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Two Spankings for Lady Southcott
Lady Caroline Southcott's eyes blazed with fury. Still breathing hard, she drew back and slapped the hell out of me. Who would have guessed that a well-bred dame in her mid-forties could pack such a punch? But she did. My cheek stung like fire.

"Ooh, you monster!" she hissed. "Hound! I'll see you in jail for this!" She paused to catch her breath, and then went on, "You may treat those poor women back on your godforsaken prairie this way, sir, but not here! Here in England a woman is shown respect and dignity!"

Now, I will admit that I had rubbed a little of the lady's dignity off. Her blonde curls, normally perfectly coiffed, were frazzled and mussed. Her stylish belted silk dress was scrunched up almost to her waist. And those white French knickers, or panties as we say back in Wyoming, were down around her ankles.

The lady realized this, and quickly reached down and pulled them up to where they belonged. Once her undies were in place, she slapped me again for watching. Her voice as cold as an English parlor, she said, "I'm telling Lord Charles what you did. Then the police will deal with you, sir! Assaulting a woman! Oh, you'll pay dear!'

"Strictly speaking, Ma'am," I replied, "I only assaulted your fat behind. And if you don't mind my sayin' so, you had it comin'."

That got me another slap in the face. "I wish you'd quit that," I said tersely.

The lady and I were standing on a walking path in the back of the formal gardens at Loxton Manor, the country retreat of Lady Caroline and Lord Charles Southcott. I was a guest here. But until I bent the lady over my lap and gave her a good spanking, she had not treated me as a guest.

The way I see it, she earned that spanking. Earned it by looking down her nose at me from the moment I arrived. Calling me a ruffian; poking fun at my Wyoming accent in front of her husband and his friends.

So when by chance I had met Lady Southcott at the back of the gardens, we had a showdown of sorts. She had launched into another tirade, letting me know in no uncertain terms that I was both uncouth and unwelcome. This in spite of the fact that Lord Charles had invited me to come visit the Sceptred Isle where he would show me around.

Charles Southcott, you see, was an avid photographer. He had recently travelled to Wyoming to photograph the daily life of cowboys on the Box A, my ranch along the Niobrara River. We hit it off immediately. Royal blood ran in his veins; my own blood was a blend of Crow Indian mixed in with the white. But the bond of friendship was forged, one thing led to another, and here I was, his guest in Britain.

Lady Southcott did not warm to her husband's cowboy visitor.

Passion Reawakened
I bent over the keyboard and made sure I looked busy as my immediate superior walked past, talking to his immediate superior. They both smiled at me, and I gave them a quick grin. Both of them under thirty, I could give them fifteen years or more. I straightened my shoulders a little and tossed my hair back, it was nice to know I was still worth the once-over.

Ten minutes later I was grabbing a quick cup of tea in the luxurious staff common-room (which doubled as the broom cupboard). I'd pushed the door almost-closed so that I could grab my cuppa in peace, but I could hear the chatter outside. Little Boss and Big Boss wandered down the corridor nattering away, I ignored them until I heard my name, then I tuned in automatically. Nice to know I rate a mention.

"Oh well, Laura is the perfect employee."

Ah yes, they know quality when they see it.

"She fits in alright in the office? I would have thought she's a bit long in the tooth compared to everyone else, she's no spring chicken, is she?"

"Actually, she's the perfect age. Too old to get pregnant, too young to be totally doo-lally yet, and too married to be ambitious."

"Well, that's true. And there's something to be said for the stolid mummy types, they do the work of three other people and keep in the background."

"Yes, she's a good old girl is Laura, and she knows her place. Never any trouble, she just potters along. You need a few of those staid middle-aged middle-class types. They add ballast."

"And it takes the pressure off, doesn't it. Less competition on the ladder. Now, time for a nice long working lunch I think."

