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Chapter 1
The Affiliated Churches of Repentance support the Charnock Amos Jones College for Young Women.

The Charnock Amos Jones College for Young Women offers undergraduates the opportunity to choose from over forty areas of study in a wide ranging program. Our strong Christian ethos is accompanied by consistent goal setting and discipline in a caring environment.

---oOo---
Alice was waiting for her spanking but really wasn't sure what to do with herself. She had pulled out the upright chair as instructed and it now stood in the middle of her room. The door was open but that made her nervous for she could hear the others getting their discipline. There were ten students in this 'house' with a supervisor who was the one administering the spankings. Unfortunately Alice was number ten. At first the sounds hadn't been too bad; they were distant enough not to be frightening. The muted sound of the wooden hairbrush smacking down on a bare bottom, the cry that followed deadened by room and distance. Now it was the seventh and it was all too clear. Alice tried hard to think who the girl was... Kathleen, that was it. Kathleen was wailing hard now as the crisp sound of the hairbrush smacking her bottom reached its climax.

The spankings weren't long, just very brisk affairs of about a minute. It is surprising how many times you can get a hairbrush to smack a girl's bottom in that time. The spanking ended abruptly but Kathleen was still sobbing and crying but then so had the other six. Alice was trembling all over as if with cold at the thought of getting hers. At first she had sat on the chair to wait but when the third spanking began she had leapt up and gone to the door and peeked out. Several other girls were peeking out too but they all pulled their heads in when they saw each other. They had been warned to stay in their rooms and wait. The belt was the promise for anyone not found in their own room.

Alice was in her room, but moving around tidying things she had already tidied several times. Again she thought of taking off the leggings she was wearing and putting on a skirt. The seniors who had taken them around had suggested that if you knew you were getting a spanking, a skirt with no panties was best. It meant that when you went over the disciplinarian's knee the skirt just had to be lifted; it was the least embarrassing way. Alice had felt rebellious about that; there was a big emphasis on wearing skirts or dresses but it wasn't compulsory and she didn't see why she should. Now she was frightened that if she started changing she would be halfway through when suddenly he would be there to spank her. That would be worse than tugging her leggings and knickers down.

Collective Nouns
by Margaret Jane
Something was different about him that morning. His walking pace was quicker, his tie wasn't knotted to its usual perfection - he was definitely excited. He actually smiled when he greeted her.

"Good morning Miss Moore, no calls for the next fifteen minutes."

He practically slammed his office door and she wondered what exactly was going on.

Did she dare? She thought she did. Company policy allowed her to track his internet usage. He logged on immediately and to her amazement he looked up a website about birds - of the feathered variety! She dared even more by listening in to his first phone call - the dialling code was to a distant city.

"Arthur, have you seen it?"

An unknown male voice answered. "I certainly have, how soon will you be able to get away from work?"

"I can probably manage Friday off. That should give us three clear days; I just hope they haven't flown off by then. Look I'll make my travel arrangements and let you know on Thursday what I've managed to get sorted."

"Brilliant - hear from you then."

The two phones went down simultaneously.

Mr Fitzroy next booked himself into a very plush B&B miles away. Sophia found this very unusual as he would normally ask her to make these arrangements for him. He then rang the CEO and asked for Friday off. Sophie had never heard the CEO laugh before.

"Oh god, you're not off twitching again, Geoffrey?"

"Certainly am, Sir."

Sophia googled 'Twitching'. None of the results made sense until she came to the entries about bird watching.

Sophia thought fast; she'd wanted Mr Fitzroy since she started working as his PA. He barely seemed to notice her and Sophia wasn't used to being ignored. She went back to his initial website search and read quickly. Very rare blue ducks had been spotted on a bleak estuary somewhere in the north. She knew what she was going to do. Mr Fitzroy was nothing if not a creature of habit.

She had a hurried chat with her best friend in Accounts and they held a highly stage managed conversation during tea break when Mr Fitzroy was collecting his coffee and pastry.

"It's such a shame my dad is too ill to travel and I've no way of getting there without him. He'd love me to see the blue ducks; he's been hoping they'd get established again. He used to watch them when he was a boy."

"That's such a shame, Sophia," gushed her friend. "If only you knew someone else who was interested."

Mr Fitzroy paused by her desk.

"Are you talking about the blue ducks that were spotted yesterday, Sophia?"

Sophia looked convincingly taken aback.

"Why yes, Mr Fitzroy, how do you know about them?"

From there she reeled him in hook, line and sinker. He had no idea she'd played him.

