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Discipline Day
The moment Eva awoke on the second of February she was sweating and tense, though without knowing why. Her clock radio was cheerfully blaring REM's It's the End of the World As We Know It and she angrily slapped it silent.

Her palms were damp and her heart was thumping like a machine gun. A grim sense of dread overwhelmed her and she wanted to weep. Her dreams had been troubled and intense, but they were so vague that she was baffled as to the source of her anxiety.

Eva sat up, puzzled, mentally going over her physical situation and the world around her. She was in her own cozy bed. Bright sunlight seeped in through the edges of the blinds indicating a glorious day outside. She wasn't hurt in any way, and there was nobody else in her penthouse. She was warm, safe, and healthy. Why did she have this oppressive feeling like a thousand-ton weight was on her chest? She could hardly breathe!

Then she saw the calendar on the far wall with the date circled with a large red X through it and suddenly, like a kick to the gut, it all came back. "Oh fuck," she muttered. Her hands trembled as she sat at the end of her bed.

Today was the day. After eleven months of worry, chaos, anxiety, frustration, paperwork, plea bargaining, begging, and negotiation, her time had run out. Her attorney had tried everything - he'd filed a dozen motions that had been rejected, exhausted every appeal, and delayed the inevitable as long as he could. He finally concluded that Eva had the best deal she was going to get and advised her to just "take her medicine" and get on with her life.

"Oh fuck," muttered Eva again. "Fuck fuck fuck!"

She stood and walked into the luxurious bathroom, studying herself in the giant mirror. Even she had to admit that despite the stress of a restless night, she looked fabulous. She wore a tiny pale blue baby doll top that left her midriff bare so she could admire the flat belly four workouts a week and a careful diet gave her. Her full breasts stretched the fabric so thin she could see the distinct shape of the eraser-tips of her nipples. Below, she wore tiny red panties, so sheer they were practically invisible. She turned slightly, admiring the jut of her famous ass.

Not for the first time Eva wondered what portion of her fame and success was due to her skills as a singer and what amount was attributed to the gorgeously full rump the Good Lord had blessed her with. After slaving away in anonymity for nearly five years with two unnoticed albums released, she'd become an overnight sensation in her Gotta Booty video wearing a thong only a little more revealing than these silk panties. Two double platinum albums later she was a superstar.

Revenge with a Ruler
Raymond Cutter, looking resplendent in his new khaki chinos and navy blue blazer, smiled broadly as he ascended the wide concrete steps leading up to Benjamin Harrison High School. In fact, it wasn't until he had actually cleared the massive bronze and glass door and began to smell the old, musty wood and linoleum inside that the memories of his misspent adolescence finally emerged.

Ten years ago he had hated this school and everything in it. But now he was back, tiptoeing through the cavernous hallways in search of the classroom he would occupy for the next nine months as the new tenth grade English teacher. Finally, after nearly ten minutes of seemingly directionless walking, he found his new home - room 264, an old, undecorated classroom at the end of a short hall on the second floor of the gigantic turn of the century school building.

Carefully, Raymond turned the knob on the wood and glass door, and reluctantly it creaked open. Inside, he found a near disaster. Everywhere desks were turned over; torn textbooks were piled high in a dusty corner and the chalkboard was hanging by one bolt. The young teacher smiled in spite of his chagrin over the condition of the room. "I see this place hasn't changed much," he said to himself.

He set down his new leather attaché case on one corner of the massive desk in the front of the room and began to pick up the chair desks. While he was so occupied, another man appeared in the doorway. The newcomer was middle aged and balding. "You must be the new guy," he greeted cheerily. "Welcome to Benjamin Harrison."

Raymond turned quickly, somewhat startled by the sudden intrusion. Immediately, he recognized the newcomer as George Ames, the veteran eleventh and twelfth grade history teacher. He finished aligning the first row of chair desks and walked over to greet his caller. "Thank you, Mr. Ames," he said, grasping the hand that was extended out for him. "It feels good to be back here."

George Ames stepped back and studied the new teacher. "Did you go to school here?" he asked finally.

Raymond smiled and nodded. "Yes, sir, ten years ago."

The veteran teacher still looked puzzled as he struggled to remember the face. "Were you ever in my classes?"

Raymond returned the nod. "Yes. Eleventh grade... American history."

"I thought I remembered most of my former students, especially the smart, ambitious ones," he said. "But you just don't look familiar."

