LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

Chapter One
Gwyneth reclined on the couch, her head on a pillow, and her hand buried deep in a bag of cookies. Nick droned on about something, but she didn't pay much attention. It had to do with money and some bad press she'd gotten recently, which meant it wasn't important. After all, there was no such thing as bad press.

Why couldn't he ever figure that out?

"Gwen, are you listening to me?" he snapped.

"No," she said simply and rolled her head toward him.

He sighed and shook his head. "Gwyneth Elaine Parson, this is serious!"

"Yeah-yeah, I know, you want me to review my latest damage report and the cost. Who the fuck cares?"

"You should, you little twit," he said, rising from his desk and waving the pages at her. "Look at this: damage to the hotel, damage to your car - your new car - the neighbor's hedge and front porch, and then there's that tiny 'incident' at the mall."

"Nick, the little bitch wouldn't leave me alone."

"She was a fan, Gwen, was being the operative word, and all she wanted was a picture. Not only did you smash her phone, but you pushed her into a fountain, and did it in full view of the media. The video has already gone viral."

She perked up, sitting up straight on the sofa. "Really? How many hits has it gotten?"

"Gwen, this is serious!"

"Oh, what of it? Shit, toss some money at her like everyone else and she'll be happy."

"You don't have that much money."

She rolled over, bit another cookie, and opened another teen fan magazine to look for articles about herself. "Please, I've got more than enough money to buy anyone I want, and I'll have even more once my new album comes out."

Nick rubbed his temples and grunted. "Yeah, right, the new album. And, just where are you on the songs for that?"

"It's a... a work in progress, Nick. Chill out, I'll be ready by the time we head to the studio next month."

"Week," he said simply.

"Huh?"

"Next week, Gwen, we're scheduled to lay down the tracks in seven days. So, how far along are you in writing them?"

She swallowed hard. "They're... coming along. I need to... stretch my legs."

She got up, tugged her snug little hot pants down as much as she could, which wasn't much, and sauntered off to her suite. Gwen really loved her house. Not only was it decked out just the way she wanted, but it truly was hers and hers alone. Years ago, when she was a child star on that silly TV show that she couldn't even remember the title of now, she'd essentially bought her freedom from her parents.

It had only cost her a house and two cars for them, and they didn't even want fancy cars.

"Take off your clothes."

Emily blinked. "What? Um ... you don't mean all of them?"

"I do. All of them. Every stitch."

Emily visibly squirmed. She pulled her best cute little girl face and batted her eyelashes, a tactic that so often worked ... but not this time. Leo merely stared impassively as he waited for her to obey, the only sign of emotion a warning predatory gleam in his blue eyes. Slightly narrowed now, they fixed intently on her. She knew that look so well. When he was in 'strict daddy' mode he wouldn't be dissuaded from his purpose no matter how hard she tried to deflect him, and she knew full well his purpose right now was to spank her naughty bottom. In an attempt to delay the inevitable, she tried another tactic.

"Sorry," she said contritely. Sir. He expects to be called Sir at times like this. "I'm very sorry, Sir."

Leo shook his head. "It's no good being sorry after the event. You shouldn't have misbehaved to start with, and telling lies about it has only served to prolong your punishment," he said sternly, reaching for the little red leather paddle on the table.

"But Daddy," she pleaded, "it was all a misunderstanding."

"That's what you said last time ... and the time before."

"Oh." She pouted. Crap.

"So stop prevaricating and do as you're told. Strip."

Emily sighed. Doing as she was told wasn't something she was particularly good at. And she hated it when she had to strip for a spanking - it was so much more fun when Leo undressed her. But fun wasn't within reach right now. She had been a bad girl and now it was time to face the consequences. Catching sight of the paddle, she gulped. It was only small, but it was very hard and stingy. She knew then that she would be eating her dinner standing up. Pulling a wry face, she began fiddling with the buttons on her blouse. Off it came, followed by her bra and skirt. There was a slight hesitation, then she slid her panties down over her chubby bottom and creamy thighs, and stood before him naked. Though he had regularly seen her naked, she felt heat rising to her cheeks, her embarrassment manifesting in a sudden blush. She shuffled her feet awkwardly, stared down at her toes then began fidgeting with her fingers. Feeling the power of his gaze burning into her, she looked up.

Their eyes met in a perfect harmony of submissive green and dominant blue, then Leo glanced meaningfully at the pile of discarded clothes on the floor by Emily's feet. Meeting her gaze again, he raised an eyebrow. Knowing what was expected of her, Emily bent to pick up her clothes, folded them neatly, and set them on a chair. She watched nervously as Leo pulled out a straight-backed chair and sat down on it.

Diary of an Aristobrat
"Owww!" mewed Elizabeth Winslow Jones, ruefully rubbing her aristocratic bottom as she climbed the spiral staircase of the great house. "From now on, I'd better mind my tongue when speaking with strangers!" The blond beauty made her way along the upper hallway to her bedroom, closing the door softly behind her, taking care not to slam it lest she be called back for an encore by her parents who were visiting with the new neighbours in the drawing room directly beneath her.

Approaching the dressing table, she turned her back to the huge vanity mirror and carefully eased her cream coloured jodhpurs and matching bikini knickers down over her voluptuous hips. Out popped as scarlet a pair of seat cheeks as ever you've seen! With pants around her thighs, she waddled over to the closet, rummaged around in the mess on the back shelf, and came up with a small electric fan. Setting it down on the chair before the vanity, she turned it on and stuck her glowing posterior a few inches away from the grille. "Aaaaahhhh, that's better!" she sighed, as the wind swirled over hill and dale.

