LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

Prologue
Lily Rose had been living in Greystone for over a year but it wasn't home. What do I have to show for all that time? she asked herself. She picked up her journal and began to read. How she missed having someone to love and someone to love her, someone brave and true like her Johnny. Would she ever find that again, she could only hope.

---oOo---
Chapter One Little Johnny Billings and his family had headed west to start a new life. The promise of vast open spaces and nothing but wilderness waiting to be tamed called to many, and wagon trains began crossing from east to west quite regularly. Unfortunately, some of those wide open spaces either crossed through, or were, Indian territory. Promises and treaties made between the US Government and the Indian tribes were continually broken as more and more settlers headed west. It wasn't long before the fragile peace forged between the white man and the Indian vanished along with the broken promises.

In spite of the many hazards, wagon trains filled with settlers hoping for a better life continued their westward journey. They traveled at their own peril. While some trains traversed the entire breadth of the country from east to west without a single Indian sighting, others were attacked and vanquished, not only by Indians but by disease, cattle thieves or outlaws in general. Some managed to complete their journey while others were decimated, leaving behind only the unburied dead and burned out wagons strewn across the land to mark their passing.

Unfortunately, the Billings' wagon train was one of the unlucky ones. Johnny and his friend, Luke, who had been away from the wagons hunting when the train was attacked, were the only survivors. They returned to find their families dead and very few possessions left to salvage.

Horse soldiers out on patrol arrived too late to ward off the band of renegades. They found the two boys searching for anyone or anything that might have survived the onslaught. Some of the soldiers left to try to catch whoever was responsible for the attack while a few stayed behind and helped the boys bury their families and gather whatever was salvageable. Sgt. Francis William Culhane, a wily old coot who had been with the cavalry since he was a young lad, was in charge of the soldiers left behind. He led the remaining members of the patrol, along with the boys, back to the fort. Since the boys were only eleven at the time, they were too young to be left alone but not old enough to be treated as men. The commanding officer would decide what was to become of them until other family members could be contacted.

Care of the boys was left to Sgt. Culhane. He had always been assigned the newest recruits, so to him, it wasn't much different.

1. A Caning for Connie
The reality of life in the Bends came home to Constance McKinley one Saturday afternoon in early September. Her family was so new to the neighborhood that she still had to drive slowly on Sycamore Trace to watch for the tiny sign that marked the Bends from the other gated communities.

She pulled up to the hut where the guard normally waved her through, but this time he signaled her to stop. She slid down her window.

"Is there a problem?"

"A small one, ma'am. Would you mind parking and stepping out of the car?"

Her heart fluttered a little. The Homeowners' Association Guidelines - a massive volume - contained a section on security gate protocol, which she had given just a cursory read. She glanced at Kelli, who was in the passenger seat bobbing her head to something on her ear-buds.

"I'll be just a minute," she said.

The girl, who Jake had begun calling 'Mini-Mom' because she had inherited her mother's red hair and soft freckles, ignored her.

Connie stepped out of the van and faced the guard, a fireplug of a man who stretched the buttons on his khaki shirt and was a head shorter than she. 'Rollins' was emblazoned on his name-tag.

"What's the trouble, Mr. Rollins?"

"Got a report of some things left in your front yard: a soccer ball and goal."

She frowned. She had told Kelli to put those things away before they left, but because the McKinleys' home had a rear-entry garage, she hadn't noticed the lawn when they drove off to the store. Her initial inclination was to argue that they had only been away for a couple of hours and a soccer ball and goal left in the yard wasn't a big deal. But she checked herself.

This, after all, was what the Bends was all about. More than the security, the lush green space, and the tightly restricted architectural standards, the Bends was about rigorously imposed community discipline. After hours of soul searching, Jake and Constance McKinley had decided it was right for them.

For the first five weeks nothing had happened, but Connie knew that had to change. And it was obvious it was going to change that day.

"I've got ice cream in the car, Mr. Rollins," she said softly.

"Then we'll make it quick. Please step over to the screen, Mrs. McKinley."

The screen was a decorative barrier of rustic planks nailed across posts and engraved with Willowbends - Welcome! on the side that faced the entry. A grab bar was attached to its backside.

