LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

Chapter 1
Dana was exhausted after another gruelling 16 hours at the gym where she worked as a Personal Trainer. She was so tired that her only thought on reaching home was to go straight to bed; she was too tired even to contemplate eating. Her schedule throughout the day had not allowed any time for her to have a proper meal. All she had managed was a snack in between her service hours, spent cleaning equipment and office duties, and her private clients. Endless cups of strong coffee kept her going; she knew this was not ideal, but she needed the money.

Her heart sank as she pulled her car alongside the parking bays outside the flat she shared with her boyfriend, Ryan, only to find there was no available space again. She recognised two decrepit old cars belonging to friends of Ryan and sighed in exasperation. His friends would undoubtedly expect to be there all night as they would all be blind drunk and incapable of driving home. Anger was building inside her, she would be forced to endure unwanted guests and would have to park further down the road... again! This was becoming a serious problem and a strain on their relationship.

She found a spot to park her car about a hundred metres from their flat and began unloading her equipment. Two heavy bags weighed her down, but she dare not leave them in the car for fear of them being stolen. She began to walk, her steps weary as she trudged towards home and to top it all, it began to rain.

Although of small stature (Dana was barely five feet tall), she had a honed, athletic figure, with a trim waist and pert breasts. A pair of intelligent dark brown eyes sparked from her pretty face, complemented by light brown hair. When she wasn't tired, run down and angry like she was at that moment, she was stunning, and usually animated and invigorated. She looked much younger than her twenty-five years, youthful and petite, but a force to be reckoned with in the gym. Her clients included huge body builders, who could have been forgiven for assuming this small slip of a girl could not teach them anything. She had thrown out a challenge when she first started work, a free training session with her, and if she didn't make them work hard enough, she would train them free for a month. She only had to make this offer once. She proved herself tenfold, the first man who had scoffed at her ability to effectively train him had been proved categorically wrong and suffered accordingly from the level of workout he was put through. He spread the word that this little firebrand was a dynamo in exercise terms!

Her anger was building the closer she got to home. Ryan had lost his job three months ago, due to bad timekeeping and poor performance and had made no real attempt to find more work.

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.

Kate's Detention
Kate Russell rarely wore trousers or jeans. Despite the fact that Andy, her boyfriend, was always telling her what a lovely bottom she had, she could never believe it. She thought her bottom was too big and that this was revealed when she wore trousers. Nevertheless, as she dressed for school that Monday morning, Kate decided she would wear trousers for school.

That afternoon she'd had to stay in after school for the first of the seven detentions she had earned as part of her punishment for stealing books from the school library, and then abusing her position as a school prefect by trying to get her younger sister, Debbie, blamed for it. As well as the detentions, Kate had lost her position as a prefect, and her curvy bottom, badly bruised and covered in fading weals, still bore evidence of the caning she had suffered five days ago.

Kate was not looking forward to her detentions. As a prefect she had frequently made use of her authority to punish naughty junior schoolgirls with lines or detentions and had even reported girls - most recently her sister and Susan Allen - for the cane. She knew that the girls she had punished were very happy in her downfall, and delighted to tease and make trouble for her. Normally, she did her best to keep well out of their way, but she expected to meet a few of her former victims at the detention classes, and did not expect the reunion to be a pleasant one.

Although Kate had been a prefect and had not been in any trouble at school for a long time prior to the recent incident, she had not been quite so well-behaved when she'd been in the junior years. This would by no means be Kate's first detention. In fact her caning the Wednesday before had been the third time she had suffered such a punishment.

The first time had been when her twelve year old bottom had received three stinging strokes after she'd been caught mucking about on the gym apparatus in her second year. That caning had brought with it, as nearly all canings at Bishop Hardinge's school did, a detention, and apart from that occasion, Kate had been sent to the detention class at least a half dozen other times, although the most recent had been three years ago when she'd been in the fourth year.

So Kate knew well enough what to expect during a detention and the reason she had decided to wear trousers rather than her usual skirts were the 'detention punishments'. At Bishop Hardinge's, only the headmistress and her deputy were normally allowed to use the cane, and canings were almost always administered by Mr Fowler, the deputy headmaster. In lessons, teachers could give lines or detentions, set punishment tasks or send a particularly naughty girl to Mrs Woodman, the headmistress, who might well then refer the culprit to Mr Fowler for the cane, but could not use corporal punishment themselves.