"Regardless of what we do - it's always good with you.
Our laughter ... our words ... the simple pleasures that we share.
The delight when we discover something new.
Exploring depths lain dormant since before...
I don't remember when.
Was it in another time and place?
A different body?
I think our souls have remained the same
A continuous inner substance - passing through the universe.
Passing through and recognizing you.
Remembering our union
and how we played among the galaxies.
Or, was it in the ocean's depths - behind a crater
where we knelt and pledged our souls into eternity?
Somewhere, in my mind's eye
I remember you and the stars and the sea."

---oOo---
He stood in front of the wall of windows overlooking the tarmac, his arms folded across his chest, lips slightly pursed, teeth briefly catching his upper lip. There was a hint of moisture on his brow.

Will she really be on that flight? Maybe she's changed her mind. She sounded so unsure when we talked last night. Lexi, Lexi, Lexi. He chanted her name in his head. Be on that flight, sweets. Please be on that flight.

The airline's representative watched the tall man pace the length of the windows, return to his seat, settle in, then stand again. She watched him run a hand through his hair, then slip both of them into his jeans' pockets, and pace again. Trying to be unobtrusive, she stared at him, but it was no use. He was far too attractive to ignore. Mostly gray hair mixed with brown. I love that look. Must be over six foot. Nice hands. Lord, I love to look at a man's hands. He sure looks anxious. Bet he's meeting a woman and they kiss right away.

---oOo---
They met online in a spanking chat room, sharing bits and pieces of themselves, checking each other out as newbies do. And when they discovered they both had written spanking stories, they made their way to the spanking sites that carried their tales. In the beginning, they posted feedback as others did - polite words, stingy with emotion, but lots of 'wonderful' and 'intense story' and 'more soon, please'. Then she wrote him a longer private note, telling him how uneasy one of his stories made her feel - how she wanted to smack him for treating his story lover the way he had - how she got scared and excited at the same time.

He was polite, but only to a point, maintaining his reserve, mouthing a cliché - different strokes for different folks.

"But she was so exposed and vulnerable," Lexi complained, and Scott laughed, enjoying her reaction and the indignation she showed.

---oOo---
He inhaled sharply when they announced her flight's arrival, and slowly stood. This is it. She's either on this flight or it's over. Lexi, please...

Dr. Larry Clive pulled up to the front gate of the Eastern Penitentiary for Women, otherwise known as 'The Prison Farm' from its prime function in the early days. The drive through the pastoral countryside and wooded hills had soothed the tension he was feeling about taking on a new assignment. The look and feel of the grounds, albeit surrounded by a double, ten-foot high fence with razor wire along the top, looked much less oppressive than the stone-walled fortress, where he had worked for almost five years in the western part of the state.

Clive, as he was known, presented his papers and identification to the guard in the concrete entrance building. The first set of gates opened. He drove in. They closed behind him. The second set of gates opened. He drove through up the tree-lined road toward the administration building. He could see the second set of gates closing in his rear view mirror.

The whole setting looked like a college campus with trees and lawns, well kept. But this was no college. About a quarter of a mile up the road he saw the first two female prisoners, young women in prison shifts, with two burly male guards each carrying a riding crop. One of the women looked like she had been crying. She was biting her lower lip and rubbed one of her buttocks through her dress.

It was clear that the incident with the Warden Jenkins out west, in which he had been caught on tape on the verge of raping a woman he had just punished, had not persuaded the minds of the legislators to revise or eliminate the program of strict punishment of female prisoners for breaches of discipline. It was thought that women, especially, could be reformed this way.

Then again, that was why he had a job here; he was being assigned to monitor that very program, among other things. He would head up the counseling staff, whose job was to compliment the discipline program with a nurturing process to help the women to turn their lives around. He got the job because apart from his experience out west, his doctoral dissertation had been on the topic of using Behavioral Modification Therapy to rehabilitate female prisoners. In his capacity at the western facility he was not part of the disciplinary staff, but on occasion was required to administer spankings. When he started the job, he was not much inclined to enjoy that part of the job, but in time, after seeing many women punished, he found himself somewhat turned on a bit by the whole ritual, although he'd never admit it to anyone. By the same token, he'd never seek out the opportunity to punish.

A little further up the road he noticed a squad of female prisoners, ten or so, running in formation. He was impressed. The place had a good feel to it. As a resident psychologist, he would be housed in a staff building on the grounds.

Holding the young woman so she faced him, the cowboy gripped her arms with both hands. Although the day was sunny and bright, his face was clouded and menacing. "You and I are going to manage this wagon on our own," he growled at her. "You aren't going to work your magic or charm or whatever it is that you do to get others to do your work for you. If you even think about doing so, this is what you can expect!" Leaning against the broad trunk of a tree, the cowboy put his left leg out to form a platform across which he bent the young woman.