I poured the Earl Grey down the sink. Mummy type? Good old girl? Staid? Ballast? I'll give that little pipsqueak ballast. I'll tie him to an anchor and drop him off Circular Quay. And where the hell does he get off calling me middle aged? Middle aged? I'm not middle aged. Old people are middle aged, that's not me! And staid? Staid? I've got a good mind to tell him a few things about me. I'll show him who's staid.

I lost my virginity in the back of a ute when I was 15. At least I think I did, the ute was moving at the time, and with all that bouncing around... but the thought was there. I smoked pot when I was 16. It made me throw up, but that's not the point. What was that patronising little worm doing when he was 16? Making model aeroplanes probably.

And at University - the sit-ins I organised, the protests in the streets, I was in the front row, I had a voice! I fought for women's rights, land rights and peace (and for better service at the university cafeteria, but that was a private protest of my own). I edited the newspaper for the Women's Collective.

Blushing Bride
I have two sisters and three female cousins, all older than me. And all married. And I've carried a bouquet at all five weddings, so I know what I'm talking about: there's something about bridehood that turns a poised, sensible, capable woman into a shrieking, sobbing tyrant with all the self-control of a toddler on red cordial.

I was seven when I was flowergirl for my cousin. Sweet, gentle Maree, who taught Sunday School and sang in the church choir and screamed death threats at the dressmaker who put two buttons instead of three on the cuffs of her wedding dress.

By the time I was thirteen I'd recovered from that trauma, in time to be junior bridesmaid for my sister Cathy. I'd always been in awe of my big sister, who was assistant to a Managing Director, which sounded dreadfully important to me. She was always perfect, poised, never a hair out of place. And I watched her have a two-hour crying fit because the ribbons for the church pews were one inch wide instead of two.

At sixteen I watched my sister Toni break her engagement three times in one day, and then throw a vase of flowers over her fiancé the day before the wedding. At seventeen, my cousin Grace, who without any grace at all attacked a hairdresser with a curling wand because her hair was 'too ringletty'.

After that came a break of a few years. And then when I was twenty-two my cousin Louie got engaged, and asked me to be her chief bridesmaid. This is a responsible job. I realised how responsible when, in one memorable week, she changed the bridesmaids' dresses three times, commissioned wedding dresses from two different dressmakers because she couldn't make up her mind, stole flowers from a stranger's garden to show the florist what she wanted in her bouquet, tried to bribe one of the groomsmen to drop out of the wedding party because he was three inches taller than the groom and would make the wedding photos look wrong, and then threw a shelf-full of shoes at a hapless salesman because he brought her ivory instead of off-white to try on.

And a year later, it was my turn. Well, I'd seen it all, and I wasn't going to fall apart like that, or make such a display of myself. I was cool, calm and collected throughout. One bridesmaid's dress was three inches too short: I had them all cut up to cocktail length. The dressmaker put the wrong lace on my dress: I decided the new lace was fine anyway, and talked them into a discount as well. They double-booked the reception place: I organised a marquee in the grounds of my aunt's house, and told everyone that her award-winning garden was the perfect backdrop. The hairdresser cut my hair an inch too short a week before the wedding: I changed the style for the wedding, and decided it looked fine.

The Awakening
The first time she saw him he was leaning against a shop window on the opposite side of the road; and he was staring at her, eye catching in his black leathers. She put down her coffee cup and looked at him. The busy road separating them belched exhaust fumes, and the noise and clamour of traffic and pedestrians and coffee shop customers was a constant racket, only fading into a hum of insignificance as she began to focus on him.

Though his frame was angled into a casual slouching position against the shop window, she could see he was tall - tall and broad shouldered and mysterious looking in his dark shades and long coat of shiny black leather. The coat fitted him perfectly, like a second skin, emphasising his broad chest, flat belly and narrow hips. His shoulder length hair blew in thick black strands over his face. She wished she were closer to see the detail. She wanted him to remove the dark glasses so that she could see his eyes.

It seemed at that precise moment, that his lips curved into a semblance of a smile. Languidly he raised his right arm to his face and removed his glasses, slipping them into his pocket. His eyes glittered. He most definitely was staring at her. She shivered and stared back.