Chapter One
Ginny stood at the controls of the little choo-choo train, an ear to ear grin on her face. She hadn't had fun like this since she was about twelve, which was a full decade ago. It made her giggle to think how she had to stand to see out the front. Ginny had never been a big girl, or a very highly-developed one at that. No, she was petite, very petite, and with the most minimal figure of any in her little social group. When they used to go out clubbing, it was literally impossible for her to get an alcoholic drink. It didn't matter that she had four different kinds of ID, the bartenders refused to believe she was of age, and her friends only compounded the matter by calling her 'Kiddo' or saying she was their little sister tagging along with the big kids. If it weren't for the full bar at her Daddy's place in Newport, she wouldn't have gotten a drink ever!

Well, that was all behind her now. She was out on her own, she had her own place and was supporting herself with a job, and she was making her way in the world. Actually, her father paid a reasonable allowance into her account every month, and that's what she really lived on. Given time, she was sure she'd find a way to earn a living. For the moment, she was going to live in the moment. She was working at 'The Playful Bruins Fun Camp' in (ironically) Newport, Florida (right on the Gulf Coast), and she loved it. The little train was about half scale, brightly colored, and full of happy chattering kids. Ginny felt like quite the engineer.

The train followed the serpentine tracks around the low manmade main 'hill' of the park, through the long tunnel (the kids all squealing in delight at racing through the dark), and into the dense woods that ringed the lake. She rang the bell. Nat (short for Natalie), her new friend and oldest daughter of the owners, had told her to ring it as a signal that they were coming into a station (there were four throughout the park). Leaning out the side window, the wind whipping her long brown hair about, she saw the station ahead. She turned the power level down, the engine stopped, and the train essentially coasted into the station. While the train was electric, the sound effects made it sound like it was a real steam engine. She pulled back on the brake. It squealed and the train kind of lurched to a stop.

Huh, I'm going to need to work on that. Mr. Parmenter was very clear on that point: 'Don't shake the guests up too much. One little injury and we'll get sued.'

She whipped her head around and smiled. Everyone was okay.

Do You Make Exceptions, Sir?
by Colin Daniels
Natalia felt the butterflies growing in the pit of her tummy as she wandered the halls towards the office. All around her girls wandered in different directions. They paid her no attention. School was out, and their laughter and wide smiles only served to darken the young woman's mood. She forced herself to keep going, even though a voice from the back of her mind tried to impose reason. Was she still sane?

She forced herself towards the school secretary's office. She almost faltered, almost spun on her heel and out to safety. But she had no choice in the matter, not really.

---oOo---
Mrs Witherspoon was not particularly surprised to see Natalia in the office. After all, as school captain she often had to visit Principal Skinner. It was not even that unusual when Natalia said it was a 'private matter'. She shrugged, picked up her bag, and prepared to leave. It was Friday afternoon and she had no intention of staying late today.

She knocked, slipped her head into Mr Skinner's office, and told him Natalia was waiting. He looked a little surprised, but pleasantly so. Natalia seemed a little preoccupied, almost worried. Surely she wasn't in some kind of trouble.

---oOo---
"Principal Skinner will be with you in a moment. Say, are you okay, Natalia?" Mrs Witherspoon asked in a concerned tone.

The girl seemed to snap out of her inner thoughts and looked up with a warm smile. "I'm fine, thanks. Just preoccupied. Have a good weekend."

Mrs Witherspoon smiled. She was such a lovely girl, and so pretty too. To think she'd wondered whether Natalia might be in some kind of trouble. She bade Natalia goodnight and slipped from the office, closing the door behind her.

Principal Skinner led the senior girls' captain into his office. He was a little surprised to see her here unannounced, particularly with the unreadable expression on her face. He offered her a seat, trying desperately not to let his eyes linger too long on her figure as she did so.

For Natalia was an exquisite beauty. She had only turned eighteen years of age that fall, but her figure was full, with a woman's curves. However, it was her hair that made her stand out: long golden locks that flowed in a wavy fashion down her back. He sighed to himself as he sat down; it would not be quite the same next year without her.

"Well Natalia, you're not smiling today for a change. What seems to be the problem?"

