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Letter of Misunderstanding
TO: Sally Weston FROM: William Gray, Governor, Stropbare Reformatory RE: Lunch

Thank you so much for joining me for lunch at my club on Wednesday. It was wonderful to meet a young woman who shares my interest in reformatory discipline, and enjoys the Blue Moon books as much as I do.

I loved the way you interrogated Lord Roberts and Sir Snowdown about why the club was still males-only; I thought the old geezers were going to have a heart attack. It was delightfully impertinent of you, in a cheeky sort of way. You're quite the little spitfire, Sally!

Given your interest in reformatory discipline, and my expertise in the manner, I was wondering if you might wish to visit my office in the city sometime, for a look at my historic collection of reformatory straps and canes?

There are several local school emporiums in the area, which will outfit you with a suitable regulation school kit, so you may look the part prior to your visit. With you in proper attire, and me properly armed, I can deliberate in detail about your conduct at the club, and elucidate to you the importance of showing deference to your betters.

Eagerly awaiting your reply,

Mr. William Gray

Governor, Stropbare Reformatory

---oOo---
TO: William Gray FROM: Sally Weston RE: Your kind offer

It is I who owe you thanks for the delightful lunch, which I truly enjoyed. I'm sorry Mr. Friar set his pants on fire with his cigar while he was arguing with me, and I feel terrible for laughing at him as he ripped them off.

And I really shouldn't have shouted, "Friar, Friar, pants on fire." How mischievous of me!

As for your kind offer of a meeting in the city, I must decline. Although I find your offer intriguing in the extreme, the simple truth is I am not a delinquent. While I understand that the miscreants in your care at the Stropbare Reformatory are routinely birched, paddled, strapped, and caned for fantastical "crimes" such as "impertinence" and "cheekiness", such a draconian sentence would be entirely inappropriate for me.

I am not a reformatory ruffian, but a young American heiress of some considerable means, summering in England. Caning the reformatory sluts in your care is justice. Caning me would be assault. Since I'm assuming you enjoy running a prison more than you would enjoy staying in one, I must respectfully decline your highly attractive offer, beguiling though it might be.

I am not interested in a role-play, for however realistic the scenario might seem it would in fact be a play.

And can we not agree that as an adult woman, I'm far too old too wear a school uniform?

I'm shocked at you, Governor Gray! Aren't you getting a little old for such antics? I have quite a tight little bottom, and I wouldn't want you to injure yourself. Ha!

Smoky Hill, Colorado, 1865.

Caroline screamed as the stagecoach tilted precariously sideways onto two wheels as it flew across the bumpy terrain. A cloud of yellow dust billowed in through the open window, churned up by the galloping hooves of the fleeing horses. The high-pitched war cries of the pursuing Indians grew louder by the second as they closed the distance between them and their prey. An arrow whistled passed the window making Caroline shriek again in horror. Instinct had her gathering her bag and parasol close to her chest before huddling down on the stagecoach floor and closing her eyes.

I'm not gonna die! I'm not gonna die! The silent mantra ran through her brain over and over as she was jostled and bumped around the rocking carriage. Suddenly there was an agonised cry of pain from overhead and the driver's body fell past the window with an arrow protruding obscenely from his chest. Oh God, I'm gonna die!

Caroline barely had time to register that the stage was now a man-less, runaway vehicle. Her panicked mind just wanted it to keep right on running. The sound of an Indian whooping came from almost inside the stage and her head jerked up to see a savage leap from his horse and climb aboard. Seconds later the stage began to slow and Caroline knew she was caught.

She gritted her teeth to prevent tears of fear filling her green eyes. She had to stay focused. Wild hysterics would serve no purpose now. Her grip tightened on her parasol and bag as she held them in front of her like a sword and shield. The stage drew to a rocky halt and the door was wrenched open. The Indian looked inside and seemed disappointed to discover that Caroline was the only occupant. He shouted something in his own language before lurching forward to grab her arm and literally dragging her across the floor. Caroline tried to poke him with her parasol but there was little room to swing her arm between the bench seats and she soon found herself pulled outside the stage and thrown into the dirt. He stood over her, his painted face contorted with loathing. The rest of the small attack party remained on horseback at a short distance.

Caroline decided there and then that if she was going to die, she would die fighting. Releasing her bag, she wrapped both hands around the parasol and drove the metal tip into the savage's foot. The open moccasin shoe did nothing to protect him and he yowled as a stab of pain exploded just before his toes. The unexpected attack had him hopping on one leg, much to the humour of the watching tribesmen. Caroline took advantage of her momentary triumph to leap to her feet and swing the parasol at his head. It landed with a satisfying thwack over the Indian's ear. This time the watching group openly laughed.

Crash
by Anthony Alba
"How can I be lost?" William muttered to himself. It was not as if he was a stranger to the area. He had grown up around here, gone to school near here and he had only been at college a year. Yet the shortcut he had chosen to beat the traffic was turning into a disaster.

The cul-de-sac ahead told him clearly that this was not the way to cut back onto the main road. "Damn it to hell," he muttered. He glanced at his watch, he still had time but that would change fast if he did not find his way back onto the main road soon.

"When I graduate and can afford a half decent car, I'm getting sat-nav," he promised himself as he put his car into reverse. There was not enough room ahead to turn around but he could reverse into one of the driveways and then try again to find his way to the party.

William glanced at his rear view window, there was a silvery grey car in the drive way but there was plenty of room for him to manoeuvre. Then his mobile beeped. He picked it up from where he had left it on the passenger's seat. It was a text message from Garry. 'Where R U? Party starting. Girls hot!'