"Is this your first experience at the Bends, Mrs. McKinley?" She nodded. "Well, in the event you've forgotten what the guidelines say - or maybe you haven't read them - violations reported to the gate earn you a ticket. One copy goes to your husband, to deal with as he sees fit. The second goes to the Association Directors - to deal with as they see fit."

Logically, the territory of Westsylvania should have become one of the United States. And it would have but for the stubborn nature of its citizens who refused to relinquish their newly-gained independence and join with the other former British colonies. Somewhat isolated by terrain in the Allegheny Mountains, it still called itself a 'state', but in the original sense of the word as an independent nation, unlike those which completely surrounded it. In 1840, it had renamed its capital city to Luxemburg (dropping the 'o') in honor of that similar-sized landlocked European country. But though proud of its sovereign status, it functioned almost as if it was one of its U.S. neighbors, and even used the same currency. Residents freely crossed its open borders to and from neighboring states, and its culture was very similar except in one curious detail.

Many of the original settlers in the area had belonged to a religious sect that held firmly to the belief that physical punishment was necessary to cleanse the soul from sin. And while the old faith was virtually extinct, a strong belief in corporal punishment remained in the secular traditions of most residents. While it had lost favor in other areas, it thrived in Westsylvania as the accepted way to deal with rebellion against authority in both the public and private sectors. Parents were encouraged to discipline, but not abuse their children, order was maintained in schools, and minor infractions of the law were dealt with primarily by inflicting a bit of pain upon the posteriors of offenders. And courts had upheld the right of business owners to require their employees to submit to it as a condition of employment. A firm hand, hairbrush, or similar implement was often used in domestic situations, while the paddle, strap and cane were employed for official procedures. The horsewhip and cat o' nine tails had been used in earlier days, and a few whipping posts were preserved on courthouse lawns as reminders of that past. But during the early twentieth century, public floggings had been mostly abandoned. Lesser offenses were now punished behind closed doors, usually on the buttocks rather than the backs of offenders, and incarceration was used for more serious crimes. However, within the state's jails and prisons, corporal punishment was still used to maintain discipline and impose penance for crimes. Judges often ordered that prisoners receive periodic corporal punishment as part of their sentences. A few attempts had been made to abolish such measures as 'cruel and unusual punishment', a concept shared with the U.S. But the Westsylvanian High Court had rejected those arguments and ruled that a moderate corporal punishment that caused no permanent injury was not excessively cruel, and in Westsylvania, it certainly was not unusual.

---oOo---
Having lived all her life in Westsylvania, Samantha Moore was certainly no stranger to corporal punishment. It was ingrained into the local culture, and submitting to it was a natural part of life.

Chapter 1
Sister Naomi Dawson was turning the pages of the job adverts in the Nursing Times when her eye was caught by the following:

ARE YOU THINKING WHAT WE'RE THINKING?

Do you believe that modern nursing has lost its way? Do you yearn for the days of Matron? Are you sick and tired of sloppy nursing practices and hospital infections; of wards inadequately cleaned by outsourced labour? Do you believe that patient care is at the heart of the nursing profession, not targets set by self-serving politicians? Do you yearn for the return of strict discipline to nursing?

If this is you - as it is certainly us - and you are a ward sister of proven excellence and more than two years' experience, who would not object to tripling her NHS salary - then we may have the opening you have been seeking.

The Cedric Placebo Clinic offers superb care and treatment to the cream of British society. We are seeking a new sister with the above qualities to join our team of dedicated and highly motivated professionals. You will find that we pay attention to your development in areas that have hitherto been neglected.

Sister Dawson's pulse beat faster. She fit the bill in every detail! The youngest ward sister in the health authority at twenty-seven, with almost three years' experience behind her, Naomi combined high-flying career advancement with surprisingly old-fashioned values. A petite red-headed package of flashing-green-eyed energy and impatience, she filled out her shapeless baggy blue uniform in all the right places. She yearned for the days of proper dress uniforms, of white caps and starched dresses and smart aprons rather than these ghastly scrubs that did nothing for morale and commitment to the service. She was known and even feared as a fierce martinet, one who enforced the highest professional standards upon her staff and upon herself. She would not put up with the slightest lapse in discipline. Indeed, when she came across a gaggle of young or even older nurses gossiping at the nursing station when they should have been attending to their patients, Naomi had a secret desire sometimes to give them more than the tongue-lashing they inevitably received.