Natalia paused slightly, as if carefully considering what to say. In fact, she had practised every word of what she was about to say several times, but her mind was blank. Her heart raced. Principal Skinner sensed her unnatural nerves and waited silently.

"Sir, do you remember those girls that were caught smoking last month?" she asked.

Chapter 1
I didn't cry at the funeral of my parents although I know that's what is expected. Folk wanted me to be the frail, grief-stricken daughter who couldn't cope, but I wasn't going to put on a show for them. My grief was deep and hurt in ways I never thought possible, but it was my grief and not for public display. I cannot recall anything at all about the service; I know it happened, but what the Rev. Cornflower actually said must have passed me by. Afterwards I accepted the condolences of the many mourners, but who or what they said is also gone.

Mrs Bancroft, our kindly neighbour, had organised refreshments but I tasted nothing. I was aware of the expectations: a young woman was expected to faint or at least to require support; I did not. The malicious, of which every town has a few, whispered unpleasant comments, but I cared nothing. I was locked in my own private grief and coming to terms with the simple fact that I was all alone in the world.

Two days later I went to see our solicitor, Mr Jarndyne. He patronisingly assumed I would be selling the gunsmiths business. In fact, I was perfectly capable of taking on the business. There was no gun in the shop I couldn't handle or repair, and that was without the help of Old Phil, the sole employee. However, although the business was profitable, father's debts had piled up. Paying the interest on his various debts was crippling and made it imperative to sell up now while a good price might be had and before the debts escalated. If I sold both the business and our small house, I could clear the debts and have a sum of money that would help me make a new start. If only father had allowed me to run the business side, then all might have been well. Guns were his passion, but he was no better a businessman than he had been a farmer. His stubborn pride had prevented him seeking any help with either.

Much to his surprise, I refused Mr Jarndyne's help in selling the business, but I knew he wouldn't drive a hard bargain. Mr Flathers, the rather dour Yorkshireman I sold it to, expressed surprise at just how hard a bargain I did drive.

"Lass," he said bluntly, "thou's put me through mangle... tis a pretty mangle with silk lined rollers, but a mangle nonetheless."

With the proceeds of the sale (and the sale of the house) the debts were paid. When all was done I had a good nest egg to help me re-start my life. I took a room with Mrs Bancroft and considered my options. They were not good. To earn a respectable living is hard for a woman. I could become a teacher in a National school or one of the new Board schools but it wasn't an attractive prospect.

Chapter 1
It has always amazed me how certain jobs are looked down upon by those not performing those jobs. Why consider janitorial work as menial or demeaning? It involves labor that has to be done by someone, and those janitors I've run across who do excellent work are those who take pride in what they do. And what about lawyers? There is a running joke that tells you what most people think about that profession: 'What do you call a hundred dead lawyers at the bottom of the ocean? A good start.'

But, when you have real trouble involving the justice or legal system, the first person you call is a lawyer. It's a good thing the one you call isn't dead at the bottom of the ocean, right? Dentists get a bad rap, too. But think about what their job is like... up close and personal in people's mouths that they don't really know. Hey, it may be a little uncomfortable to have a tooth filled, but how would you like to wake up every day to the prospect of meeting a bunch of people who don't want to see you? As a good dentist, you do your duty, put your hands in their mouths and hope you don't get bitten.

I'm reminded, also, of the CBS television network public service announcement about the importance of a prostate exam. You don't like the humiliation of bending over for a finger probe, but what about the doctor? Do you think he really went all those years to medical school and being an intern just so he could stick his finger up your backside?

Consider, now, the plight of the lowly debt collector. He is the last person you want to hear from if you're having trouble paying your bills. Oh, it was all sunshine and daffodils with the lending institution when you wanted money from them... but when they want it back, the debtor considers any communication with the lender as being a sure sign of the apocalypse. This is especially true when the debt is secured by, say, your car or your home.

Forget that you wouldn't even have that car or house without the lender, but how dare they ask to be repaid... especially when it is often so inconvenient to repay that debt. Don't those people have any sympathy for the poor working person who has all sorts of other financial demands being made of them?

Then again, as a debt collector, do you know how many times I've heard, 'You can't get blood from a stone'? Do you think these debtors have any idea about the big picture, in economic terms, or even the smaller picture such as my insignificant existence as a debt collector? It's a rhetorical question, but just in case you missed it, the answer is no.