He forced her down across his left thigh and held her in place with his strong left hand. His right hand rose and then began to spank the young woman with heavy swats. His spanking hand was hard and leathered, but the sound of the spanking was lost in the thicket of trees and the swats were muted by the dress the lovely young woman wore. His efforts were not rewarded with either the sharp retort of his spanks or her squealing in pain. This of course, only angered him more.

The young woman found her voice though when the cowboy raised up her skirts to reveal the simple cotton drawers she wore beneath. Now the spanks rang out more sharply and the young lady cried out from the sharp stinging swats. She kicked and squirmed and although it made her bottom a moving target, her efforts only inflamed his desire ... not only to spank the young woman, but to have and hold her.

It was a quick but effective spanking that got the point across. His hand rose and fell with exacting intent, causing her saucy bottom cheeks to wriggle and writhe beneath his stinging palm. The young dark-haired woman yelped in distress.

The cowboy pulled the woman to her feet and as she sniffled and shed a few tears that ran down her cheek, she pulled her skirt back in place. "If I ever have to do that again," the angry man warned the sniffling woman, "it'll be on your bare backside."

The young woman's eyes widened in fear of that promise ever happening, but she had those wonderfully sparkling dark eyes that worked a magic all their own. She looked both pitiable and beautifully desirable at the same time, and the cowboy was suddenly deeply attracted to her. Without conscious thought, he took her into his arms, embraced her and kissed her hotly and full on her lips. She melted into his arms.

But the cowboy suddenly pulled back as if instantly aware that he may have crossed a line. Damn! She's a good looking woman! he thought, though to her he scolded, "Now you know how it'll be. If you still plan to come, I'll see you at the wagon." Then he stalked off and disappeared through the thicket of trees.

Allison was over the moon. She had been accepted into Camford as a graduate research student to read for a PhD. After a week she realised that her College was even more beautiful than she could have ever imagined. She wondered why she hadn't tried for a place as an undergrad, but realised she would have missed the liberating experience of her first rate Victorian red-brick. She had also experienced, albeit at a distance, life in a northern mill city, a far cry from her childhood in leafy Sussex. That alone might be useful in a future political career.

Still, her first class degree and a masters with distinction, together with a glowing recommendation from her professor to an old alumnus, had assured her of a research assistant fellowship at All Saints.

She had met her supervisor - Professor Alex Prendergast - yesterday; he had invited her for afternoon tea and his wife had produced a fine traditional English high tea. He was only in his early forties, strikingly handsome, with a brilliant incisive mind and was occasionally seen as a pundit on the BBC. He was smartly dressed in fashionable clothes, unlike most of his colleagues who either wore very formal but very well worn bespoke suits, or looked crumpled and almost unkempt in a tweedy way. Ally surmised that his ultra-elegant wife probably had a considerable influence on his appearance.

His wife Celia was at least ten years younger; she had been the first student he had supervised as a fellow. She oozed beauty, elegance and assurance in the manner that only those coming from old money could, but she had been very welcoming and friendly and only very slightly condescending. She had, however, made it quite clear to Ally that she was the only research student in Alex's life and any competition would be ruthlessly dealt with.

Allison was beginning to make friends and was enjoying the beauties of an Indian Summer afternoon in early October at the Double Blue, sitting in the beer garden with a couple of new girlfriends watching the oarsmen begin their early season training.

At her turn to buy the round, she was carrying the tray back when she was greeted with "Hi, Allison, enjoying Camford life?"

She turned round to see Professor Prendergast drinking with a rather handsome chum. She smiled and returned the greeting, but was moved along by three impatient men carrying the rugby team's beers to their table. She heard the ribald but highly complimentary comments about her legs and boobs and, mimicking the Welsh lilt of the most handsome, replied with, "In your dreams, boyo!"

On her return to her table, she commented that it was just like a scrum trying to get a beer.

Her friend Jane said, "Do you really know Prof Prendergast? He's regarded as one of the finest minds and a near certainty to become a College Master in a few years."

"Yes, he's my supervisor," she replied.

Stealing is Bad
My mind drifted back to when I was twelve years old. It was my first year living with my older brother, Terrence. I was in Wal-Mart with some 'friends' and I wanted to fit in, to be cool. And according to them, fitting in and being cool meant stealing some stuff. Sure, I knew it was wrong, and I really didn't even want the stuff. But I did it anyway. And I got caught. I remembered how disappointed Terrence looked, and how he lectured me about how I knew that it was wrong and I did it anyway, and how I could have gone to jail for that. And I got spanked... the first time he had ever spanked me. I thought I was too old, but as the belt hit my naked flesh, I still broke down and cried like a baby.