What some of these girls needed, she thought to herself, was to be taken into the office to have their knickers taken down and a stiff hairbrush applied firmly to their bare backsides! She would smile to herself in a rather guilty fashion. Where she got such ideas from she had no clue. They were not the usual ideas of a twenty-something young woman. But she cherished her private imaginings: how the idle girls' faces would stretch with consternation! How they would kick and bawl as she tanned some liveliness into them! How they would hop to it afterwards, scurrying around to carry out their duties giving their smacked bottoms a rueful rub! And serve them right.

A Teen Reboot of Spankings
I close the front door behind me.

"What was that all about?" asks my matronly mother.

"Oh, that spanking thing? I was trying to help little Ashley and her folks make a decision. I'll tell you this and it's no lie. Thirteen years old is definitely not too old for spankings."

"So you actually went through with it?" asks Mom, sitting down on the couch. "I made a pot of chamomile tea. Like some?"

"Please, with sugar. And yes, we went through with it."

I sit next to her, wincing slightly. She leans over the coffee table to pour the tea.

"Well," she says cheerfully, "were you able to convince Ashley to taste a little of the fruit from the spanking tree? Did she participate in your little demo?"

"Mr. Almond gave Ashley a good, hard one. We told Ashley that her dad would only spank her for a short trial period. But I don't think that genie is going back in the bottle."

"So you think Mr. Almond will keep on spanking Ashley?"

"Yes, it's inevitable. Mr. Almond is way too good of a spanker to ever give up the spanking brush. Mom, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," she says apprehensively. "Unless, of course, it's something that will upset me."

My mother has a very delicate constitution.

"After you married Howard, did you guys ever consider maybe rebooting spankings? A teen reboot?"

"A teen reboot? You mean for you? Spank you?"

"Yes, start spanking me like Father used to do."

"No," says Mom thoughtfully. "I can't recall that we ever discussed it. Why?"

I shrug. "When you guys got married, I thought one of you might bring it up. Teen reboots of spankings is all the craze now. Especially with teenage girls."

"I did not know that."

"Yes, I even hinted to Howard once about dads and stepdads of some of my classmates. These girls still get spankings. But Howard just brushed it off."

"Grace, you were almost 12 when we married. You hadn't been spanked in nearly four years. I didn't see the need for a teen reboot of spankings."

"Well, what does Howard think?"

Mom looks at me blankly. "Frankly, Grace, I have no idea."

---oOo---
I tutor 8-year-old Ashley Almond. She lives walking distance from my house.

Earlier this evening, I'm wrapping up my tutoring duties up in Ashley's bedroom.

Downstairs, Mr. Almond discovers that Ashley had done something that he has specifically forbidden her to do. Her parents start arguing.

"What that girl needs is a good, hard spanking!" I hear him declare loudly.

I see the fright in Ashley's eyes.

"Did Daddy just say 'spanking'?" asks my little protégé worriedly. "Is he talking about me?"

"Yes, I'm pretty sure your dad is talking about spanking. Did you disobey your father?"

Ashley nods and hangs her head in shame.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Fathers' Club
The shrilling of the phone woke Tom Drummond out of a deep blissful sleep. Blearily focusing on the bedside alarm, he registered that it was 2.45 in the morning.

"Yeah - hallo?" he grunted resentfully into the phone.

"Tom, it's Joe - Joe Fraser. Sorry to wake you at this ungodly hour - but it's Cindy..."

His daughter's name jolted Tom awake. Joe, an old friend from his schooldays, was now the police sergeant in their small Northumberland town. "Cindy? But she's here - asleep in her bed!"

"'Fraid not, Tom. She's down here at the station."

"But - but - hang on a moment, Joe." Still woozy, Tom lurched out of bed and into the corridor. He knocked quietly at the door of his daughter's room and opened it. Through the half-closed curtains, pale moonlight shone on an empty bed.

Back in his room, now wide awake, Tom grabbed the phone again. "Joe - is she ok? Is she hurt?"

"Don't worry, Tom, she's fine. A little the worse for drink, that's all. And the same goes for her friends."

"Drink? Joe, I think you'd better tell me everything. No, wait - I'll come down, you can tell me then. Give me twenty minutes."