Consequences
I was 18 when I got my first proper job - in the lingerie department at Pearson's, the biggest clothing store in town. It wasn't, to be honest, entirely through my own merits. Hugh Pearson, who owned the store, was an old friend of my dad's - in fact they'd been in the army together during the war. I knew his daughter Marion, too - she'd been a few years ahead of me at school. So when I finished school and was looking for work, Dad had a word with Hugh - and there I was, with a real proper job that paid all of £22 a week. Doesn't sound like much these days, I know - but this was back in 1963, when money went a whole lot further than it does today. I was still living at home, too - so after I'd given Mum £8 a week towards my keep, I found I still had plenty to spend on whatever I liked.

Maybe that was the cause of my downfall. Pretty soon I got into the habit of thinking I could have anything I wanted. So in the run-up to Christmas that year I was spending quite freely - on stuff for myself, my family and friends. Until, with Christmas still a week away, I suddenly found I'd run out of funds, four days before pay-day. Luckily I'd bought all my presents, so I thought I could manage for a bit. And then - temptation struck.

Temptation was a beautiful pair of panties of emerald-green silk - French culottes, and designed by Givenchy too, so as you can imagine they didn't come cheap. They weren't even in Pearson's either, but in the A La Mode store down the street. The moment I saw them I wanted them with an uncontrollable longing, especially since they were just my size. But they only had one pair left in stock, and with Christmas coming up and customers spending freely, I was pretty sure someone would snap them up.

Of course, I could probably have got an advance on my wages. That would have been the sensible thing to do. Mrs Jenkins, the head of department, was a warm, friendly woman and very approachable, and I'm sure she'd have agreed without any hesitation. But I thought she might ask what I wanted it for - and stupidly, I felt I'd appear 'shallow', wanting money for something so frivolous as a pair of French silk panties. Looking back now at my teenage self, I can see what an idiot I was being. But at the time, I made the fatal choice.

So one day just before lunchtime, when I was sure nobody was looking, I slipped some money out of the till. I told myself that I was just borrowing it, and that come pay-day I'd pay it back. Then as soon as it was my lunch hour I shot off to A La Mode, praying that my silken joy hadn't been sold.

Honoria

Honoria Van der Biek pushed a stray dark curl from her brow as she sat quietly on the passenger side of the front seat of the cowboy's pickup truck. The two of them had enjoyed an evening of food and wine (beer for him) and pleasant conversation in each other's company. It had become a sort of ritual for the two of them over the past several months: every two or three weeks they would get together and make the long drive into town from the depths of the isolated valley deep in the Colorado Mountains.

The cowboy, Mark Reston, had a ranch that was near the State addiction rehab facility; 'near' being a relative term in this remote part of Colorado. As the chief administrator of the facility, it was impractical for Honoria to socialize with her employees... which was fortunate really because most of those employees were less than desirable dinner partners. Shortly after she had taken over at the rehab facility, there had been an attempted escape. The escapee had tried resting in the Mark Reston's barn but was discovered. When Honoria showed up to collect her 'client', she and the cowboy had hit it off immediately. She found him attractive, sexy and dominant; he lived alone and they didn't work together: what wasn't to like?

They went to dinner a few nights after that and through the course of dinner conversation, her need for what became something of a ritual had been established. Right now Honoria sat quietly in the pickup truck with the cowboy, knowing what the rest of the evening held in store. She was frightened. She was thrilled. She was a ball of emotions.

Mark was driving them back to his ranch where Honoria had left her car. No trace of emotion showed on his face, though he was always amused at the change she underwent the moment she got into the truck on the drive back. Almost unstoppably chatty during dinner, she was silent as a stone in the truck.

He watched her out of the corner of his eye and marveled at how her conservative attire hid one damned alluring female form beneath. He should know: he'd seen her undressed more than once. He also appreciated the concern and apprehension that was building beneath that quiet surface as they both knew what was coming next. When they got back to his ranch house, she would be subjected to something that was very primal ... something that she desperately needed on a regular basis ... and though she might initially complain or plead, it was something she knew deep within that she could not survive without.

Mark parked his truck next to the ranch house and turned to his quiet dinner partner. "Go on in and get ready," he said in his deep bass voice. "You know what to do."

Honoria looked at him with pleading, watery eyes, but she said nothing.

