LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

Callie Watterson was trying her best to stand still with her nose pressed against the wall, just like she was ordered to do. Her panties were down below her knees and her small but curvaceous bottom practically glowed from the spanking she had received a few minutes ago.

However, in spite of her best effort, she began to fidget, moving first one foot, then the other, back and forth. Part of the problem was that her bottom hurt. Her husband Brent had used the paint paddle on her while she was draped submissively across his lap. The combination of the long paddling plus the awkward position never failed to reduce her to hot tears within a minute or two. Certainly, today's experience was no exception. She would feel the effects of this punishment for at least a day or so.

But another part of the problem was that she was conflicted. In her mind she knew that she had deserved the spanking; it was, after all, her fault and her fault alone that she had interrupted him while he was working on an important case. She knew logically that she shouldn't have interrupted him; she knew she should have been happy that at least he was working at home instead of remaining at the office, as he often did. Finally, she understood that, as a rising star in a very active law firm, Brent would be extremely busy and need to work at home in the evening and even on weekends.

They had discussed this at length before they were married three weeks ago (somehow it seemed much longer to Callie, almost another lifetime). Brent had told her in no uncertain terms that for the time being he would need to work as many hours as the firm required. And Callie said that she understood, especially since the law firm was representing her father's company, Roaring Meadows Pharmaceuticals, in several lawsuits involving patent infringement. She also knew that the preparation and litigation could very well drag on for weeks, if not months.

But this was Saturday evening, a time when most newly married couples were together, enjoying each other's company and doing what newlyweds are supposed to do. In fact, this evening, Callie had wanted to go out for dinner and maybe a movie, sit in the darkened theater and neck like a couple of teenagers. When she mentioned it at breakfast, Brent just shrugged, saying, "We'll see, Callie." She knew only too well what that meant.

Those had been the last words he had spoken to her, as he holed up in his office with the door closed, leaving her to stew about being left alone on a Saturday. Finally, at five-thirty, after she had entertained herself as much as she could, she worked up enough anger to push open his office door and practically storm inside. "Are you going to ignore me all day and all evening too?" she had blurted out.

Not even the morning's leaden skies and persistent, sullen rain could dampen Elizabeth Rodham's mood. Hope had been in short supply for the past three years, dwindling with each passing month as Elizabeth sank deeper into comparative poverty. Her acquaintances had deteriorated with her loss of position and status, her comforts appreciably lessened, and her chances for reversing the trend looked ever bleaker. But that morning found her on the road, riding comfortably alone in a coach hired especially for her, heading for a promising chance of future employment, and not even the necessity of pulling the shades on the windows to prevent being soaked could dim her newfound enthusiasm,

Elizabeth had spent nearly all of her adult life as a governess, working for two prosperous families in East Suffolk: the Forsythe's for five years and then the Huntington's for nearly ten. Colonel Huntington and his wife had been blessed with five children... three boys and two girls, and Elizabeth had spent the better part of a decade as an indispensable part of the family. But as often happens, with the last grown too old for a governess, she found herself altogether dispensable and was discharged, left unemployed, unmarried in her mid-thirties, and only in possession of the small competence that the Colonel's wife had allowed him to bestow.

She'd tried unsuccessfully for other positions, but as she feared, most prospective employers were looking for much younger women, more capable of being considered a companion as well as a governess for their children. Her hopes for marriage had also dwindled through the years. While a young woman, she'd been hampered by possessing unusual height, standing at an eye with most men and looking down on far too many. Too often she'd seen men take an interest in her, only to have their partiality fade when made aware of the jests and nudges sent in his direction. Now her age was implacably against her as well, and though she had maintained much of her good figure, the increasing lines about her face did nothing to hide the years.

However the specter of her remaining life as an old maid did not bother her nearly as much as the prospect of ever increasing poverty. The competence she had received from Colonel Huntington, combined with her own small savings, generated scarcely enough income to maintain her in the most modest of lodgings, with nary a full time servant and only an occasional cleaning woman to assist her.

Then came the most unexpected letter from Mr. Kenworthy, the gentleman having received a recommendation from the Colonel himself, advertising for a governess to deal with one particularly willful and unruly child. Colonel Huntington had obviously impressed upon the gentleman Elizabeth's success in dealing with his brood, particularly the younger boys. How the solicitation and recommendation had come about she could not fathom, but what mattered was that it was here, and a chance to reclaim some comfort and dignity.

Detective-Inspector Trevath surveyed the library of Sir Henry Swatham's mansion, noting the shelves of calf- and morocco-bound books lining the walls, the comfortable-looking leather armchairs and sofa grouped around the large stone fireplace, the naked blonde bound firmly over Sir Henry's heavy mahogany desk, the scatter of small tables bearing reading lamps plus the occasional decanter or box of cigars, and the French windows, framed by floor-length velvet curtains, in the far wall. He turned to Lady Marion.

"What seems to be the problem, ma'am?" he enquired.

Lady Marion glared at him, an impatient scowl marring her fine patrician features.

"Isn't it obvious, Inspector? She is the problem!" An imperious forefinger indicated the nude woman, now making head gestures and muffled sounds, possibly indicating, the Detective-Inspector considered, a wish to be released from the ropes and ball-gag currently restraining her.