---oOo---
"Know that sleazy new club that's opened a couple of miles out on the Haslings byroad - the Purple Pussycat? Yeah, that's the one. Well, about two o'clock we had a call from them. Four young women causing quite a rumpus."

Joe's audience listened, their jaws dropping. Besides Tom there was Pat Henderson, Geoff Morris and Wally Drew. All fathers of teenage girls. Each under the impression, until less than an hour ago, that his beloved daughter was safely tucked up in her bed.

"Seems they were dancing on the bar, smashing glasses and bottles, singing and generally carrying on. The bouncers didn't like to touch them, seeing as they were young girls - scared of sexual harassment charges or whatever. So the manager phoned us and we headed out there. And believe me, he wasn't exaggerating. Those girls had really hung one on. It was all we could do to get them into the van. And listen - they still haven't cooled off."

From somewhere downstairs, as the fathers listened, came the sounds of raucous singing, interspersed with giggles and shrieks.

"Normally with rowdy drunks, I'd just leave 'em in the cells overnight to sober up. But since we're all friends, and I've known those girls since they were babes in arms..."

"Thanks, Joe," said Tom. "We appreciate it." He glanced round at his friends. "Well, guess we'd better go down and see what's what?"

Downstairs, two of the four cells were occupied. In one a scruffy down-and-out lay slumped, dead to the world and snoring loudly. Even louder, though, was the off-key rendition of 'Girls Just Want to Have Fun' emanating from the next cell - three voices raised in caterwauling discord.

The Tyrant of the Classroom featuring Miss Docherty
The bell for the beginning of the first class of the morning had just moments before rung. The children all stood up as Miss Docherty walked into the classroom. Chairs scraped against the floor, desk lids squeaked as they were hurriedly shut. It was the last day of the summer term, but the children knew the rules would not be relaxed. It would just be like any other day.

"Good morning, Miss Docherty," they chorused.

"Good morning, children," she replied. "You may sit down."

It was like this every morning. Her eyes travelled along the rows of children, looking for absentees or those improperly dressed. She was a stickler for punctuality and correct school uniform. If there was one thing she couldn't abide it was untidiness. Like most young teachers it amused her to be stern. When called upon she could very stern indeed. She called out the register, the girls she called by their first names, the boys by their surnames. "Adsum," each child replied, some in a confident manner, some so quietly she had to strain her ears to hear. Once she had finished filling the register in her neat handwriting, she placed it carefully on her desk. Tidiness was almost an obsession with her.

"I need a volunteer to help me on Saturday morning," she announced. All the little girls immediately had their hands up, some of them almost bursting with eagerness. In contrast, most of the boys showed no enthusiasm for spending a Saturday morning at school. Along the back row she noticed not a single boy had raised his hand. She stood up from her chair and slowly walked down the central aisle of the classroom, desks in perfect rows on either side of her. The only sound that could be heard was the scrape of her sensible shoes against the bare wooden floorboards. She folded her arms and stopped in front of a desk in the back row.

Steven looked up, blushing under her steady gaze. She rarely had any problems with discipline. Occasionally, a child might answer her back but it would never happen twice. Having said that, she much preferred mischievous boys. Those who tried her patience she would make an example of and punish in front of the other children by putting them across her lap and smacking their bottoms. It wasn't a particularly harsh punishment, but it certainly put the boy concerned firmly in his place. There was a strong rumour that for more serious misdemeanours she kept a cane, although no one had actually ever seen it. Every now and then she would threaten a boy with six of the best and enjoy observing his face as it turned pale at the thought of such a punishment.

Maybe she wasn't the prettiest of women or the most charming but she was attractive in some indefinable way.

The Devoted Secretary
by Leland Mays
Tyler Morris sat behind a great solid oak desk. Behind him could be seen the tall skyscrapers along West 57th Street in Manhattan. His was a corner office; another panel of windows on his left offered a panoramic view of Central Park. The man was nervously squeezing his hands together. He gazed at Miss Nancy Wiggins, his new private secretary, who sat calmly on the other side of the desk.

Beads of sweat had formed on Tyler's forehead. When he finally did speak, his voice was quavering. "Miss Wiggins, you see before you a desperate man."

"Sir?"

"Desperate. At the end of his tether."

