled a strong understanding and appreciation of her Chinese heritage and Jade was well versed in the Sheng Xiao or Chinese Zodiac.

Chapter 1
My name is Peter Sparrow, and at the age of 41 I find myself standing in the corner with my bare ass blazing like a beacon. I'm supposed to be reflecting on the error of my ways, but instead I find myself thinking about the nature of my somewhat unconventional relationship with Sylvia.

What a woman! Not only is Dr Sylvia Jennings attractive and sexy, she's super intelligent and very much in control ... of aspects of my life as well as her own. And you know what? I wouldn't have it any other way. I've always been attracted to strong, dominant women, and she exemplifies those characteristics in abundance. Even now I can't believe my luck in finding someone like her.

It's not that I'm weak and ineffectual - far from it. I'm an architect, and a few months ago I gave up my job and took the leap into self-employment and it's one of the best decisions I ever made. In a professional capacity I'm extremely capable and hard working and I enjoy challenge at a high level. I'm perfectly able to make hard decisions, initiate multi-million pound developments, manage the work of others and shoulder responsibility. My clients regard me as a confident, reliable, affable sort of guy who delivers on schedule.

Where women are concerned, I'm fortunate to be the stereotypical tall, dark and handsome guy, and I've never had any trouble attracting females. Lucky me. I confess I've had my pick of desirable women in the past, but there's never been anyone special - until now. I've been living with Sylvia for almost two months, and wow, what a huge change in lifestyle it's been, and in the process I've rapidly come to terms with my submissive side.

Sylvia inherited a wonderful old country house on the coast. Ridley Manor is a big place in its own grounds. It has six massive bedrooms, and plenty of space for me to have a large office for my business, as well as a consulting room for Sylvia (she's a clinical psychologist and has moved her private practice from the city to this idyllic country retreat). From time to time, some of her clients opt to have an afternoon appointment, stay overnight, and conclude their session the next day. The arrangement works well, though at times like this I stand and squirm in case anyone should go snooping around the house and catch me with my pants down.

And why am I standing here with my pants down? Um, because I broke one of Sylvia's rules. She's a stickler for rules, and she must have eyes in the back of her head, because she somehow discovers all my little infractions and logs them in the punishment book. You wouldn't believe how many entries there are in that book!

The Christmas Cowboy
Sarah couldn't wait; she needed this vacation and by damn, she wasn't going to let anything like a snowstorm interfere. While loading the ski gear in the car, the first snowflakes began to fall and stick to her hair and eyelashes. When she was a little girl, she used to try catching them on her tongue. It looked beautiful; she loved watching the flakes, such delicate works of art - no two the same. She closed her eyes and pictured herself shushing down a mountain trail covered with fresh fluffy white powder. She shivered, and she wasn't sure if it was the cold or from excitement.

A few more trips back and forth to finish loading the car and she was ready to set forth on her ski trip. Planned over a year ago, the trip was supposed to be for her and Dan. They hoped for a white Christmas and knew a ski trip was just the answer. Unfortunately, Dan was no longer around, but it didn't mean she couldn't go. One more stop at the gas station to fill up, and she was off on her Christmas vacation. There wasn't much traffic on the interstate at this hour so leaving early had been a good decision. If all went well, she would be ahead of the traffic, and settled and on the slopes by early afternoon. Turning on the radio, she kept humming along and living in her daydreams.

As the elevation began to increase, so did the snow. The windshield wipers that had been swishing back and forth on the lowest speed were no longer doing their job. She inched up the lever, and the slip sliding of the wipers across the window had her mesmerized until she felt the car slide a little. Fully aware now, she noticed the snow was sticking to the road, no longer just melting as it hit the ground. The outside temperature gauge showed it had dropped since she last looked and soon the road would turn to ice. She let her foot up off the accelerator and lessened her speed. Better to arrive safely, she said to herself.

Turning on the radio to keep herself company, she was searching for a clear station when out of nowhere, an animal crossed in front of her. Tapping her brake to avoid a collision, the car began spinning and she wasn't able to recover control. When the car finally stopped, she was no longer on the road.

It took her a few minutes to get her bearings. Scared silly and shaking, she thanked the powers that be she was upright and not overturned. With the exception of a bump and cut on her forehead, she had no other apparent bodily injuries, and she began to calm down. Her breathing returned to normal and she started to assess her situation.

Undercover Boss
I wasn't born rich. I worked my way up from nothing, starting out as a rag boy, wiping down tables and learning everything I could about business. I cleaned the bathrooms, slaved in the hot kitchens washing dishes and chopping and peeling endless vegetables. Eventually, I became a bartender. There's good money in that and I did well, but I wanted more. I wanted to own the restaurant. I got promoted to manager, saved my pennies and quarters, and when the economy took a turn for the worse in the 1970s and the owner hinted he was interested in selling, I gave him a lowball offer which he accepted.

That first restaurant in Brooklyn was little more than a bar that served food. I made a few modifications and turned it into a hot nightclub. Within a few years, I'd opened two more, and then a high-end place in downtown Manhattan serving tiny portions of French cuisine at obscene prices. The money was rolling in, but so were my expenditures. I always worried. I was never secure. I opened a hotel, and then invested in a casino in Atlantic City. My share was miniscule, but it got my foot in the door. Within five years I used the profits to buy a failing casino. I revamped it, brought in some sexy dancing girls, and it became a hit joint. I worked ninety hours a week and loved every minute.

That, of course, was a long time ago. I'm fifty now and I've got an empire of over a hundred ventures from Manhattan to Miami. I work from an air-conditioned office on the top floor of a skyscraper, and I rarely get to see the actual places I own. That's why, every now and then, I like to visit undercover. It's a great way to see how the place is really running, to get the typical customer experience. If I don't like what I see, changes get made.