The new teacher chuckled a little. "Well, I wasn't so smart and ambitious back in the eleventh grade," he rejoined. "And I didn't look much like I do now."

Ames continued to scan his former student. "Okay, son, you got me," he declared, throwing up his wrinkled hands. "What's your name?"

"Raymond Cutter," Cutter replied.

George took another step back. "Raymond Cutter. Raymond Cutter..." he sputtered. "Yes, I do remember you... as something of a troublemaker."

Hot Pants
"Go on, Sue, wear them!" urged Beverley. "You told me that all the girls at your school were wearing hot pants!" It was the summer of 1970 and hot pants were the height of fashion. It was not quite true, as the sixteen year old Susan Bridger had told her cousin, that all the girls at her school were wearing them, but a good few were - despite the clear and repeated warnings of the headmaster and of Mrs Powell, the senior mistress. And Susan was very tempted to break the rules for once and wear her new hot pants. She had been trying for some time to attract the attention of David Babcock, a sixth former, and she knew that her new red hot pants would show off her curvaceous bottom to good effect. Many of her friends had worn the newly-fashionable clothes, and the boys had certainly been interested. Susan decided that she would wear the hot pants to school on Monday.

The day started at first like any other. Only one other girl in Susan's class, Diane Ferry, was wearing the banned garments - in her case white and even briefer than Sue's own revealing shorts - but she had noted that a few girls in other classes had them on. It was a bit of a coincidence, though, that Stephanie Whinnett, who had worn hot pants every day of that term so far should have decided to wear ordinary - and permitted - trousers on the same day that Sue first wore the outlawed shorts.

But just before Assembly, Mrs Conway, 5B's form teacher, came into the classroom and ordered all the girls to stand besides their desks. After they had done so Susan and Diane were told to go to Mrs Powell's office.

It was obvious that it was because they were wearing hot pants. Stephanie congratulated herself mentally on her prudence and turned to her neighbour. "I knew that something was going to happen after that speech Nobby made last week. I wouldn't be surprised if they got the cane! It's a pity for Sue, though, I think this is the first time she's ever worn them!"

As they walked along the corridor the two girls were also speculating as to the outcome. Unlike Sue, Diane was one of the naughtier girls in the class and had made personal acquaintance of Mrs Powell's cane on two previous occasions. She was sure she was going to get it again and told Sue that the important thing was to hold your hand up as high as you could get away with, so as to reduce the cane's swing. Sue was still hoping that it might not come to that. She said that if dozens of girls were wearing the hot pants Mrs Powell would not be able to cane all of them and might just give them a final warning or perhaps make them stand in disgrace in the vestibule.

1. Julia Roberts
The doctors had never been able to come up with any proper treatment for me and in the end, they mostly just tried to offer some reassurance that everything would finally work itself out and told me to be patient. It was not so easy though. I still used to see all my old school friends, but felt I was steadily falling behind and becoming more and more out of step with them. There were times when I just wanted to cry out loud with frustration. I often thought to myself, if I could only disappear for two or three years, maybe even go to prison, or much better, to a tropical island, just while I grew a bit taller. But I had always known that was an impossible dream. I couldn't then have imagined how things would turn out for me.

The doctors used to tell me that my physical development was out of step with my real age. It was something to do with my hormones apparently and should correct itself over time, but as things stood then, I was already nearly twenty and at college, but still with the body and face of a younger girl just entering her teens. Apparently it's a rare condition, but it's not unknown and affects about three girls in a thousand. There's even a special name for it - Eisendorf's Syndrome, whoever he or she may be.

So there I was, just five foot nothing and although I usually wore a 32A bra, which I have to admit I sometimes still padded out with tissues, I could really get away with just a crop top. Getting a proper drink in the pub or even going to the cinema for adult films was nearly impossible, unless I was dressed up and with a crowd of my older looking friends. When I went out, I nearly always wore heels, usually boots hidden under my jeans, as I look silly in stilettos. And then I had a way of piling up my hair which gave me an extra couple of inches; that and careful makeup.

But then it looked as if my wish was finally being granted. Not prison and unfortunately not a spell in paradise on a tropical desert island; for me it was back to school again. But if I hadn't decided to get a flat by myself last year, none of what I'm telling about, would ever have happened.

