LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

Chapter One
When Rodrigo Cantrell opened his bloodshot eyes, the first thing he saw was the clear blue sky yawning above him like an immense and empty canyon, like Heaven was opening its pearl-studded gates just for him. Then, when a gush of cold sea water washed over his face, stinging his cracked skin, he knew he was still alive, that he wasn't gazing upward at Heaven. Slowly and painfully, he raised himself up into a sitting position and shifted his gaze to the horizon, now wondering what had awakened him and, more importantly, where exactly he was. The makeshift raft upon which he had been drifting was now banging against some rocks on a jagged, deserted coastline. He had been saved from the sea.

However, his jubilation over being alive was tempered as he realized he had no idea where he was or how long he had been drifting. He remembered that he had been a passenger aboard the Spanish barque, La Clava, out of Barcelona bound for Minorca in the Balearic Islands. He remembered that the small sailing vessel floundered in a sudden storm. He was washed overboard just as the ship was breaking apart and managed to climb onto a piece of the deck. He remembered very little after that.

Rodrigo gathered what little strength he had left and slid away from the planking that had served as his lifeboat. He staggered for a moment as his legs, already very weak, tried to remember what solid ground felt like. In the distance, perhaps fifty feet away was a stream bubbling over rocks - fresh water. His thirst was overwhelming and, like a desperate horse nearing a pool in the desert, he stumbled toward the stream, now oblivious to anything else around him. When he reached it, he kneeled down and stuck his whole face in the cool, running water. He drank steadily for nearly a minute.

Once his thirst was momentarily satisfied, his still disjointed thoughts turned again to where he was. They had been too far from the Spanish coast for him to have drifted back. Therefore, he reasoned, he must be on one of the many islands in the Balearic chain. But which one? It didn't look big enough to be Ibiza. To the north were only trees and small hills; to the south was the brilliant Mediterranean. A few birds flew overhead. He didn't recognize the species. Only one way to find out where I am, he told himself as he turned toward the north.

He walked slowly and wearily along the stream, heading progressively more inland; however, after less than fifty yards, fatigue and hunger began to overtake him. He stumbled over several rocks along the bank and fell on his side into a small grassy meadow. There he lost consciousness.

Rodrigo awoke to low voices around him and a soft hand upon his face. He opened his eyes and was immediately confronted by the sight of four young women clothed in ragged ankle length dresses standing over him, concerned looks etched on their unmarked faces.

Kansas, 1875

Annabelle gazed out of the window as the steam train rumbled along the tracks, blowing out plumes of smoke as the carriages rocked and swayed rhythmically. It had been a long journey from Boston and she was exhausted, but at last she was approaching her destination, and as the grey light of dawn brightened and trails of vibrant pink flooded the morning sky, the conductor moved down the train, making his announcement.

"Next stop, Dodge City," he called. "Dodge City, next stop."

His announcement galvanised the passengers into action, many of them rising from their seats to gather their belongings. Annabelle followed suit, glad to be free of the hard seat and stretch her legs. Ten minutes later, the shrill steam whistle sounded and the big locomotive sighed and hissed as it chugged to a halt; countless people stepped out of the dark maroon carriages onto the station platform.

Annabelle alighted with the others, clutching the two bags that contained all her worldly possessions. The station was teeming with people, and the general hubbub made her head spin. It was all so overwhelming.

Tentatively she moved forward through the jostling throng and made her way to the exit. Once out of the station, she gazed at the unfamiliar streets. Even at this early hour there were plenty of people milling around, and tantalising smells of breakfast and coffee emanating from various eating establishments nearby. Her stomach growled a protest as she passed by a crowded rail road diner; her frugal supper of soup in the dining car of the train seemed an eternity ago, but after buying her ticket in Boston, she had precious little money left.

She wandered down the street, wondering how to find her way from here to Uncle Jacob's ranch. Her stomach twisted apprehensively at the thought of her uncle, and she once again reflected how the relatives she had never met would react to her turning up unannounced. Fighting down a rising tide of panic, she stepped through the open doorway of a side street café. A large woman behind the counter smiled at her.

"Good morning," she greeted in a German accent. "Would you like breakfast?"

"Good morning ... can I just have a cup of coffee please?"

"Of course. Please ... sit. I'll bring it to you."

Annabelle took a seat by the window and gratefully accepted the coffee. It was rich and dark and warming.

"Are you sure I can't get you anything else?" the German lady asked, noticing the girl's pinched face.

"Quite sure. Thank you."

The German lady nodded and bustled around wiping down the tables. "You have just arrived, ja?" she asked conversationally.

"That's right. From Boston."