It is a perfect evening; four old friends out for dinner to reminisce and share new tales amid lots of laughter. We met in college where we rented a house together and at first I was a little leery of being the only girl with three guys, but it worked out pretty well. We shared chores, kept the place reasonably clean, and became the best of friends. We keep in touch and make it a point to have a special night together at least twice a year. Tonight we met at Ben's house and rode together to the restaurant. Dinner and dessert were wonderful and we stayed long enough to let things settle. When Jason said he thought it was time to move on Ben told me I should go to the ladies room. Vance agreed and reminded me that I might not have another chance for quite a while. I'm almost thirty years old and know perfectly well if and when I should use a bathroom, but I headed off to the rest room anyway.

It was slightly embarrassing to be spoken to like that in a public place but the next phase of our visit was starting. Ben is driving and we're heading back to his house. I'm in the back seat with Vance and Jason on either side. Ben just slid a tape in the car stereo and we hear the beginning of Beethoven's Eighth Symphony. It is sometimes referred to as a maiden between two giants, the Seventh and the Ninth. I've heard it a million times before but had never realized the significance of that designation till now. I am the maiden between two strong men. As we listen I reach out to hold each of their hands. It was this symphony that started it all...

---oOo--- A famous orchestra was giving a concert at our university. Beethoven's Eighth Symphony was the premiere piece as far as we were concerned since we were all music majors and our own college orchestra had played it the year before. We were all intimately familiar with every note and to say we were looking forward to seeing a professional performance was a large understatement. It was my job to get the tickets but unfortunately I waited too long and they sold out. At least the college radio station was going to broadcast the concert so we could hear it, but that was small consolation.

I was in the dog house and although the guys were polite about it I knew they were really mad. There was tension in the air as we gathered in the living room to listen. I again told them I was sorry but they were having none of it and when one of them told me to just be quiet and stand in the corner it met with almost unanimous approval. We had always believed in democracy in our house so I went along with the majority and stood as directed.

Jane Compton's face was pink as she removed her dress and then slipped off her panties. She knew everyone was looking at the newcomer with interest, and her embarrassment actually helped her to keep her mind away from what was to come. Over the table she went, legs slightly apart and with her head resting on her arms. How on earth had she got herself into this sort of thing? It was bizarre and absurd and most people who knew her would never have believed that it could happen. These thoughts, however, were abruptly interrupted.

CRACK!

The first blow from the table tennis bat landed squarely and hard across her bottom.

"Ouch!" she cried, unable to stop herself from doing so.

"Don't worry, Jane," she heard somebody say. "Shout and yell all you want ... there's no shame in that!"

Before she had time to assimilate the words however, the bat descended again, in a slightly different place.

CRACK!

"Oh!" Again she couldn't help the yelp of pain; somehow it just came out of its own accord.

CRACK!

"Owww!"

The same reactions applied to the rest of her session. The bat struck ... she cried out. No allowances were made for the 'newbie' and after her allotted eight hard blows Jane felt her bottom hot and throbbing. As she took her place beside the other half naked member of the group who had been spanked already she knew that her face was scarlet but part of her was pleased ... she had done it ... she could accept a spanking from a virtual stranger. All right, it hadn't been that long or all that hard, but it was a start.

---oOo---
In her late thirties, Jane Compton was a divorcee with two daughters, both of whom were now grown and living elsewhere. Caroline, the elder girl, was on a graduate trainee scheme for the Civil Service while her younger sister, Amy, was still at university. Jane's ex-husband, Donald, worked as a Senior Executive in one of the major banks and the long hours that he had worked (and presumably still did), including a number of trips abroad each year, had been one of the reasons that they had drifted apart.

She had married young and had the girls almost immediately. She had been very happy to stay at home and look after the children when they were small. However, Donald had been very traditional and insisted Jane's place was at home, even when there was no real reason to do so. With no career experience to fall back on she had been content to do that for a while but as the girls had grown they didn't need an awful lot of attention, and eventually they left home to go to university.

The couple lived in a large house in the Surrey countryside. The large garden was looked after by a gardener for most things and somebody came in regularly to maintain the swimming pool.

So far this tour was proving a lot more interesting than she had expected. As the daughter of a prominent family and a rising star in the political arena, certain things were expected of her, and showing up at official engagements as the dutiful daughter was one of them. She even managed most of the time to look vaguely interested in what was going on.