---oOo---
It all began one Tuesday, soon after the new term started. I had just popped out from my flat to go to the local corner shop to buy some milk for my breakfast cereal, when I bumped into Mrs Roberts. She was with her kids, a girl of about twelve or thirteen and a younger boy and she seemed a bit surprised to see me there.

"Hello. It's Sue isn't it? What are you doing in this part of town?"

Chapter 1
I had stayed the night in a small but very attractive motel. Now it was morning and time to complete the last stage of my journey. I stood in the fresh, clean air of morning, admiring the surprisingly pretty grounds. The small town of Wheelton was close to the railway and the main highway but my destination was deeper into the surrounding rolling farmland. I stood still... almost reluctant to move. It would be so very easy to get in my car and go back the way I had come, to walk away before I got in too deep. The moment of hesitation passed; I had come so far I might just as well go the rest of the way. Once I got there it wouldn't be too late to back out. If it really freaked me... if he really freaked me, then I would leave. I began the last stage of my journey.

It was a journey that had, in a sense, begun a year earlier. I worked in finance in New York. I'd been sent by my British bank to the New York office and had simply changed jobs. I worked at a heady level where my decisions could make millions for my employers or lose them even more. It was a cocaine and alcohol-fuelled existence and I was good. My bonuses were eye watering to those in more sedate employment but I sensed I could not go on long. Deep within me I despised what I was doing but I couldn't think what else to do. What was the point of life if not to pursue success in every way and acquire the trappings that went with it? Then my sister-in-law called me.

She was nigh on incomprehensible, babbling, crying and screaming. Eventually a calm male voice took over from her. It was simple enough: my parents, my brother and his wife and two small children were on holiday at a beach resort popular with Europeans although it was not in Europe. A small group of men came to the beach and simply opened up with automatic weapons firing randomly at the holiday makers. Old or young, male or female, it made no difference; all were cut down if they were in the path of the bullets. My sister-in-law was not on the beach. She had taken the children (two and three years old) for an ice cream but my parents and brother were dead.

I took leave of absence and the first available plane out. Anne, poor thing, was distraught and incapable of anything. I took over the children and managed everything with the help of the British consulate. The bodies were repatriated and we flew home to my parents' house. Anne could not face her own home without my brother. Again, I did everything, for Anne by now was in a sort of tranquillised dream.

1: Joe's New Job
Joe glanced round his one-bedroom apartment; it was a tip. The state of the place didn't bother him, but when he opened the refrigerator and found he was out of beer, that sure as hell made an impact. Shrugging on his leather jacket he stepped towards the door, trampling on the pile of final demands for utilities and overdue rent that had accumulated in a heap on the door mat.

He headed out, his hands shoved deep in his pockets as the early March afternoon was chilly and damp after a recent downpour. Disconsolately he made his way to the store on the corner of the street where he picked up a four-pack of beer and a loaf of bread. As he retraced his steps towards home, some instinct made him look at the assortment of cards and notices in a shop window. Having nothing better to do, he scanned them. Most were ads written on scrappy bits of paper from people offering an assortment of goods for sale, but one was different: it stood out from all the rest, being typewritten on a pristine white index card. It read: Short term cleaner required. Excellent hourly rate. Contact Arlene for further information. A telephone number was provided.

Joe read it again. "Come on mate, you're not seriously considering cleaning?" he muttered to himself. But he was, apparently. Fired from his last job for persistent lateness, fired from the one before that for being rude to customers, and fired from the one before that for turning up hungover ... he was desperate for some cash. Maybe he could earn enough to pay the outstanding rent, and after that he'd try and get himself a proper job to clear the other bills and reinstate his gym membership. Well, it was a plan of some sort. He made a note of the name and number, went home and called Arlene.

His call was answered on the third ring. "Hi."

"Hi. Is that Arlene?"

"It is. What can I do for you?"

"The name's Joe Carter. I'm ringing about the ad."

There was a slight pause. "You're a guy?"

"Yeah."

"Oh." Arlene clasped her hand over the phone, but Joe still heard her voice as she spoke to the person with her. "It's someone calling about the ad - and he's a guy!" The sound of girlish giggles could clearly be heard. Joe sighed. It looked like he was wasting his time. "Well, that's OK I guess," said Arlene a moment later. "But we need someone round here pretty quick. When can you start?"

"Where are you?" he asked casually, trying not to reveal how surprised he was by her positive response.