In one fluid motion he stepped away from the shop window and stood by the curb. Expertly judging a gap in the traffic, he ran lightly across the road. He moved with the speed and grace of a predatory panther, and in seconds his dark form shadowed her table. He slid onto the vacant chair facing her, and he smiled. It was a slow, confident smile of both invitation and assurance, and his dark eyes brimmed with untold secrets and promises of hidden delights. For long seconds he gazed at her, and then he spoke.

"I know what you need."

His voice was deep and smooth and mellow; a dark chocolate kind of voice, resonant and rich and irresistible. Her eyes widened. She felt gauche and confused.

"You do?"

He nodded, and clicked his fingers. The waitress scampered over eagerly.

"Two coffees. Latte. No sugar."

The waitress blushed, scribbled the order down on a pad, and scuttled off to get the coffees.

"I am Bryn. And you are?"

"Catrina."

Catrina blushed. One part of her wanted to tell him that she didn't want another cup of coffee, and that even if she did, she would have ordered cappuccino, with sugar. But she said nothing, and wondered why.

"Catrina." He repeated her name, and it fell from his lips like strands of honey. "It is a beautiful name."

"Thank you. Bryn. Is that Welsh?"

"It is. And I am." He smiled, revealing a row of perfect teeth.

The coffees arrived, and the waitress moved despondently away, peeved she didn't get a smile from the sexy handsome man. His attentions were elsewhere. He pushed the cup and saucer towards Catrina.

Chapter 1 - Wives in Trouble
"Cynthia darling, are you really telling me that you like to be spanked?"

"Of course, Sybil. Though I am aware you are not so keen, darling."

"That's putting it mildly. But you may be right that he's not very good at it. Which could be the root of the problem."

"What, too heavy handed? Or not enough, perhaps?"

"By turns both, I'm afraid to say."

"You poor dear. That is the worst of all possible worlds." Cynthia stood up and smoothed down her skirt with an air of decision. "You are coming inside with me for a lesson. Out of sight of the neighbourly eyes." She looked left and right meaningfully to the patios and gardens of the adjoining Victorian semis, then led the way through the French windows.

"Oh, goody. I was hoping you might want to, ah, get to the bottom of things. Sorry, darling, that was unforgiveable. Let me bring the glasses to make up."

Inside, drinks were fixed and the two women toasted their alliance. As wives of two amiable government employees somewhat feckless in matters of the bedroom they had pledged to support each other in remedying the situation.

Drawing her skirt up out of the way, Cynthia sat on the chesterfield and beckoned her friend over. She glanced up at Sybil then lifted her dress and the slip beneath. An expanse of marble thigh came into view followed by an auburn bush.

"My dear girl, we are adventurous today. One might think you were expecting, even hoping for this. Were you perhaps afraid that if there were knickers I might not take them down?"

"I hope you don't think me too rude, Cynthia. We are after all women together. Please don't blame me for wanting the full experience when my dearest is so dismal at it." So saying, she lowered herself meekly across the waiting lap and raised her hindquarters for inspection.

"Of course not, darling. And I wouldn't have missed this opportunity for the world. You have such a delicious derrière, Sybil, and to think I have never before seen it au naturel." Her friend's face was turned away but Cynthia could see the red flush on her neck. She laughed. "Oh my dear, I will stop embarrassing you, I promise. Shall we get to business?"

"Please do. I'm ready." In response Cynthia raised her hand and in short order delivered two smart slaps.

"Ooh. Ooh!" After a saucy wiggle of the hips Sybil arched her back and pushed her bottom up for more. Relishing the bounce of the resilient cheeks Cynthia settled to her task. Soon the pale orbs began to pinken and with the new colour the movements of the hips grew more lascivious.

"Ooh. Mmm. Darling - mmm - you are - ooh - very good - at this - mmm - I had no idea - oooooh..."

"Sybil darling." With a hand fondling the warming cheeks Cynthia leaned down and cooed into her friend's ear.