Today there was no need to feign any interest. It was genuine. The invitation for her father had not been a surprise. After all, Sir Morgan Harris was the Chairperson of the Committee on Penal Reform and everyone agreed that he would be getting a ministerial office at the next reshuffle. It was only natural that he should be asked, but that the invitation had included her as well had been a bit of a surprise. Victoria did not like surprises. She much preferred to be the one springing the surprise, being on the receiving end never ended well as far as she was concerned.

And of course her dear father, the ever-inclusive stepfather, had managed to get Justine added to the invitation.

"It is important that we make her feel at home, Victoria. She is part of the family now." If she heard that one more time she might just scream.

She had agreed of course, but inwardly she groaned. Justine was the daughter of her new stepmother and just because her father had remarried he seemed to think that made Justine her stepsister. She neither wanted nor needed a stepsister, and even if she did, Justine would be the last choice on earth.

The girl was just a year younger than her own twenty and so uptight it was appalling. Worse she wanted to get to know Victoria, wanted to spend quality time with her and that simply would never do. Victoria had spent years carefully cultivating an image that she presented to both her family and the world. As far as everyone was concerned she was the dutiful daughter, the former Head Girl and now undergraduate who was interested in charity as well as active on the student union front. Why she was even captain of her polo team.

Having someone following her around had meant that Victoria had to seriously curtail her activities and that was something she was simply not prepared to do even in the medium term. She might be happy to act in a certain way but that did not mean that she was going to give up her fun. Not for anyone. With Justine hanging around there was a danger that her new 'step-sister' might discover too much about Victoria and, worse, she might spill the beans. Years of carefully cultivating a chosen image would be gone in seconds.

Dealing with Justine had been surprisingly easy, hardly a challenge at all. Now the girl was properly under her thumb and had joined the list of people who possibly knew the real Victoria but who equally would face ruin if even a hint of what they knew ever escaped their lips.

1. The Problem of Cecil
Mary Hartwell
Pimlico
London SW1

Prof. Harold Hastings
Dept. of Cultural Studies (C19th CP Div.)
University of West Anglia
Feshampton
UK

October 22nd 1932

Dear Professor Hastings,

Further to our recent telephone conversation, I enclose this letter with a parcel containing the collection of my grandmother's correspondence written during the late 1860's. Some of the letters she must have acquired from relatives during the course of her life, particularly from her brother (my Great Uncle Cecil) and from their cousin Jasper and their Aunt Julia. I have sorted them into chronological order. I hope they may prove useful to you in your research.

Very briefly: my grandmother, Lydia Hartwell, was born on December 16th 1849 at Hartwell Hall, then as now the family seat of the Hartwells. Her father, Sir Lionel Hartwell, and his brother Richard had both been educated at Greystones, the public school featured within much of this correspondence. As I mentioned to you, my grandmother lived a full life right up until her death a month ago. These letters bear witness to an early episode - she was eighteen - which typified her courage and adventurous spirit.

I feel sure you will find the narrative that unfolds here as engrossing as I did. Should you have any further questions concerning Lydia Hartwell, please feel free to contact me.

Yours sincerely,

Mary Hartwell

---oOo---
Hartwell Hall

January 5th 1868

Dear Aunt Julia,

I hope you are in good health and that life in Bloomsbury treats you well. I write to you on a somewhat delicate matter. You have always been such a kind, honest confidante and I know you will advise me well, as you always have.

Do you remember a visit you made to us when I was about fifteen? It was summer I think. I was being most neglectful of my studies with Miss Jameson at that time and one day during your visit she had cause to punish me with her ferule. I came out of the library crying and you took me in your arms and consoled me. The incident has no doubt faded beyond your recall by now, but I have never forgotten your words to me that day. You spoke of the importance of this kind of punishment - on a young lady's posterior - and how cleansing it was.

Aunt, I have an overwhelming need to confess for I am in a quandary of guilt and confusion. When I became sixteen - over two years ago now - Miss Jameson ceased that form of punishment. But, greatly to my surprise and embarrassment, I have found myself desiring to experience it again. I wonder at my strangeness in wanting to be punished, to be beaten on my derriere (as Miss J has always called it).

And now I come to the worst part of my confession about which I can only blush.