"We're at 25 Meadowbank Lane. You know it?"

"Yeah, I think so. You're on the opposite side of town to me, but ..." He glanced at his watch.

Something Wicked
by Pat Jones
Headmaster Charles Martin strode into his office with a sense of purpose. So many naughty bottoms to thrash and so little time! Charles Martin had nearly 800 girls under his charge, each with a bottom simply itching to be spanked - itching for it, mind you - judging from the cheek of them. As far as Charles Martin was concerned they were all naughty, every bloody one of them, even the ones that smiled sweetly and studied hard and pretended to be good. As far as the Headmaster was concerned even the 'good' ones needed a 'good' thrashing, and sooner or later all of them found themselves bent over his desk with tears in their eyes and knickers around their ankles, begging for a mercy he never felt.

Every day was busy and was filled with naked girlish bottoms to thrash, but today would be the worst. Yes, it was always the worst. He'd have to make an early start of it today.

"Just where do you think you're going, young man?"

The Headmaster turned to see his scowling secretary, Mrs. Mumford, glaring daggers at him. At first he thought her reprimand was a joke, a prank of the sort that made today the busiest day of the year for him. It wasn't until he caught sight of himself in the mirror that he realized something had gone dreadfully, horribly awry.

He was no longer fat; that was the good news. Now he was slender, almost waifish. He was no longer wearing his tweedy three piece suit with the traditional Headmaster's cloak, but was instead dressed like a schoolboy, wearing a blazer embossed with the school's logo, short pants, long gray socks, and a beanie cap which also had the school's logo.

Most startling of all he was no longer the 58-year-old Headmaster. He was now an 18-year-old schoolboy, mouth agape, slowly moving his hand up and down to verify that the reflection in the mirror belonged to him.

"What are you gaping at, boy?" Mrs. Mumford snapped. "Give me your pass and sit down on the bench. The Headmistress will see you when she has the time."

"Pass?" Charles Martin repeated, his mind awash in confusion.

"Are you a parrot? Yes, your pink punishment pass, child. The one sticking out of your pocket."

Charles Martin reached into his pocket and to his surprise extracted a pink punishment pass. He knew them well, for fretful girls handed in their passes all day long. But this was his pass, with his name on top! How could it be? Before he could read the damning details the incriminating pass was summarily snatched out of his hands by the impatient Ms. Mumford.

"SIT," she said sternly, barking at the stunned schoolboy standing before her like he was an errant puppy.

Unsure of what to do, the Headmaster complied.

Prologue
It was late January in 2000, and the approaching night was cold and exceptionally dark. The snow that had started that morning continued to fall steadily, enveloping the entire region in such a white haze that the elegant manor house seemed to be even more remote and cut off from the rest of the world.

Just before eight o'clock Magda put another log into the massive stone fireplace that was the centerpiece of the intimate sitting room. Skillfully, she worked the log into the glowing embers until it ignited, and a soft, warm fire licked the gray limestone and bathed the room in a pale orange light. Magda looked at the fire and smiled. Then she stood back away from it. At forty-years-old she cut an imposing figure: self-assured and immaculately coiffed, her slender but sturdy frame was draped with a flowing, thigh length black cotton dress and black stockings. She was a wealthy woman at peace with herself, and she looked every bit of it.

Satisfied with the fire and the room arrangement, she rang a small crystal bell, the signal for the others to gather in the sitting room. As the seven female guests of The Manor methodically assembled, Magda looked at the oak paneled wall above the fireplace. There, prominently displayed, was a long brown leather strap with a crude wooden handle on one end. It appeared to be old and well worn. Next to the strap on the wall was a heavy wooden Spencer paddle; this also looked old and well worn.

As the women took their places in the cushioned armchairs near the fireplace, Magda turned toward her guests. They were a diverse group of accomplished professional women. Like her, they were mature and self-assured. And, like her, they shared a passion for spanking.

Once the guests appeared to be settled and attentive, Magda sat down in a chair facing them, scanned the room, and began to speak. "I trust that the food and accommodations are up to their usual standards," she said. There was a general murmur of enthusiasm from the group. "Good," she continued. "Although each of you has been a frequent guest here at The Manor over the years, you may not realize that today is the tenth anniversary of our founding." The assembly expressed surprise, then broke into a subdued but sincere applause. "I have appreciated your continued support, and I thought in recognition of this milestone we might entertain each other by sharing the story of how each of us was introduced to the one thing that has brought us together." The eyes of each guest immediately lit up at the prospect of discussing and exchanging details of the one true passion they had in common. Magda noted the reaction and smiled. "Then we are all agreed. Since I am the host and the proprietor and know exactly what I want to tell you, I will go first. You will each then get a turn, following my lead."