Yes, I was remembering this now, when it was too late. Why couldn't I have remembered it before I decided to steal again? I sighed to myself, sitting down in the chair in the manager's office. I was now fourteen years old and I was in deep shit. That's about what it boiled down to.

I had walked down the aisles of the store. I had no money, but it didn't bother me much, that is, until I found a CD I had been wanting for the last couple of months. I looked around to see if anybody was watching, and nobody was there. I looked up and saw a couple of cameras. I got smart, though. I picked up two CDs and put them into the pocket of my hoodie. I held them close together so it looked like one. I then proceeded to take the wrap off of the one I wanted as I walked around, browsing through the CDs some more. I went back to where I had found the CDs, took the one out of my pocket, looked at it and placed it back on the shelf. I walked on a little, desperately wishing that I had the money to buy anything, just so I wouldn't feel like I looked so suspicious. Finally I calmed myself down and walked out of the store... only to be interrupted by a loud beeping noise. I looked around and saw an officer approach me.

"Care to show me what's in your pockets?" he asked.

"Um... I-I," I stuttered. Shit. I took the CD out of my pocket and then swore that it was my CD and I'd had it in there before I came to the store. I told him I just forgot to take it out and that my friend and I were going to listen to it in his car.

"Follow me," the man answered.

I did as I was told and we ended up in a small room where there were small TVs everywhere.

Chapter One
Joe was very happy in his life. Standing in the main rotunda of his camp, he looked out over his dominion. Granted, it wasn't much, merely a camp for teens, but it was all his. Well, his and the bank, but he was working on dissolving that partnership. That was the whole reason for this special weekend party: get more butts in the bunks. That was his biggest problem. It wasn't like the old days when his pop ran the place. Back then, kids enjoyed getting out in nature. These days, the teens were so wired into the internet and social media that two of them sitting next to each other would rather text each other than talk! He wasn't being facetious either; he'd literally seen it happen.

That was yet another reason for the special open house today. While his camp catered to teens, he'd told the local families it was okay to bring the little ones. Some of the camp counselors thought him mad, but there was method to that madness. First off, he was sowing the seeds of potential future campers. If the wee ones saw what a great place Camp Hideaway was, when they got old enough they'd ask to go there. On the other hand, their older siblings would see it as a sanctuary from their whiny demanding younger sibs.

So, while the counselors showed the parents and teens around, Joe got a break, and just sort of meandered among the picnic tables where the little kids were being kept and having what he called the 'Teddy Bears' Picnic'. He liked doing themed events, and so every table had several teddy bears. They had food and drinks, games and crafts, and could just run around and play. Joe smiled. This was a role he relished, being a father figure to children in need. Most of the little ones here seemed happy and well-adjusted, but there was one troublemaker who caught his eye. Actually, he'd noticed her before; she was cute as a button. Just a guess, but she looked no more than fourteen, unruly blonde hair, slender firm figure, barely five feet tall, and probably not more than a hundred pounds soaking wet. Her red and blue t-shirt seemed too big for her, and her khaki shorts were faded and dirty.

She was happily eating and drinking and playing with some of the teddies, but then she started acting silly and throwing sandwiches. He chewed his lip. It was time to step in to have a word. She grabbed a teddy, threw it in the air, and scampered off across the rotunda lawn. Joe gave chase, but kept his pace at a rapid walk as he didn't want to attract any attention. She was headed north toward the lake, passing the recreation center on her right, and he caught up to her near the end of the building.

Miss Alexander's Weakness
by Clifford Dorset
The following notes, passed to me by a contact at a boy's school in my locality, appear to have been written by the Headmaster of that school, although no doubt that august gentleman would deny any connection and perhaps even initiate legal proceedings for defamation of character. I am making available these notes secure in the knowledge that they will not be widely seen.

---oOo---
I felt somewhat overheated following my rather extreme chastisement of young Lucy. Following her departure from my study, closely followed by Miss Alexander, who had assisted me in her caning, I stood in contemplation at my window, looking down on the majestic sweep of our driveway, and allowing the sunlit serenity of the parkland surrounding our school to work its magic upon me.

The disturbing bulge in my trousers had finally begun to abate, although when I saw Lucy leaving our hallowed stone portal and start to make her way down the drive, its decline was (regrettably) reversed. She was walking somewhat stiffly away from me, and I certainly felt considerable sympathy for her evident discomfort. However, I must admit that I also very much enjoyed the way her somewhat pained gait seemed to accentuate the naturally languorous roll of her perfectly formed youthful bottom.