"Damn," he muttered again as he texted a quick reply. He had felt more that a little self-conscious dressing up in his schoolboy uniform complete with cap and short trousers but that was the theme of the party. The trade off was going to a party full of hot college girls all dressed up as schoolgirls!

BANG!

The impact shocked William and he slammed on the brake but he knew it was too late. He had hit something. With a pounding heart William glanced in his wing mirror. "Please, please... don't let it be a person..." He could not see clearly enough so he turned off the car and threw open the door and got out.

His breathing began to slow a little once he realised that he had not accidentally knocked anyone down. He had hit something though, the silver car parked in the driveway. Thankfully he had not been reversing too fast but the impact had still been enough to knock a dent in the side bumper.

A minute or more must have passed as he assessed the damage. He did not really care about the dent to his own car; it was so old and battered one more dent would hardly be noticed. It was nothing much to look at and he had picked it up cheap. Still it got him to and from college and that was all that matted, not to mention cheap was all he could afford at the moment. Then the front door of the house opened, spilling light into the twilight.

Prologue
"Take off your clothes."

Dana blinked. "What - all of them?"

"Every stitch."

"Oh. But..." She cast him a pleading look which was answered by an impassive stare from midnight-blue eyes and a slight quirky raise to his eyebrow as he waited for her to obey. She pouted and fluttered her eyelashes - it was worth a go - it sometimes worked. Alas, not today.

"Now, Dana." He strode across the room and sat on the edge of the bed, watching her as she resigned herself to the inevitable and slowly began unbuttoning her shirt.

"I said I'm sorry," she ventured, as her bra and jeans joined the discarded shirt on the floor.

"Not good enough. I warned you not to ride Black Jack, yet you disobeyed me - again."

Dana gulped. It was true. Black Jack fascinated her - he was a beautiful, vibrant horse, all muscle and solid bone, with a sleek black coat, a fiery glint in his eyes, and a temperament to match; he responded only to Ethan, a fact proved all too clearly as he whinnied his outrage and reared only moments after Dana struggled to mount him, sending her tumbling from the saddle to land ignominiously in the dirt. Stunned and winded, she had lain there as Black Jack towered above her, thrashing the ground with his powerful hooves. If Ethan hadn't come rushing over to scoop her up out of harm's way ... She pushed the thought aside, tacitly acknowledging that she deserved this spanking.

"Sorry," she repeated, biting her lip apprehensively.

Ethan looked pointedly at the pile of clothes on the floor. Following his gaze, Dana quickly picked them up, folded them, and set them on a chair, where she lingered wearing only the briefest pair of panties. With a sigh, she slid them down her creamy thighs and placed them on the chair.

She stood before him, keenly aware of her nudity, and the fact that her rose-tipped nipples had hardened in greeting. She hated it when she had to strip for a spanking - it was much more fun when he undressed her. But fun wasn't exactly on the agenda right now. She had been disobedient and foolish, and now it was time to pay the price ... on her naughty bottom.

"Come here, Dana." Ethan's left hand shot out and patted the bed. Such a large hand. Hard, like the cast iron skillet she used for cooking pancakes.

Her feet carried her reluctantly forward as her eyes remained fixed on his hand. Then that same hand raised to cup her chin and tilt her head up. His eyes met hers.

"Why am I going to spank you, Dana?"

"I messed up," she admitted. When no immediate response was forthcoming, she elaborated. "I was disobedient, and I put myself in danger. And I'm sorry ... real sorry."

"I know," he said, in a tone that was soft yet firm. "You know the score. Over you go."

1. Punishment
I voted for our government and supported without reservation all the changes they wanted to bring in: lightening the rules about spanking at home; partial restoration of corporal punishment in schools; return of corporal punishment for certain offences within the criminal law. Well, like many others, I was worried about the deteriorating behaviour of young people; not all obviously, but I felt that some authority had to be returned to the world of adults. But that was for other people's children of course! I never dreamt my own daughter might get caught up in it all, yet here I was pulling up at the Ministry of Justice's coyly named 'Therapy Centre'; my daughter, my lovely eighteen year old daughter, next to me.

We walked past a large sign which read, "Protecting the public, stopping re-offending" and up to reception. Amy handed over the pink form and the bored receptionist checked her details.

"You are Amy Rivington, date of birth 17th August 2007?"

"Yes."

"So you were eighteen last month?"

"Yes."

"And this is the correct address?"

"Yes."

"Do you have your doctor's certificate to say you are fit for therapy?"

Amy handed it over.

"Now you have chosen to receive this therapy rather than one of the other sentences open to the magistrates, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Sign here and put this security badge on; take a seat over there."

I too was checked in as Amy's father and chosen escort, given a badge and we both sat down, but I appeared the more nervous and wondered how much justice there was in this. Amy hadn't really done anything wrong. She had simply been present when a group of youngsters at the sixth form college got stopped by a random police patrol. Two of the lads had fairly large quantities of what I call 'pot' in their pockets, so under the Collective Responsibility Act of 2024 all the others were found guilty of "inappropriate association".

The magistrates were brisk. "Miss Rivington, you are hereby fined the sum of £60 and to undertake 50 hours of community service. The Clerk will inform you about alternative options."

The alternatives were a good idea I thought. A youngster found guilty of even a minor offence had a criminal record, but for certain offences there was an alternative "therapy" (read corporal punishment). If the therapy was taken and there was no re-offending within a certain time frame, then all record of the offence was expunged. It was an option increasingly taken by youngsters, more of whom were being caught up in the relentless crack down on behaviour. Amy had chosen the therapy option and here we were.

A girl of about sixteen, maybe younger, came out with a woman obviously her mother. The girl was crying and holding her bottom but her mother was unsympathetic. "Well I warned you again and again. I hope you've got the message this time..."