LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

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.

Chapter 1
As the door closed behind the final interviewee, Fiona Hill sat back and relaxed. She was an author whose books had finally started to sell well and she had decided that she could now afford an assistant. Married with a daughter aged 18, she worked from home, but after discussing things with her husband they agreed that they could make an office in a smallish room at the rear of the house without disrupting family life to any extent. So in due course Fiona had drawn up an advert and today had been the day for interviewing the four candidates that she had selected from the dozens of applications received. It had been an interesting if tiring experience, but now she had to make up her mind and choose one. She made herself a cup of coffee, opened a fresh page in her notebook and began to go through the candidates one by one, checking her notes as she did so.

The job, as Fiona saw it, should not be hugely difficult. It would be mainly administrative, probably a mixture of a secretary and a personal assistant, although the latter certainly suggested something much more important than what she had in mind initially. She also wanted someone who could help her with research as well - and that was the problem really, as none of the candidates had any experience of that. Eventually she sat back and thought for a while. Then she decided. Of all the four, Emma Kildare was the youngest and least experienced but there was a freshness and a keenness about her. Fiona thought that she could make something of Emma. It might take longer than with the others, but she decided to back her judgement that in the long run it would pay dividends. She thought again, going over everything in her mind one more time, then reached out for the telephone.

A few miles away Emma Kildare was at home - or at least her parent's home. She certainly couldn't afford a place of her own. She was sitting with a mug of coffee feeling just a little depressed. She thought she had been very open at this most recent interview, probably even a little naive, and once it was over she thought that there was no way she would get the job. The trouble was she wanted it desperately. Not all that long out of university and not really having much experience apart from a couple of internships and working in a shop, she didn't know what she wanted to do with her life yet. However, she liked literature and reading so the chance to work for a writer seemed too good to miss.

In an attempt to sound convincing, she had emphasised her politeness, devotion to duty and sense of discipline, coming as she did from a strict upbringing. What she didn't mention was that her stepfather still spanked her regularly with her mother's full approval!

The Invitation

I recall vividly the delivery of the invitation; it was printed on a fine, rose-tinted linen sheet of paper with an elegant border of delicately sketched nymphets, their hand's interlinked and held up high as they danced around the invitation's edge.

"You have been invited to be an initiate at the Sapphic Society monthly meet at the Sapphos Estate of Lady Clara Huntington. On acceptance, you will be paired with a chaperone who will prepare and accompany you to this auspicious event."

My chaperone turned out to be none other than my dearest friend, Lady Janelle. We bathed and dressed together at my townhouse in the evening, and then a carriage let us off under the portico at Sapphos Estate. Our arrival was fashionably late, and we had to wait as a line of ladies disembarked from their transportation ahead of us. Two elegant ladies-in-waiting dressed as butlers admitted us to the closed marquee which covered the lawn. It was the riding crops which they held lightly in their gloved hands, that should have tipped me off to the theme of the gathering.

The scene under the canvas top was magical. Crystal candelabras hung from beams, casting flickering lights across the scene below. I was immediately drawn to the fountain at the center. Figurines carved out of the finest marble poured water from their pitchers in seemingly never-ending supply. The water splashed and danced its way down, creating a joyous symphony of sparkling light and sounds.

As I watched, a young, bare-footed maiden sat down on the fountain wall. With elbows raised high, she brought a flute to her ruby lips and breathed a kiss of life into the waiting instrument. Her fingers tapped at the silver keys creating a haunting melody, accompanied by the tinkling from a chain circling her slender ankles. I felt myself being carried away to a land of mists and myths.

The music was a call to action; as if from nowhere, a circle of ladies formed and began to circle the fountain. The music stopped and I watched in wonder as each participant reached forward and pinned up the gown of the lady in front. I counted twenty young women, their heads held high, and their bottoms bare. A lady-in-waiting approached the circle. She carried a bunch of beautifully prepared birch rods in her arms; the switches were supple and smooth, the handles beautifully bound with pink or blue ribbons.


Emma

The little flautist, whose name was Emma I was later to be told, looked directly at me for just a second. I could have sworn she gave me a conspiratorial wink, but in an instant that moment passed. She lifted her instrument once more and began to play. She chose a lively Gaelic jig, and as the rhythm picked up the ladies began to circle. Dancing three steps forward, those with the blue handled rods swished the lady in front.