It had only been a few minutes since I'd allowed her to let her skirt restore her modesty after her chastisement, but the sight of her skirt slowly falling over her cane-belaboured buttocks as she stood in the corner will long remain with me. I smiled as I remembered that she had not felt up to the task of restoring her knickers to their rightful place; she had carried them in her hand as she had left my study. Beneath that swinging skirt, therefore, she was naked as she walked from the school.

Such thoughts, needless to say, did nothing to reduce my embarrassing bulge, but in the few minutes following Lucy's disappearance beneath the trees that flanked the driveway it had mostly faded away, and I was more-or-less decent as I turned from the window. I remember, however, allowing myself a smile of satisfaction. I had achieved a most necessary advance in this young lady's education, and I would be able to report this success to my sister, the Lady Amelia, the following day. She would no doubt be pleased.

---oOo---
I decided to stroll around the school, looking in on the boys in my charge as they worked diligently with their prep before supper. I hadn't heard my bursar, Miss Alexander, leave her office, but then she is always quietly unobtrusive and I judged that she would certainly have left by then. Certainly I thought nothing of it as I opened my adjoining door and entered her office.

I must say, though, that I was more than surprised. I was shocked.

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!

---oOo---
Tantrum in Majorca
with trepidation we're heading for warmer climes

April 5th
We were going to be late, I was certain of it. Google didn't say anything about roadworks on the M1, but there are always road works on the M1, so why didn't we just set out half an hour earlier?

"Don't worry," said Peter, "we'll be fine, no problem."

We were on our way to Luton airport to catch an Easyjet flight to Majorca. Peter's mom was in the back of the car. His two brothers were meeting us at the airport, one with wife and two kids and the other with daughter only as he'd recently become single again after an acrimonious divorce. It was a family holiday, the first one we'd done in years; we had a six bedroom villa booked through one of the holiday villa specialists.

I was right... we were late when we pulled into the car park at Luton airport. It was windy and pouring with rain too and we had to wait for a courtesy bus. Neither I nor Peter's mom had a coat with us. He should have dropped us at the terminal, it was ridiculous. At least he parked close to one of the bus stops which provided shelter from the rain but not the wind and cold. Good job a bus came soon because I was close to giving him a piece of my mind.

When we got into the terminal building the others were waiting. Peter said he thought a couple of them would have stood in the queue so that we could have sneaked in, but nobody seemed stressed and things were moving quite quickly. Once we were all chatting I forgot about being late. It was clear we weren't going to have a problem and as Peter said, the later you get there the less time you've got to waste drinking airport coffee or, worse still, making silly purchases in the 'rip-off' stores as he called them. My husband can be infuriating at times.

It was nice being part of a family group. Last time we'd managed it had been some years ago when we hired a large house in Bournemouth and been lucky enough to get good weather. Peter has a big family, and if they all got together I think they'd need to hire a small hotel - but they're sprawled far and wide, some outside of the UK, so big get-togethers only happen at weddings and funerals, which is the way it goes for many families I suppose.

Summer Break
Joel Preston planned to spend his summer break from college getting a tan. However, painting his uncle's house was not the way he wanted to do it. Rather, he had visions of sitting in a lifeguard chair at Shermahorn Beach, letting the sun fall kindly on his bare shoulders while he watched nubile young women frolic in string bikinis. Unfortunately, his mother had other ideas.

Kevin Fitzhugh was Joel's mother's baby brother and her favorite sibling. Uncle Kevin's National Guard unit had been called up and deployed to the Middle East for six months. Someone had to paint the house, perform minor repairs, and care for the yard while he was away. It didn't matter to Joel's mother that Kevin's wife, Cara, would be there. Thus, after several heated discussions, a few serious threats, and the offer of a thousand dollars to work around the house for six weeks, Joel agreed. What else could he do?

So now, on a hot sunny day in mid-June, Joel was standing on a step-ladder at the rear of the split-level house that belonged to his Uncle Kevin and Kevin's schoolteacher wife, Cara. Hanging from the ladder was a bucket of white primer and a roller. The siding of the house seemed to go on forever; however, at least he was outside with his shirt off.

He had been at the house for three days and had rarely seen his aunt, a woman he barely knew anyway because she and his uncle had only been married for three years. All Joel really knew about her was that she taught high school English and was about the same age as Kevin - perhaps mid thirties. Joel didn't think she was necessarily a bad looking woman... for her age. She certainly didn't measure up to the young slender co-eds he was used to lusting after at Green Forest College.

However, today she was home, her obligations to the high school completed for the year. Joel had seen her briefly in the kitchen earlier this morning, just before he went outside to work on the house. She had smiled at him and casually told him that she would be having a few friends over later - colleagues from work, she said. Joel had nodded politely and then went about his business. What Cara did with her 'colleagues' didn't interest him, unless they were planning on helping him with the painting or the yardwork.