First Times in Cagnes-sur-mer
by Jessica Kosciuszko
It was raining when Lola opened her eyes, and beyond the window the coast and sky were not their eponymous azure but a navy-tinted grey. The sheets felt different under her skin. His absence was tangible, emphasized by the scent that clung to the pillow beside hers. Lola waited for some sentiment to wash over her - relief, celebration, regret - and felt only a happy languor.

The door from the sitting room, with its view of the ancient cathedral, opened quietly into the bedroom, and Ron filled the doorway, a tray of breakfast in his hands. Lola smiled, and at the sight a lingering solemnity fled his face, the corners of his green eyes crinkling slightly.

"Good morning," he said in that voice she still found almost incongruously low. As he sat on the bed, handing Lola a bowl of chocolate and adding milk to his own bowl of coffee, the towel around his waist slid, and he didn't stop its fall. Lola let her eyes roam, from the droplets of water from the shower still clinging to the scruff on his face, which he always let grow on leave, and downwards. She'd been naked, or very nearly so, around him before, but always he'd stayed mostly dressed, a safeguard for his own self-control, since Lola so thoroughly abandoned hers.

Gazing at him, his wiry muscles under tanned skin and sandy hair, she absently sipped the chocolate, only to be reminded that morning chocolate in France was not the same as hot chocolate in Canada. So her first words to Ron, on that momentous morning, were "Ugh, where's the sugar?"

"You don't need it."

"They haven't sweetened this enough, it's hardly chocolate," she protested. He put his coffee down on the bedside table and moved toward her, and her body reflexively arched against him, but he didn't touch her, reaching for her bowl instead.

"It is perfectly chocolate, chere Lola. Children and monkeys and dogs will eat anything that's sweetened enough, even poison. But the real pleasure comes when you move into other dimensions." Ron took her finger and dipped it into the chocolate, brought it to his mouth. "If you taste everything" - he bit her fingertip, almost hard enough to hurt - "and feel everything" - he ran his tongue around her, licking off the chocolate, sucking gently - "it's a completely different experience."

She pulled her finger back and replaced it with her mouth, tasting the rich, bitter chocolate from her bowl that graced his lips.

"It's not good in spite of the bitterness," he whispered. "It's good because of the bitterness." And they both knew that, even though the night before he had become her first lover, tonight would be an even more profound first time.

My name's Ronnie and I'm a spanko, mother and businesswoman. I'm happily married to my wonderful husband Peter who gives me spankings when I'm bad - and also when I'm good! I'm happy to share with you some deliciously kinky real life accounts of my adventures in domestic discipline. So welcome to my diary ... read and enjoy!

Rough Hands
It's warm

June 6th
Well I'm almost ashamed to have left it this long to tell you about last weekend, I was being lazy and seeing how the weekend in its entirety went first. So I'm a few days late updating you. Sorry about that, but I'm in holiday mode :)

I was scheduled to work alongside my husband for the three days of the long bank holiday weekend, under his direction, doing things I didn't know how to do but still generally helping out as best I could. Rewards were apparently on offer if things went well, consequences if they didn't. I did ask Peter what the consequences might consist of and what sort of things might cause them to be applied, but he didn't give me a proper answer... he just smiled and told me I'd have to hope I didn't find out.

So without going into all the boring bits involving tools and tiles and paint and the like, I can say that Saturday went very well indeed. In fact it went so well that about two thirds through the day Peter said we should work late then grab a quick shower and go and eat out. He asked me to book a table at an Asian restaurant in town, and also said I should ask our son and his girlfriend if they wanted to join us. He was in a very good mood, and things were going smoothly. I booked us a table... only just though as they were busy. Towards clean-up time I got the occasional squeeze or pat on the backside as my husband moved past me; he even said he was looking forward to a nice hot shower and it was a pity we couldn't share one as our son and his girlfriend would be at home. Too right it was a pity, I thought, but didn't say anything.