"I'm very sorry, sir." She brushed her light brown hair back from her face. Her eyes were gray or blue depending on what colors she wore. She was neatly dressed in a pale silk blouse; her loose gathered skirt was knee length, chosen so as not to draw attention to hips and a derriere that she considered too large.

A haggard look on his face, Tyler spoke again. "Miss Wiggins, do you realize the pressure on a man in my position? I'm Senior Investment Broker here at Globe Capital Partners. Millions, indeed, tens of millions, are made or lost based on my recommendations. Mine alone! A tiny miscalculation here, a lapse in judgment there, and I've ruined some millionaire's day. The stress is wrecking my health!"

Tyler was in his mid-forties, but he looked older. His secretary noticed his sallow skin, receding hairline, and the nervous tic he had developed. She could only agree. "Yes," she murmured, "you don't look very well, sir."

"You have no idea. I gobble down Xanax and Valium like they were M & M's. The last time I had a good night's sleep, the Yankees were in the World Series. My psychiatrist declared me a hopeless case and refused to schedule another appointment."

He looked at the woman through bloodshot eyes. "I'm desperate, Miss Wiggins. Truly."

"I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

Now the man's eyes narrowed. In a low voice he murmured, "Oh there is, Miss Wiggins. I think there just might be!"

Becoming uneasy from the look he was giving her, she said, "Yes sir, just tell me how I can help."

Tyler took a deep breath, pausing for dramatic effect. "I want to spank your bottom."

Miss Wiggins blinked, certain that she had not heard the man correctly. After a few seconds she realized that he had indeed said it: spank your bottom.

"Spank my... ?" she said in an incredulous voice. "What are you talking about? Are you crazy!"

"Most likely I am, Miss Wiggins. There's a good chance of it. Do you suppose this desire I have to paddle your big round derriere is my way of self-destructing from the pressure? It makes sense when you think about it."

1. Prologue
My name is Sandra and I am a 30-year old IT professional. For many years I have fantasized about being spanked. Even though I was never spanked as a child, I always got excited by stories of spanking. But I have never had the nerve to actually follow up on the fantasy. I never even told anyone about them except my college roommate, Helen. She grew up in rural Tennessee and had mentioned to me that her parents had spanked her. In fact, she said that her last spanking was in the summer before our freshman year in college when she got a speeding ticket. I guess I had had a little too much to drink that night and I confessed to her that I always wondered what it would be like to be spanked, and even that I found the idea exciting.

Helen and I have stayed in touch during the years and now a unique opportunity has arisen. I have 8 weeks of vacation time I have to use before December and Helen has made a proposition. She is also unmarried and still lives in that small rural town she grew up in. When I told her I had to take this time off she made a suggestion: why don't I visit her for those 8 weeks and pose as a 17 year-old living with her while my folks are on a trip out of the country. She reminded me about our discussions about my fantasy of being spanked, and said this would be the perfect opportunity to make it real. She did warn me that if I did decide to do it, she would treat me the same way her parents and her friends' parents had treated them - with real Tennessee discipline. At the end of the time I would know what it was like to grow up with spanking.

So the scenario is this: my parents have gone on a trip and sent me to live with my 'Aunt' Helen. Since it will be during the school year, she will enroll me in a small private school nearby. (She has already checked with them. They are very willing to accept a temporary new student as long as they get their tuition.) But she also warned me that that school is not reluctant to use corporal punishment, even for high school girls. That was something I hadn't anticipated but I think I can avoid it by being a good girl in school. I will have to give Helen my driver's license and use the school ID since my right age will be on the license, so I will be dependent on others (or a bike) for transportation.

The only glitch in the plan is that Helen's real niece, Trish, lives with her and is a senior at that same school. To my great surprise, Helen went ahead and told Trish the whole story without warning me.

I sighed when I opened the form letter from the University Registrar's Office. I knew it would happen but it was still a shock. I had been placed on academic probation because of poor grades. What was I going to do now? My parents would yell and scream, but when don't they?

It's my own fault, really... too much time wandering around town, too much time spent not studying and preparing, and too much time being undisciplined. University is not like High School. Here, nobody cares if you do the readings or homework or even if you show up for classes. If you do badly nobody phones your parents to tell on you. The Registrar's Office just waits until all the facts are in and then decides. And it did. Now what am I going to do?

