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"This place stinks."

"No it doesn't. That's just the cattle."

"You said we'd have a fun time. Smelling stinking cows is NOT my idea of fun."

Tammy sighed. "Amanda, it's a rodeo. Just relax and you'll enjoy it."

Amanda wrinkled her nose and huffed, "Relax? This place is hot and crowded and smelly. Half the people here look like extras from Deliverance, and this seat is grossly uncomfortable!" She wriggled around a little more, her tight skirt riding up even higher on her thighs.

Tammy was beginning to think this visit was a mistake. They'd been best friends all through school, until Mandy's - no, AMANDA'S parents split up and her mother took her across the country to find a better life in the bright lights of city living. Now fun-loving Mandy had become expensively groomed and sophisticated Amanda, and so far, nothing in her old home town compared to the wonderful life she had in the big city.

Tammy loved her small town, she loved watching the rodeo, and she especially loved watching one particular rodeo rider. Her eyes scanned the pens at the end of the arena, searching for those blue eyes, and that blonde hair, bright against his tanned skin.

The calf roping had just finished - they'd arrived late; it took Amanda quite a while to get her hair and make-up just right. Tammy had brushed her short, curly black hair and wiggled into her newest jeans. Amanda had spent an eternity fussing over her long blonde hair and deciding which of her designer outfits was suitable for a rodeo.

The barrel races didn't hold Amanda's attention for long. She muttered something about how rough it all was - Tammy didn't tell her that she often took part, she didn't want another diatribe on how coarse and unladylike country women were compared to those smoothly attractive creatures who lived in the city and took more trouble with their appearance.

"OH! Who are THEY?" Tammy looked at Amanda. She was staring open-mouthed at the far end of the arena.

Tammy glanced towards the group of men preparing for the bull riding. And there he was! She took a deep breath to steady her voice. "That's the cowboys who'll be on next. For the bull riding." He looked so wonderful, those tight jeans moulded to his gorgeous buns and strong thighs, and his shirt stretching across that wonderful broad chest... breathe, girl, breathe.

"They're GORGEOUS!" At last the two girls were in full agreement. They both focussed on the main attractions for a few moments, in silent adoration. "Can't we get closer?" All of a sudden the heady aroma of cow didn't seem to be bothering Amanda. She was already up and working her way along the stands towards the far end. Tammy grabbed at her, then followed quickly. She never went down to the rail there, like the cute girls who flirted with the men. What was the point? Why would he look at her when there were so many others trying to attract him?

Camlin kept her eyes closed. If they didn't know she was awake she might hear something useful.

The taste of failure and betrayal was bitter. Oh yes, she'd hear something useful, and she'd miraculously escape from the shackles, make her way unscathed through the Citadel, past the guards teeming through every corridor, escape under the noses of her deadliest enemies, out into a city full of people who'd line up for the chance to kill her on sight. And then just a few hundred miles of open plain with no cover and no way to travel, up to a mountain range with rock faces so sheer and jagged that they seemed to shred the sky. And then she'd be almost safe.

No, if she managed to escape the restraints her only chance of escape was to find the nearest guard and run onto his sword.

She lay still, hating them. Hating the ones who'd betrayed her like this. Men with no honour. What could you expect from false-king Tor and his foul brother?

Arbrec, Prince of the Realm, glanced at the still figure strapped to the bench. He studied her for a moment, then turned to his brother. "She's been out for too long. They must have given her too much."

King Tor shook his head. "She's been awake for the last ten minutes."

Camlin opened her eyes to glare at her enemies. Both brothers were tall and broad, making the cell seem even smaller as they loomed over her. Thick blonde hair glittered golden in the dancing light of the torches on the walls. Armour gleamed coldly - and two pairs of dark blue eyes even colder. Her own eyes were the same deep midnight blue, glittering almost black with hatred now. "I came to you under the flag of truce. You have no honour."

"We guaranteed your safety. And you're quite safe here, nobody can get to you." Tor waved a careless hand at the cold stone of the dungeon walls. His lips curled in a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"My people will know you've broken your word. No treaty will ever be made with you, no other ruler will ever trust you. By killing me you've destroyed this kingdom, and your dynasty."

Tor reached out touched her hair, running a long strand through his fingers. "It's like black silk, isn't it. Lovely. And, my dear little viper, we're not going to kill you."

Camlin tossed her head, trying to evade his touch. "Keeping me prisoner will amount to the same thing. I came here in good faith to negotiate - you gave me your word on the Blood. A sacred oath."

Arbrec's laugh was forced and angry. "Why would we negotiate with a rebel?"

"My troops hold the northern passes, without those trade routes overland you're totally dependent on the sea. On Kathlian ships. And Kathlia is a dangerous neighbour for a weakened country. You have to negotiate with me or there'll be a Kathlian flag flying over the Citadel before next harvest."