A few weeks ago, I stopped by one of my restaurants. It's a small place in Soho, modest and unassuming, yet with delicious food, high prices, and luxurious service. The trick to a place like that is to make it seem like a hole-in-the-wall so that when people discover it, they think they're the first and that it's special and unique. That way they not only spread the word to their friends, but they never complain about the bill. Customers are treated like royalty, and I only hire genuinely gorgeous waitresses who know how to flirt without being obvious. I bring in top chefs and give them carte blanche in the kitchen, so they are loyal and motivated. Attention to detail matters, so my managers have to be perfectionists.

Unfortunately, I'd heard some disturbing stories about this particular restaurant. Revenues were still good, but one of the key indicators I track is repeat business, and it was down 27% from the previous year.

Spanking Cheat
Those readers fortunate enough to have, within striking distance, acquaintances who share their predilection for the creation of sore bottoms (one way or another), may be interested to hear about the ancient game of Spanking Cheat.

The earliest known reference to this delightfully ingenious pastime is to be found in a letter from the playwright Christopher Marlowe to his compatriot, Sir Sydney Browne, dated April 23rd 1589:

Forsooth, my friend, there can bee no greater sport and delighte than a game of Spanking Cheete with a paire or more of buxom wenches when the bloode is highe. Yesterday night at Lambeth, upstairs at the tavern there, I was a cunninge winner and dealt meaty whacks to the arses of Mistress Ann and her friend, in number equal to the cardes left in their hands at the ende.

To best illustrate the sheer fun of this 'sport and delighte', I present here a short fiction that will I hope both entertain and provide guidance on the manner in which the game can be played.

---oOo---
Rachel closed the front door and shook some of the rain off her umbrella onto the Welcome mat.

"Is that you, Rache?" called Susan from the kitchen.

Rachel rolled her eyes. "Who else would it be? Sergeant Pretorius?" An impish smile curled the corners of her mouth.

Susan appeared from the kitchen, drying her hands. "Don't even joke about him!"

The two twenty-five year olds had had a painful experience on holiday in South Africa the summer before. Pretorius had been one of the policemen who'd had a hand in their being whipped with a sjambok when an illegal beach party they'd attended had been busted.

"Sorry, love," said Rachel, still smiling as she removed and hung up her duffle coat. Susan came forward and they hugged, before enjoying a long, slow kiss. Susan reached round and squeezed Rachel's right buttock.

Rachel moaned. "Mmm ... nice."

Susan stood back. "Oh! Guess what?" she said, running a hand through her dishevelled blonde hair.

"What?"

"Prudence and Emily are coming round on Wednesday!"

"They are? Oh goodee! What fun!" Rachel's eyes lit up with excitement. "Yes, of course, it's school holidays, isn't it? I wonder what the fiendish Prudence has in store this time!"

"I dread to think," replied Susan, nervously.

"Don't worry, Susie. I'll protect you."

Susan guffawed sarcastically. "Protect me? Like the last time? If that's your idea of protection, then ... then ..." Rachel raised her eyebrows and gazed lovingly at her dearest friend.

"Then what?" she asked, taking Susan in her arms again. "You know you love it really, if not quite as much as I do."

Susan laid her head on Rachel's shoulder and chuckled. "Yes ... well ..." She began to purr as Rachel ran her fingers affectionately through her hair.

Chapter 1
In which Butterfly encounters the F. I.D., meets a Greek god and gets a very sore bottom. Butterfly McKendrick was on her way to see her Uncle Dragonfly McKendrick. Her uncle was undoubtedly the cleverest and most eccentric of anyone in a family noted for its intelligence and oddity. His many inventions had made him immensely rich but he still lived in the small house with the large garden that he and his wife Posy had bought when they first married. The house looked in need of some tender loving care because Dragonfly McKendrick simply didn't notice unpainted windows or leaking gutters. Butterfly pushed open the front door, which was never locked, and made her way through the narrow walkways which was all that was left as every conceivable space was covered in bookshelves which in turn were packed with books.

She walked into the kitchen but her aunt, a wonderful cook, shouted, "Stay out I'm making turnip soufflé."

Butterfly stayed out for she loved her aunt's turnip soufflé and went out into the garden. Much of the garden was given over to animals: there were two goats, many chickens, a few geese, two turkeys, a whole host of rabbits and a peacock. At the bottom of the garden there was a beech hedge which shielded the wooden workshop where her uncle produced the fruits of his genius. She walked in. In the centre of the workshop was the weirdest contraption she had ever seen in a long history of weird contraptions created by her uncle.

"What is that?"

"Oh hello, Butterfly. It's my latest invention... a Fiction Insertion Device, or F. I. D. for short"

"What?"

Her uncle laughed, "I don't know, Butterfly! Really, with your ability I'd have thought you capable of at least taking a guess. I'll explain. The human mind has always created stories, fables, and tales. We tend to say they are not real but what is real? Well of course it depends on your definition of reality. If we take Tabor Staskorski's definition, the reality is there, it is just in a different dimension. The problem is then how do we bridge the distance between the story and its real self. I have found how to do that. It doesn't work well with music but I may be able to solve that; art is very difficult and moving images extremely dangerous. However, anything in written fiction is ideal. My machine can insert the operator into any fiction ever written. Of course you can't do anything much, especially to famous books, because you might change the plot and that would be awful. So, for example, you can follow Oliver Twist as he walks to London or see him in court after he gets falsely accused of picking pockets but not rescue him."

"Don't be silly, Uncle Dragonfly, you can't go swanning around in Oliver Twist with that thing, someone would notice."