I cannot go on like this. I cannot achieve my goals by being like this. I feel like such a failure. Maybe my friend Jennifer can cheer me up. She and three of her friends share a house with an older guy who seems real nice. He is friendly and affectionate with them without being sexual, and Jennifer likes to call him 'Uncle Richard' even though they are not related. I should ask her about that. In the meantime I have to figure out what if anything I am going to say to my parents. They are going to be so mad.

It was then that Jennifer came by my apartment. After I invited her in, I said that I was just thinking of her. I started making some tea for us when she saw the form letter.

"My God, Rachey, I didn't think you were doing so bad," she said. "What happened?"

So I told her. I told her about the skipped classes, lax study habits, laziness, procrastination and other things. I then said that sometimes I think what I need is a damned good spanking.

"Have you ever been spanked?" she asked.

"Yes," I snorted, "Quite a few times till the age of 15. Then they stopped."

"They still hurt just as much as they ever did," she said.

I arched an eyebrow at that comment. "How do you manage to do so well?" I asked, changing the subject slightly.

"Uncle Richard knows about all of our assignments and their due dates. He helps us with our homework if he can. He also enforces a study time after supper, along with a curfew and a bedtime."

I wasn't sure what to make of that. "And what happens if you break those or don't do well in your tests and assignments - he spanks you?" I asked sarcastically. She blushed, looked down and smiled a little, and said yes. "My God, Jenny, I didn't know. I didn't mean it like that!" I was genuinely shocked. I had no idea. We sat there in stunned silence for a few moments.

The Queen's Official Spanker
Princess Christina scowled at the gathering storm as if it were a personal affront, although that was not the only thing to keep her from the hunt. Her so-called tutor, Dr Gaius Ghent, had cancelled her day's deerstalking on account of recent raids by the Tamarinds, as if she were some nobody who was afraid of raiders.

Dr Ghent had been a captain in her father's latest wars and must be at least 30, the 19-year-old Christina fumed, resenting as she did an old man having charge of her. Well she would show him.

She looked at her velvet riding habit, which was the usual attire for one of her class and then at the soft tight suede breeks that she had been forbidden to wear since she had been deemed a woman. Who does the deeming around here anyway, she thought bitterly.

"In for a penny, in for a pound," she chuckled as she grabbed the breeks.

She had grown since she had last worn them, so she opted for putting them over her bare skin. Then, snatching up her bow, she hurtled down the stairs to the lodge and out to the stables. In minutes she was racing through the forest. She even took to the western edge in defiance of any Tamarinds that may be lurking.

Gaius reached the stable yard just in time to see his charge ride off with a whoop.

"That girl will be the death of you sir," the head groom said lightly.

"She will be the death of herself if she goes that way," Gaius growled. "Better saddle my horse and alert the outriders to be extra vigilant."

---oOo---
Christina got into the high country before she found fresh spore from her prey.

"Gotcha," she said excitedly.

"I certainly have your highness," came an answer.

Christina turned angrily only to be confronted by her tutor, Dr Ghent.

"Oh it's you. I can't say I am happy to see you. Well, since you are here, keep quiet."

"I'm sorry ma'am, but we must return to the lodge."

"What, on account of raiders?"

"Well that would be reason enough, but we have received word that the Tamarind have broken the treaty. It's war, ma'am."

"Well as soon as I have my stag," Christina said absently, certain her quarry was near.

"To hell with your stag, don't you realise that half the garrison is out looking for you. That means that most of the border villages don't have any protection."

"Don't you curse at me, you... peasant," Christina said.

"I am a gentleman scholar and officer of the royal guard. It is not polite to call me a peasant," Gaius said with an edge to his voice.

"Peasant," Christina spat.

"Put up your bow, your highness, and let's be getting back," Gaius said wearily.

"I told you. Not until I have my stag," Christina said defiantly.

Chapter One: Day 1
Princess Alicia was standing in the dock, a scowl and a pout spoiling the natural beauty of her young face. She had just turned 18 years old. She alternately glared at her mother, Queen Dorothea and Judge Alder, the only other people in Court. Her robes clung lovingly to every curve of her body, her hair shone in the neatly braided style under a soft, gauzy veil but her haughty expression spoiled her appearance.