Peering over her shoulder in the mirror, fascinated by the inflamed flesh, she skimmed her finger tips back and forth over the seething mounds. Mother's right hand had painted the entire surface a sunset pink, and father's strap had stained the twin summits a darker shade of crimson. "Golly! What a sight for sore eyes," she muttered. "Daddy really laid it on!" After a session with the Rear Admiral - as the tawse was called in the Winslow household - Elizabeth's bottom needed more relief than the fan could offer, so she reached for her second aid, a jar of Estée Lauder's finest moisturizing cream. The lotion was called a face cream; given the price, it was evidently meant to be used sparingly on a woman's smaller pair of cheeks. Defying convention, Elizabeth daubed great gobs of the stuff all over her big cheeks, gently rubbing it into the scalded flesh. Then she thrust them back before the fan. "Ooooohhh, what a relief!" she shivered, as goosebumps arose on the glistening flesh.

They say time is the healer of life's hurts, and that was certainly the case with Elizabeth's bottom. In half an hour, the searing sting had subsided to a faint, itchy throb. But instead of putting the ordeal out of mind, Elizabeth's impulse was to write it all down. So she slipped her diary from its hiding place beneath the mattress. The little red book with her name embossed in fancy gold script on the cover already contained two vivid accounts of spankings she had received in the past year, one from her mother and the other from the headmistress of her finishing school.

The real reason she dwelt on these expiation rituals lay well beyond the twenty-year-old's consciousness, but the way she explained it to herself appealed to a theatrical sense of her own self-importance.

Chapter 1 - The Contest
The first slaves were led out, stripped naked for the ordeal ahead, trembling and nervous. Aliera watched, tense, from her cushioned seat above the arena, shaded by coloured silks and screened by fine gauze curtains. Her future would be decided today.

Down in the arena the women were urged into a line by the guards, then a roar went up from the crowd as the candidates strode out into the bright sunshine. Aliera leaned forward to catch a glimpse of Kevan; there he was, so handsome, his hair golden in the sunlight. Kevan who whispered sweet words to her, who kissed her hand, who promised he'd be the one chosen for her ceremony. He just had to win today.

The men lined up, stripped to the waist, flexing muscles and limbering up for the trials. Aliera counted twenty, the best of the best, every man sure he'd be the one. The huge form of a town blacksmith; a wiry miner from the mountains, one of those ageless little old men who are stronger than they look; soldiers of fortune trying for their big chance; solid burghers from the town; a few priests, hard-eyed and dedicated; half a dozen young lords, patrician and superior; two wild-eyed tribesmen from the plains. And Goran, the Commander of the Palace Guard. Aliera shivered. Goran, so arrogant, so sure of himself, always there whenever she wanted to do anything with his, "The Princess is mistaken, she will not be doing this today... My lady, this is not how a Princess behaves... I am sure His Majesty would not approve." His dark eyes sweeping over her without the awe and respect she received from the rest of the palace staff. Arrogant pig! He looked so huge and uncouth beside her lovely Kevan.

It began. Each of the contestants reached for a slave, then dragged her towards a line of seats. The men sat down, depositing their reluctant assistants over their knees. Twenty pale rumps pointed to the sky.

Twenty hands raised, waited for the signal. Whimpers from the miserable slaves sounded loud in the sudden silence. The High Priestess, Tiarna, stepped forward and looked down into the arena. At her gesture a gong sounded and twenty hands descended. The spanking began.

Aliera watched, knowing that the winner of the contest would soon be spanking her the same way. She noticed several different techniques: some hit slow and hard, some fast and light, some concentrated several strokes on one spot before moving to another, some seemed to strike at random following no pattern at all. Yelps, squeals and wails rose louder as twenty bottoms reddened. Legs kicked, hands beat on the ground. The sounds of determined slapping went on. The sand ran through the timer. Aliera began to suspect that ten minutes could seem like quite a long time.

Aliera wriggled on her cushioned seat. She had never been spanked, never felt an angry touch.

Charley in Charge
Charley knew he would be in charge the minute he came up behind his wife, Charlene, in the kitchen and put his hand under her sweater to rub her tummy. He knew he was in charge as Charlene leaned back into his embrace and turned her head so he could kiss her long slender neck.

He stayed in charge as he gently lifted the sweater over her head and unclasped the bra that held her breasts in place. His feelings of being in total control of the situation increased as he reached down and undid the button on her jeans, sliding the zipper downward. She increased his feelings of being the boss by turning toward him and placing her hands around the back of her neck, showing she would not fight the removal of all of her clothing.

She furthered his feelings about being in total control of his woman by willingly allowing him to carry her to the bedroom and place her in the position he desired. After his tongue outlined her breasts, lower thighs and everything in-between, she needed no further play to increase her desire for him.

His entry was slow and deliberate, something he knew she would like and he continued that slow action for the first few minutes, even though at times he wanted to speed things up. To show his control, he would pretend to pull out entirely, making her ask, almost beg to keep him going. There was not a chance in hell he would actually withdraw.

He kept going until she shivered and shook three times in response to his efforts, and then sped up considerably as he sought to satisfy his own urges. His actions were all his to decide how and when things would happen in the bedroom, and she followed every lead he gave. When they finally separated, she snuggled close to him and gave a happy sigh. Things were just perfect between the two of them.

Charlene knew Charley liked the feeling of being in control and because he always looked after her desires first, went along with him. She just had to smile when he got up to go to the bathroom and she saw the paddle marks still showing across his butt cheeks from two days previous.

Charley was in complete control of the bedroom activity and she was a willing submissive. His control, though, in their household only extended to those hours each week that they spent making love. The rest of the time, Charlene was in control and Charley knew it. He not only knew it, but he loved it.

She recalled the scene two days ago when he had failed to show respect for her mother. He argued that her mom was interfering too much in the household and should mind her own business. Charlene put up with his ranting for a few hours and then picked up her cell phone to talk to her mom.