We had a drink in town and an excellent meal at Qmin, where they serve super food and it's not at all pricy. You can get a basic balti there if you want (Peter often does) or you can trust them to come up with fish dishes delicately spiced and served stylishly by attentive staff who know what they're talking about. It suited everyone and there was good humour all round ... until I went and spilled half a glass of red wine over the sleeve of Peter's shirt.

Please Stop, I've Had Enough!
William looked at the four women standing and staring at his naked body in the room. They were all fully dressed, and three of them were holding some type of instrument in their hands. His wife Pam had insisted he needed discipline beyond what she could deliver to him so she had arranged for the four women to discipline him that afternoon before he came home. If he did not co-operate with them, he would not be allowed to return home until he had; Pam had made that clear as she sent him on his way that afternoon.

On entering the room he was instructed, "From this moment on you will only address us as Ma'am or Miss even though you know all of our names, do you understand?"

"Yes, Ma'am, I will only call you Ma'am or Miss, that is clear," he responded.

"Good boy, William, now strip everything off and be quick. Don't ask any questions or comment, we are here to discipline you, not to listen to you whine or ask stupid questions. Do it NOW!"

William stripped down and waited, while one of the women continued.

"Bend over and hold your knees, and do not let go until we tell you. If you break position we will keep on going on this first of four parts until you obey and hold position."

William bent to grab his knees and waited. The four ladies lined up behind him, and soon the first paddle was smacking his bare bottom hard and fast. The first lady smacked him five times before stepping away to rejoin the line at the back. Each of the women gave him five hard smacks, and then the first woman repeated her five smacks, but this time on his upper thighs as well as his now bright red bottom. William was yelling by time the third lady had started with her paddle, and by the time each of the women had gone through the line twice he was bawling, but he never broke his position, his hands never once leaving his knees.

When the last woman gave him her last five smacks, William said for the first time, "Please stop, I've had enough," but to no avail as the women made it clear his punishment would continue.

Another of the women told him to stand in the corner while they prepared for his next punishment. Five minutes later, he had to cross the room and lay over the woman's lap and got fifty from her hand. Those hand slaps across his already red butt stung like crazy, and he was soon bawling, kicking, squirming and bouncing on her knee every time her hand connected with his bum. The hand slaps from all the women were hard and fast, but he got fifty from each of the women, leaving his butt a red mass of stripes from the paddles and hand prints.

Chapter One
Josh was worn out. He'd had a long day, on top of a long hard week, but what choice did he have? Not only was he a college professor, he was a popular one, which meant his classes were almost always full. This night, he had a huge pile of papers to grade, and it was already quite late. Josh knew that as the cleaning lady had arrived.

She only came by after midnight.

Sitting there, he shifted in his chair (his butt was going to sleep), stretched his back, and rubbed the back of his neck. He groaned at the sight of the number of tests still to grade. That was the thing about physics, it didn't lend itself to a multiple choice test, and that made grading long and tedious. He was going to need more coffee.

Rising from his desk in the main auditorium, the place most of his classes were held (owing to their large size), he shuffled down the main aisle, out the double doors at the end, and made his way to the break room. He cringed at the cup of sludge the so-called coffee machine produced.

God, this stuff'll either keep me awake or embalm me! Oh what I'd give for a really decent cup of coffee.

Heading back to the class room, he managed a small smile. There was a lovely aroma in the air, and it wasn't the vile drink in his hand. It was perfume. No, not perfume, it was merely a fresh and clean woman. It was the cleaning woman.

His smile grew bigger as he reached his desk. She was there now, her cart parked at the first row of desks and chairs, and she was cleaning the back row, high up at the back wall. He was surprised by her; she was not the stereotypical cleaning woman: middle aged and Hispanic. No, she was mid twenties, and probably Eastern European, judging by her looks. He'd never actually spoken to her, as she was far too shy to even look him (or anyone else) in the eye. Still, she was quite the lovely little lady - petite, dark hair and eyes, and a firm figure with great curves. She wore jeans that were very snug, and every bend to dust under a table or chair gave him a great view of her toned and plump ass... truly a thing of beauty!

Sitting there, he took another sip of his slime, and actually felt a little refreshed. No, it wasn't from the imitation coffee he was choking down. Just the sight of her, the scent of her simple body lotions and shampoo were enough to give him that all-important energy boost. He felt sure he'd be able to get through all of his work.

A moment later, he opened his eyes to find that he was face down on the table.