The Crystal Ball
Irish Cream Liqueur

Think of a bottle of Irish cream liqueur. Consider its promise of sultry decadence without falling foul of social norms. Picture in your mind's eye the warm color tones of the label and the liqueur, painted in shades off a rich, golden palette; patterns that blend as they swirl, an illusion of motion, airbrushed to look quite static. Using your imagination, savor the delicate sip which delivers that delightful yet subtle blend of tastes, one that simultaneously tantalizes yet satisfies, piques yet soothes, calms yet arouses. Imagine swooning as the sensual elixir caresses your lips and your palate, every contact with the creamy potion satisfying a sensual need.

It's a sensory experience that oozes dreamy eroticism, caresses your senses, calms yet arouses.

I like to think of my entering into her apartment as being a 'Baileys experience', from the deep piled cream carpet that cuddled my toes, to the warm cream-colored walls topped with ornate crown mouldings. A fire glowed in the hearth, radiating gentle waves of heat to warm and comfort, embrace and seduce. There were off-white, deep leather chairs, bookshelves with leather-bound books, display cabinets with exotic displays - glittering lead crystal vases filled with cut-glass beads, Waterford crystal ornaments sparkling with life, and a brass clock with its mechanism whirring around.

Anastasia herself was the epitome of grace and old fashioned charm. Her appearance was graceful, chic and stylish. Long bangs swept to the side of her head in a blond, curly bob, while a few stray wisps demonstrated a refreshing will of their own. Anastasia's fair complexion offered an unblemished canvass. Glossy, moist lips hinted at a seductive spirit; deep, intelligent hazel eyes expressed her inner soul - intuitive, sensitive, dominant yet compassionate. Teardrop sapphire earrings sparkled in the soft light, a glittering diamond choker circled her graceful neck. Her deportment and movements exhibited ballerina-like grace, her manner and expression conveyed as much as her words.


The Crystal Ball

She invited me to sit at the round mahogany table, a central pedestal and turned legs accentuating its elegant simplicity. A black cloth covered its surface, a flawless quartz crystal ball stood on a rosewood stand at its center. It seemed to have a way of pulling my attention towards it, the tantalizing and elusive gift of prophecy on offer.

"Will it be able to predict my future?" I asked in a wishful tone.

Anastasia's laugh was like the tinkle of delicate crystal bells, cheerful without being frivolous, laughing at me sans malice.

"No, Adèle, it is your mind that will create the future, not the ball. For wherever your mind goes, your body is sure to follow. Only you can create the future for which you yearn."

I looked at her, a smile flitting across my lips. I was smitten with her beauty and bewitched by her charm. She was so self assured without an ego, so assertive without an attitude.

Lucy's Story
Several years ago, I was taken from an orphanage by Madame Natalina, made her ward and put to her service. She was, in many ways, a kindly woman, but was an even greater stickler for discipline than the women at the orphanage. She added the tawse and the cane to the birch as her instruments of correction, and my bottom was frequently subjected to the application of all three.

I will here give you a typical example of the kind of day on which I was severely chastised and its aftermath.

Sunday was my Mistress's favoured day for administering corporal punishment. She would announce on Saturday evening that I was to be punished on the following day. This meant that I would spend the night in abject terror, feeling my poor bottom and imagining what would soon be happening to it. I often touched myself to give myself some comfort, although this was a 'two-edged sword' as I would have to confess it to my Mistress, and receive further severe punishment as a result.

I would arise early and put on my working uniform - a blue checkered dress, black stockings, and tight white knickers - and do my household tasks, which included lighting the fire, cleaning the toilet and bathroom, dusting, and finally, after changing into my maid's uniform, making my Mistress her early morning cup of tea.

I would then repair to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. My Mistress would then appear, birch rod in hand (which I had made the previous day) and make me bend over the kitchen sink, filled with icy cold water in which I immersed my hands. She would then raise my dress, pull down my knickers and apply the rod in swingeing fashion to my bare buttocks.

The extreme contrast between the cold in my hands and the spreading warmth in my loins was a salutary experience. She would usually give me about forty strokes in several separate applications. In the meantime, I had to keep my skirt up and my knickers down so that she could see the effect of her ministrations, and so that I would be immediately available for more. It was often almost more than I could cope with, as I had to have breakfast on the table at a specified time.

Then - and this was almost the worst part - clothed in my uniform, she would take me to church where, with my burning bottom sitting on a hard pew, I would have to sing pretty little hymns and listen to long, boring sermons, all the while being very aware of the pain that was to come.

---oOo---
To continue my doleful story, the preparation for the inevitable was in itself a dreadful experience.

First, I had to get the place of my punishment ready. I would place three cushions - one on top of a stool placed at the end of the bed; one on the bed rail to receive my tummy and one on the bed itself to bury my face in as my Mistress could not bear to hear me howl or shed tears, both of which were always forthcoming in plenty.