The cars began pulling up to the house around ten o'clock. By ten-fifteen, Joel could see five early middle-age women plus Cara gathered in the lower level family room. They were sitting casually in chairs, munching vegetable sticks and sipping ice tea. He didn't really intend to watch them; however, he was working on that side of the house and their conversation was loud and animated - something about school politics that somehow degenerated into a discussion about the relative adequacies and inadequacies of men in general.

The Awakening
by Abigail Armani
The first time she saw him he was leaning against a shop window on the opposite side of the road; and he was staring at her, eye catching in his black leathers. She put down her coffee cup and looked at him. The busy road separating them belched exhaust fumes, and the noise and clamour of traffic and pedestrians and coffee shop customers was a constant racket, only fading into a hum of insignificance as she began to focus on him.

Though his frame was angled into a casual slouching position against the shop window, she could see he was tall - tall and broad shouldered and mysterious looking in his dark shades and long coat of shiny black leather. The coat fitted him perfectly, like a second skin, emphasising his broad chest, flat belly and narrow hips. His shoulder-length hair blew in thick black strands over his face. She wished she were closer to see the detail. She wanted him to remove the dark glasses so that she could see his eyes.

It seemed at that precise moment, that his lips curved into a semblance of a smile. Languidly he raised his right arm to his face and removed his glasses, slipping them into his pocket. His eyes glittered. He most definitely was staring at her. She shivered and stared back.

In one fluid motion he stepped away from the shop window and stood by the curb. Expertly judging a gap in the traffic, he ran lightly across the road. He moved with the speed and grace of a predatory panther, and in seconds his dark form shadowed her table. He slid onto the vacant chair facing her, and he smiled. It was a slow, confident smile of both invitation and assurance, and his dark eyes brimmed with untold secrets and promises of hidden delights. For long seconds he gazed at her, and then he spoke.

"I know what you need."

His voice was deep and smooth and mellow; a dark chocolate kind of voice, resonant and rich and irresistible. Her eyes widened. She felt gauche and confused.

"You do?"

He nodded, and clicked his fingers. The waitress scampered over eagerly.

"Two coffees. Latte. No sugar."

The waitress blushed, scribbled the order down on a pad, and scuttled off to get the coffees.

"I am Bryn. And you are?"

"Catrina."

Catrina blushed. One part of her wanted to tell him that she didn't want another cup of coffee, and that even if she did, she would have ordered cappuccino, with sugar. But she said nothing, and wondered why.

"Catrina." He repeated her name, and it fell from his lips like strands of honey. "It is a beautiful name."

"Thank you. Bryn. Is that Welsh?"

"It is. And I am." He smiled, revealing a row of perfect teeth.

The coffees arrived, and the waitress moved despondently away, peeved she didn't get a smile from the sexy handsome man.

1. How Molly Played a Part
Established in 1888 to educate the daughters of the upper and mercantile classes in the North of England, Cropton Hall Girls Boarding School was, in the early 1950's, suffering a reputation for poor academic standards. It had become increasingly dependent for its financial survival on enrolling girls of a troublesome disposition, including even some expelled from other schools.

The building itself had been purpose-built, a neo-gothic Victorian mansion on three floors, laid out in three wings. The extensive grounds provided ample playing fields and space for rambling nature walks in the surrounding woods. It had been these fine facilities, along with the no-nonsense Presbyterian values of its founders, that had seen the school flourish through the earlier decades of the twentieth century.

Catering for the 14 - 18 age-group, Cropton Hall had capacity for 180 girls, with three class groups in forms four and five as well as in the lower and upper Sixth. By the summer of 1953, however, the roll had fallen to just 95 girls and the governors were discussing, with great concern, the depleted finances and even the possibility of closure.

The Headmistress, a Mrs Weekes, had recently resigned at short notice, citing the impossibility of raising standards among what she described in her letter of resignation as "such poorly raised, poorly behaved girls". No doubt she had in mind the three recent incidents in the nearby village that had brought opprobrium on the school and led to two expulsions that could not in truth be afforded. That she herself had been perceived by many of the longer-established teaching staff as ineffectual and unable to impose an adequate disciplinary ethos led the Chair of Governors to summon the Deputy Head, Miss Edith Bainbridge, a buxom lady approaching 60, to an extraordinary meeting of the governing body on August 2nd.

"Edith, thank you so much for coming in during your holiday," began Sir Wilfred Althorp. He had been Chair for some years and, though quite elderly now, was well-liked and trusted by everyone associated with the school. His wife, Lady Althorp, an alumna of the school and fellow governor, sat to his left. "As you know," he continued, "Mrs Weekes resigned a week after the end of term leaving us in something of a pickle."