The policeman quickly ran over the possibilities in his mind. He knew Lady Marion had a step-daughter, Susan, who might well be home from college, but this young lady appeared to be in her mid-twenties and Sir Henry's daughter would be a few years younger than that. One of the domestic staff, then? It seemed likely. When Lady Marion had first come to Zark as Sir Henry's bride, she had, Trevath recalled, found some of Zark's traditions a bit of a shock at first, but had quickly adapted and set about whipping Sir Henry's household staff into shape, both metaphorically and, in some cases, literally. It was odd, the Inspector thought, how often incomers were keener on the island's traditions than the islanders themselves...

His musings were cut short by an impatient "Well?" from Lady Marion.

"Of course, how Sir Henry or yourself keep order among your domestic staff is up to you, but unless this young woman has broken the law I see no reason to call us out - and even if..."

"This... person is not one of my maids, Inspector! I'm quite capable of dealing with them on my own."

"Then who is she?" The question was put by the third member of the party, Doctor Hewson, whose help Inspector Trevath had requested on first receiving Lady Marion's summons to the Hall on what she had described as 'a very serious case'.

"A good question, Doctor - who is she, Lady Marion?" The Inspector felt he should be asking any questions that needed to be asked - he was Zark's only Detective-Inspector, after all.

"If I knew that, I'd hardly need to send for a detective, would I? She's a complete stranger to me!"

"Perhaps Sir Henry knows her?" ventured the doctor.

"Sir Henry is away on an urgent business trip to London," Lady Marion replied. "I simply came into the library this afternoon and there she was!"

The recession did no one any favours, but it was particularly tough on young people, especially girls. My name is Caroline, and I had borrowed a small fortune to put myself through college, only to end up with a large debt and no prospect of a job commensurate with my qualifications. Having spent the two years since graduating flitting from one short-term minimum-wage job to another, I again found myself back on the dole. It was demoralising. Sometimes I felt so low that I wondered if there was any point even having a sociology degree!

On my way home from signing on (yet again) I stopped at the local newsagents, as I often did, to read the postcard adverts in the window. There were some great bargains to be had, if you only had the money, as people attempted to trade in their surplus possessions for a bit of cash. But, of more relevance to me, there was also an occasional job advert. On this occasion one particular advert captured my imagination. It simply said, 'Maid wanted for private residence. Full-time position', followed by a contact phone number. I did not think people actually had maids in this day and age, so I wondered if this was maybe some sort of euphemism used in the sex industry. I was intrigued, so after dithering for a day or two, I eventually decided to give the number a call, more out of curiosity than expectation, to see what would happen. If a man answered, I could always hang up.

The phone was answered by a Ms. Hardiman who confirmed that she was indeed looking for a maid. She explained that she lived alone in a large house in Westlands - an upmarket area of large detached Victorian houses in the inner suburbs, now mostly converted to offices for doctors, solicitors and other professionals, although a few remained in residential use. She said that she required a maid to look after the house and if I was interested I could call round for an interview. There seemed to be nothing to lose, so we fixed a time for the following morning.

The interview went very well. Ms. Hardiman seemed a pleasant enough lady in her mid-thirties. Having explained my background, she asked if I had any experience as a maid. I decided it was best to tell the truth (more or less) and confessed that I had no actual experience, but that I had looked after myself for five years since I had left home to go to university. I neglected to mention that my mother always complained that my bedsit resembled a tip each time she visited to deliver one of her unsolicited (but nonetheless welcome) food parcels. I did however mention that I had some experience as a chef. This had entailed little more than flipping burgers when it looked as if they might actually catch fire, but my position was technically known as 'Burger Chef' by the fast food chain that had employed me for three weeks the previous year, so strictly speaking I wasn't actually telling a lie.

The Schoolhouse on the Prairie
The old schoolhouse, as it was known, stood below the rise above the stream almost three miles from the Stepford Ranch House. Louise Stepford snorted at the very idea, as far as she knew it was less than 30 years old, having been built by the first generation of settlers in these parts. But then that was typical. The so-called first-comers invested everything with more gravitas than it deserved, especially themselves. Like this schoolmaster of theirs, who did he think he was? Louise was furious.

It was bad enough that she didn't have a man of her own, John Stepford having passed away on the journey out from Boston, but that was no excuse for uppity westerners to take advantage of a poor widow and her daughter.

The word stuck in her heart. A widow again at 36, it seemed so unfair, Louise sighed. Her first husband had not returned from the war, leaving her with a daughter at just 18-years-old. John Stepford had been her only real recourse. Now he too was dead. It wasn't that she missed him exactly. She had never really loved him, but now Ellie was 18 too and they both had to make a living on a ranch with no man and precious little of anything else. Louise sighed again. Boston was never like this. Then she remembered the uppity schoolmaster and his outrage. No, Boston was never ever like this.

Now that the schoolhouse was in sight, Louise pulled her shawl about her shoulders and took a moment to tuck a stray strand of raven hair into her bonnet. The wind was picking up and kicked at her skirts. Damn the man, bringing her all this way out here. Didn't she have better things to do?

Louise didn't bother to knock; wasn't this a public building after all? She would be damned if... any other thoughts were wiped from her mind as she swept into the little school house and saw Ellie and what had been done to her.

"Oh my God, you barbarian," Louise gasped.

She didn't even look at the man who had perpetrated such an outrage, so she didn't see his look of angry disapproval as he glanced up at her from his desk over the rims of his spectacles. He was big man in a once grand black suit that had seen better days. If she had taken the trouble to look she would have seen the darker outline of a star on his lapel where once a sheriff's badge had been pinned.

But instead, Louise's eyes were drawn to Ellie's shameful predicament. The petite raven-haired younger copy of Louise was stood in the corner with her hands planted firmly on her head while her skirts had been tucked neatly into the small of her back.