The Judge studied her and finally spoke. "Princess Alicia, your mother is concerned about your attitude, behaviour and disposition. You are selfish, have no concern for others, mistreat servants and have been spoiled to the point that you are not fit to rule!"

Princess Alicia spluttered a horrified protest and began raging against her mother, who stared blankly back at her irate daughter.

"Precisely my point!" Judge Alder replied.

When the Princess continued her tirade, the Judge shouted "Silence!" She was shocked into compliance.

"I sentence you to a week of attitude adjustment with one of the Court's punishment administrators. No one will know your identity, which is the reason you are far from home. If you dare to enlighten anyone, you will be sentenced to six months in a female prison instead. I need to warn you that this type of punishment is expressly meant to humiliate as well as reform a wilful young woman, so be prepared to be treated without the respect you are accustomed to! It is not normally used for the likes of a princess, but, needs must if you are to be fit to rule!" He paused, allowing time for the seriousness of the situation to sink in. "You will be taken from here immediately by Master Jay - our most respected Punishment Officer - and will spend a week in his care at his House of Correction. You will routinely be punished every morning, possibly every afternoon and evening as well. The morning punishment will be a ten-minute hand spanking, the following two may be a minimum of twelve strokes with the implement of Master Jay's choice." Alicia was simply staring, disbelief in her face. "Any bad behaviour, attitude or disobedience will incur either immediate punishment or an increase of the next punishment. Expect each punishment to increase in severity as the week progresses!"

Princess Alicia's knees weakened in shock and she stumbled, catching herself just before she collapsed. She stared at her mother, eyes beseeching for clemency. None was forthcoming. The Queen just looked her straight in the eye and then nodded agreement to the Judge and left the Court, silently.

"You will be known simply as 'Lyssa' from now until your release." The judge then pressed a buzzer and immediately a door opened and Master Jay entered, an imposing figure of a man, 6 feet tall, strong, stern features, muscled and fierce. "Master Jay, this is Lyssa, a highborn young lady in need of your correction. Take her away!"

Chapter One
"OMG, Benji, is that you?" a woman said.

Ben snapped to attention so hard his little paper hat almost slid off. No one had called him that name since he was a little kid! Granted, he wasn't much changed from then: thin, gangly, and not quite five-foot five. Still, it didn't matter, these days it was Ben or Benjamin. Slowly he turned, and had to tilt his head to look at the lady. She was quite the sight. He would not be surprised to learn she was at least six-two, and she was built like an Amazon warrior.

She smiled; an array of dazzling white teeth gleamed at him. "It is. Benji Baker. It's been what... ten years?"

"Ummm," Ben stammered.

He still couldn't place her. Her firm body had the most incredible curves he'd ever seen, and her double Ds were pretty much at his eye level. Yet, there was something about her that was familiar. He cast his eyes up and down her long frame. She was in designer jeans (super snug), a dazzling blue blouse, and had a head of long full blazing red hair. It was the hair and her milky-white skin that rattled a memory remnant inside his head.

"You don't remember me? Why, Benji, after all those long nights together?"

His jaw dropped. "No. Angelina, is that really you?"

"In the flesh, as I see you've taken note of," she said with a smirk.

He felt his face heat up and didn't need a mirror to know he was blushing. "Um... I... well, it's just that... well, you grew out-up, you grew up!"

"I did indeed do both," she said, placing both hands on the restaurant counter and leaning toward him, her upper 'assets' on prominent display. "Huh, but it looks as if you only got taller. Gee, Benji, don't you eat? Look at you; you're all skin and bones."

He rolled his eyes. "You sound like my mom."

"Well, she's right. Hey, how are your parents? I have seen them-"

"Ah-hem," a stern voice said.

Ben cringed. He didn't have to turn around to know who it was: Phil Templeton, the manager. He was forever on Ben's case about working harder and faster.

"Um, Angelina, I can't really talk now," he said quickly.

"Quite correct," Phil said, stepping up next to him. "Miss, if you'd like to order something, please do so. If not, please move along. I can't have Ben wasting his time."

"Humph, wasting his time?" she shot back. "In my opinion... oh, never mind. Benji, how about we get together for coffee after you're done here? We can catch up on old times."

"Um, yeah, sure, fine. See you at seven."

She nodded, turned, and sauntered off. Ben drew a long slow breath of air.