"Indeed, Sir Wilfred."

"We urgently need to appoint a new Headmistress and we felt that the right course of action would be to start by asking if you yourself would be willing to step into the breach, as it were. We are well aware..." He included with a gesture the other five governors round the oak table "...that matters have become dire within the school. I was so personally... deeply... embarrassed by the appalling behaviour in the village that I felt obliged to apologise to the Postmistress myself. It is paramount that we put a stop to this kind of thing, and that we rescue the reputation of Cropton Hall as a matter of urgency. Otherwise..." He shrugged.

Vanessa shrugged off her robe and slipped naked into bed, shaking her long hair so that it fanned out on the pillow in a cloud of rich-brown with glints of gold where the sun had kissed it. Pulling the sheet over her she closed her eyes and sighed contentedly. This was the time when she often pleasured herself, delighting in the sensual gratification induced by a moistened finger on her clit. Sometimes her gasps and moans crescendoed into screams of delight that had to be buried in the pillow lest they wake her uncle sleeping in the room opposite. But tonight there would be no heady self-indulgences for she had sat up until the early hours engaged in a different form of pleasure - reading. She loved to read, devouring the written word, thirsty for knowledge; but reading late into the night made her weary and long for sleep. Her eyes closed of their own volition and sleep came quickly... and with it, her dreams.

He was with her again; a muscled hunk of a man, tall and broad-shouldered with a powerful chest, he stood ramrod straight and rock-jawed, his piercing blue eyes alight with virility and intelligence as he gazed at her. A thatch of dark hair curled into the nape of his neck, and his skin was tanned by sun and wind to the colour of wild honey. He took a step closer, moving purposefully on legs that were long and hard with thighs of iron. Vanessa felt herself blush beneath his scrutiny, and try as she would, was unable to look away.

They were standing on the crest of a high cliff on a narrow headland that overlooked the broad expanse of ocean, the waters still and glistening beneath the vast night sky, a blanket of midnight blue interspersed with glittering luminous stars. And behind them to the east gleamed the towers and spirals of a city, sleeping peacefully in the shadow of the moon.

A hint of a smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he spoke. Just one word: "Vanessa." Then his expression became stern. "Vanessa. You know you shouldn't be outside the city walls at this hour. You will return with me. Now."

"Shan't," she said defiantly, "and you can't make me."

"Oh but I can," he said softly, and advanced with the grace and agility of a predatory mountain lion. "You were warned, girl, yet still you disobey."

"But I like it out here," she said, stepping backwards, and then whirled round to run. But she had taken only three steps before a strong hand gripped her arm and another snaked around her waist, propelling her into his embrace. "Let go!" she said crossly. "I'm perfectly safe. Nothing will happen to me."

"I beg to differ." Clutching his wriggling bundle he strode towards a rocky outcrop; the central rock had formed a broad ledge and jutted out like some primeval throne.

An Incident in Madrid
by Quentin Quillis
I've been on a job in Madrid and living in a hotel again. The project I'm working on is fairly large, and there are folks from France, England, America and of course Spain. Conferences and meetings with all those languages represented are interesting to say the least. I'm fairly fluent in French and my Spanish is passable, but how can you understand the British? Anyway, the bottom line is that I can't just fly home every weekend, but most of us on the project are staying at the same place, so there is always company for dinner or sightseeing. However, being part of the slightly older set, I don't much care for going out drinking and carousing every night, and the few of us with similar feelings tend to hang around together.

There was one other American in that group, a middle aged woman named Nora. We had been talking about the trials and tribulations of the consultant's life and I said it must be worse for a woman to dine alone since she may inadvertently attract unwanted male attention. She rather coldly replied that nothing of the sort had ever happened to her, and I understood why. She was the most un-sexy woman I can recall meeting. There was nothing physically wrong with her face or figure, and her personality was quite pleasant once you got to know her, but she had an air of unapproachability that overpowered any trace of femininity.

However, I wasn't looking for sex, just companionship, and since we shared the same language and culture we were together a lot. In fact, one of the younger workers commented that he thought we were married. We laughed it off and I tried to imagine this unpassionate woman sharing my bed every night. I just couldn't see it but she had been married for twenty years so I guess her husband, Sam, found something in her that I overlooked.