"That's a fair distance you've travelled. You must be tired."

Annabelle nodded. "Yes, and I still have some way to go."

"Where are you headed?"

"Windy Creek ranch. Do you know it?"

"I have heard of it, ja."

"Oh - is it far?"

The big woman laughed.

Prudence Wilson poked her head out of the open window of the Pullman car and looked down the length of the track. The conductor had finally announced her destination and she could now see the station approaching. Her heart was racing with excitement. It had been a long journey to this prairie town in the Oklahoma Territory. She had come all the way from Brisbane, in Queensland, Australia ... half way around the world!

Shielding her eyes, she tried to pick out her uncle and his family on the approaching platform. Her efforts were frustrated by a firm male hand which gripped her by the shoulder and pulled her back into her seat.

"I believe your father would be quite perturbed with me if I returned you to him with a telegraph pole embedded in your forehead, Prudence," the man said.

"We're almost there, Mr. Turner. Isn't it incredible?" she exclaimed, ignoring the scolding. "I can't believe we've traveled halfway around the globe."

Cyrus Turner removed his wire-framed spectacles and began wiping the lenses with a large white handkerchief. He was a business partner and close personal friend of her father, William Wilson. He had business to attend to in New York City and had agreed to chaperone Prudence to her destination before continuing on his way to New York.

"It's 1890, Prudence," he said. "The world gets to be a smaller place every year. Soon it will be a new century. Who knows what wonders it might hold?"

Prudence felt her pulse quicken with each turn of the locomotive's drive wheels. She thought she must be the luckiest girl alive to be having such an incredible adventure.

It was the beginning of her eighteenth summer and she had blossomed into a very attractive, young woman. She was tall as girls went, nearly five-foot-seven the last time her father had made the pencil mark on her bedroom door and checked it with a measuring tape. Blessed from birth with her mother's thick chestnut brown hair and her father's blue eyes, she had more recently developed the curvaceous figure of a young woman. It was a great relief to her after spending her adolescence as a thin, gangly, uncommonly tall girl.

She had secretly taken great pleasure in the appreciative glances she had noticed from several young men during her long journey. Of course, Mr. Turner had glowered at them and they had all hastily retreated.

The whole wondrous odyssey had come about as a sort of graduation present from her parents. She had long begged them for the chance to go visit her American relations. Her father had finally agreed to finance the venture upon satisfactory completion of her schooling.

Her Uncle John was her father's younger brother. Both men had been born in England but had gone abroad to seek their fortunes, her own father to Australia and his brother John to the ever expanding America. She looked forward to meeting them finally.

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.

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.

Thermo
My name is Thermo and for a decade I have served the great Queen of the Amazons, Antianara ... an amazing feat as most men captured by the Amazons are used at the whims of the Amazons and discarded within the month. There have been a few men such as myself, but very, very few in Amazon history. I have been charged by my Queen Antianara to record old tales that have been handed down aurally, to make an official record of these legends so that they may endure in history. My Queen has discovered that I am more educated than most men she has met and will use my knowledge to create a written record of the legends of the Amazons.

The Amazon kingdom is rumored to exist in many places, but none of the rumored locations are correct. I would tell you why, but I do not wish to compromise its location. Amazon society is a closed society - you don't just wander in and become a citizen any more than you would wander into Sparta and suddenly become a Spartan. Simply, you have to be born an Amazon, and you have to be a woman. The Amazon society is entirely female, but more on that later.

How I came to be a slave of the Amazon nation may help in understanding some of what the Amazons are and what the Amazon society is. I grew up on a farm in Macedonia as a child but was fortunate to have been noticed by a very learned philosopher. Though I never attended any organized school, this philosopher taught me many things of our world. In particular, he taught me to read and write as well as how to understand the world around me. He introduced me to the concept of philosophy. This, of course, was very unusual.

I moved from the farm and began a career as a shop keeper. The Mathematics I was taught by my mentor served me well and I was developing a profitable business selling goods to local farmers when a company of Amazon warriors attacked our village. These women were fierce warriors and the handful of farmers and old men in the village did not stand a chance. Five men were kidnapped from the village and I was one.

The five of us were kept tightly bound and we were escorted for days before reaching a large encampment of Amazons. We were kept under strict observation and did not spend a moment without at least one of these fierce women gazing at our lot. They terrified me, but I have to be honest and admit that I found them all very attractive.

Our captors and their cohort were athletic and vigorous women in the prime of life. I had witnessed their fighting skills and originally thought they may have been Spartan women, but we quickly learned differently. Over the week that we were held at the encampment, several other companies of these women warriors joined the camp, each with five or six male captives.