There was a much younger woman from Nora's consulting firm who went to some of the tourist attractions with us but she talked constantly about her boyfriend. She was twenty-four years old, very much in love and he was all that Connie talked about. We heard how Mark did this and Mark said that and Mark was going to move in with her and Mark was ... You get the picture. One day she went off with the younger crowd which left Nora and me to wander about the streets alone. That's when Nora shared her true feelings about Mark. She had met him and thought he was a shiftless, uncaring young man who never remembered things like Valentine's Day, Christmas or Connie's birthday, and it seemed that Mark saw Connie as an easy lay and a free meal ticket since he seemed incapable of holding a job.

Wendy
Wendy's this gorgeous chick from Australia. She's got short-cropped hair so pale blonde it's almost white. With her startling blue eyes and cute grin, she's so hot it makes your heart stop.

Wendy works as a barista at this jazz-themed coffee bar on Pontiac Avenue. She's unbelievably cool. She's into all sorts of independent and underground bands and she loves going to midnight movies. She's smart, too. She can debate the theories of Kierkegaard and Nietzsche with the best of them, but she reads comic books and likes splatter flicks. (She's a huge fan of Peter Jackson's early work.)

She dresses in what I call 'sexy casual'. Just regular clothes, but on her they look like a million bucks. Basically anything she wears looks stunning on her fantastic body. Most days it's ratty jeans and a tight-fitting shirt or sweater, but even if she wore a parka I doubt it would hide the bumps of those melons on her chest. I think they had to get an extra-large apron for her at the coffee shop. She's slender but definitely not skinny. She's athletically built but other than Yoga and the occasional surfing venture, I haven't seen her doing much in terms of sport.

She carries herself like an athlete, though. She's slightly tall for a girl at five-eight, though her body seems more squat than lanky. She gives off this tough-girl vibe, a little of a Lesbian air. Combined with her amazing good looks and whip-smart brain, that scares off most guys.

Me? I guess I'm just too dumb to know better. If I had half a brain I'd have known she was miles out of my league. But I kept at her, buying coffee I didn't even drink just for an excuse to see those perfect teeth smiling at me. I hung out at the coffee shop with a book on Heidegger hoping I didn't seem pretentious.

It worked. We started talking, and next thing I knew she was inviting me to a Rocky Horror showing! We went and it was Crazy with a capital C. People dressed up in costume, make-up, in drag, the works. People throwing toast, shouting out lines, singing, and dancing. Wendy and I mostly watched. She wasn't into that level of involvement, though she did sing along to several of the big numbers. It was my first time and it felt like I'd been transported to another planet.

We had a blast, though. Wendy was awesome to be around, so fun and full of life. She seemed into me, too, I have no idea why. She laughed at my jokes and seemed to like my body. I work construction, so I'm in decent shape, and she liked touching my biceps and leaning against me in the car afterward.

Caned in Saudi Arabia
by Mike London
Anne-Marie had been enjoying herself until the police arrived.

As an air hostess she should have known better than to bring alcohol to a party in Saudi Arabia, but she hadn't been able to resist the appeals of Suhayla, one of the two local girls with whom she had become friendly. Now they were both being taken away with her in the police van, while the men were taken elsewhere.

At the police station the three girls were separated for questioning. Poor Anne-Marie did not understand a word of Arabic and none of the police spoke any English. At last she managed to get them to understand the name of the airline that she worked for. She was thrown into a dirty cell on her own where the only furniture was one unmade bunk and a tiny barred window too high for her to see through, and was left to her thoughts. Anne-Marie had no idea how serious this matter was; she only hoped it would not affect her job.

Insects were crawling about on the floor. Anne-Marie sat down on the bunk, pulled her legs up, and waited.

After a couple of hours the cell door opened and a policeman came in. He made no attempt to talk to Anne-Marie, but grabbed her roughly and dragged her out back to the interview room. There she was shocked to see David.

She was glad that they'd found someone on the airline's staff who spoke Arabic, and she knew that David was a fluent speaker. But she wished it could have been anyone but him. He fancied himself as a ladies' man and had been making himself obnoxious to her ever since she'd turned him down. Now she could notice a slight smirk on his face.

A senior police officer, dressed like an army soldier, came in. He spoke to her slowly and David translated his words...

"You were caught drinking alcohol. That is illegal in this country. Have you got anything to say?"

Anne-Marie looked questioningly at David, but remained silent.

"The other women have admitted the charge. They understood that if they put us to the expense of a trial their punishment would be much worse. That applies to you too. Did you drink alcohol?"

Anne-Marie thought desperately. She had done what they said. If the other women admitted it, she didn't see how she could get off. In any case, surely a 24 year old woman drinking alcohol couldn't be so serious, could it? She saw David nod his head slightly.

"Yes, I did," she said. David translated her words.

"Very well. The other two women have been sentenced to six months imprisonment and fifteen strokes of the cane. As you are not a citizen you will be deported and will receive twelve strokes of the cane."