Chapter 1 - Archive
Melinda George had arrived at the grand age of thirty-seven without experiencing an orgasm. Or so she supposed; it wasn't really something she brooded about. At odd times during her marriage of a dozen years she had felt, well, pleasurable sensations 'down below' (as her mother would have put it) but under the uninspired pumping of her husband they would come to nothing. Generally she had been left, if briefly, resentful and frustrated with a view of his back. The more forthright agony aunt might recommend masturbation, but she could hardly do that with him beside her and in the morning the issue would be gone from her mind. In any case, an upbringing where female anatomy was a taboo area had left her not only ignorant but had attached to the subject a distaste that kept her wilfully so.

The marriage had ended in divorce after he'd admitted an ongoing affair with a fellow office worker and with no children the break-up had been an occasion for relief rather than acrimony. Thank God it was over. With an honours history degree, Melinda had worked part time for years in the University Library, but her position had disappeared six months before in a series of funding cutbacks. And she was bored. There was the growing feeling that life was slipping by, trickling through her fingers with no residue of stimulation or satisfaction.

And that was her condition when she chanced on an advertisement in the local paper.

There is a vacancy for an Archivist with the Marchmont Collection which is a privately endowed library of historical materials relating to the regulation of the behaviour of women. Applications are invited from suitably qualified women with an interest in sometimes controversial questions of discipline in the home, school and the wider community. A curriculum vitae together with a short account of some personal experience that relates to the collection's theme may be submitted to its Keeper, Miss Samantha Morton.

Salary levels were generous and her experience would place her at the upper end of the range specified. The address indicated that the collection was held at 5 Abbot's Lane, near the heart of the old city where the earliest departments of the University were still housed. Melinda read the carefully worded notice again. It seemed plain that the focus was on the use of corporal punishment in the past, where for some decades it had seemed to have been consigned. Now, though, since its reintroduction on a trial basis in a selection of schools, it had indeed become the object of heated debate between the 'spare the rod' faction and their die-hard opponents.

She was intrigued enough to want more information, but then the last sentence brought her up short. What on earth was this Miss Morton looking for in a 'personal experience'? That applicants should have undergone - or even handed out - a caning or the like? Ridiculous. This was Britain, and, save a few schools, not Singapore.

It was a typical Monday morning in the post office, with the usual queue of people who poured through the door at opening time, each intent on pursuing their individual errands. As they waited in line, most chatted to others in the queue; in a small village, everyone knows everyone else's business.

Or at least that is the perception.

If they had known that their efficient new flame-haired postmistress was sitting behind the counter resting her feet on the cane-striped buttocks of a naked man, they would have had a conversation topic to keep tongues wagging for a decade.

But they didn't know. And as they collected their pensions, bought stamps and chocolate bars, stationery and birthday cards and elastic bands, they were oblivious to the presence of Manfred.

Safely hidden, crouching on hands and knees on the floor, he was in his element. Once a month, by tacit agreement, the postmistress gave him a good thrashing. He wanted it. He needed it. He loved it. And if he had been an especially good boy, he was allowed to serve as a foot stool for Mistress Vanessa to rest her feet on.

Of course, if his naked presence were ever discovered he would be mortified and likely die on the spot of shame and embarrassment. Quite possibly the fear of what could go wrong added to the enjoyment of being thus humiliated. It was a real turn on, and his dick twitched in agreement.

People came and went, and the postmistress operated with timely efficiency as she dealt with the requirements of each person at the counter. She was methodical and business like, polite without being over familiar. On first glance, she was somewhat formidable. Her age was difficult to discern; she could be anything between 25 and 50 years of age, with her red hair pulled back tightly from her angular face devoid of any shred of make-up. There were no escaped curling tendrils or wispy bits of hair to feather against her cheeks and soften the rather severe look. She wore black framed glasses, which gave her a certain intellectual gravitas. Her cheek bones were high and well-defined and her lips were wide and full. Her large almond-shaped eyes were clear blue, and even without mascara or eye liner to accentuate their shape and depth, possessed an almost hypnotic quality.

Half way in the queue, Rick Marshall couldn't take his eyes off her. She was magnificent. She had such a commanding presence he was attracted to it like a moth to a candle flame.

As though sensing she was under scrutiny, she glanced up and made eye contact with him. He found himself caught up in that blue-eyed gaze, feeling like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an approaching vehicle. He blushed, suddenly feeling guilty of some grave misdemeanour.

When it was his turn at the counter, he handed over an envelope containing a birthday card for his sister in Australia. "I'd like to send that Air Mail please."

Chapter 1 - Gerda
Harriet Maynard was an old lady, and as such she was content to think of herself. After all, seventy five was old, even in these days when adolescence lasted until one turned forty, and nobody was middle aged until sixty. People never admitted to being old, they simply died in the fullness of their years. Not so Harriet. She had enjoyed a long and full life, and though still employed, her chief occupation these days was taking her ease. That was her invariable habit in the hour before dinner, when she would sink into her armchair by the fire of her sitting room and enjoy a sherry or two, while reminiscing over the various episodes of her life; and often dozing off, sometimes to dream of them.

When I say that Harriet was still employed, I do not mean to imply that she was burdened by heavy cares or exacting duties. She was the nurse at the Red Hills Girls' Academy of which school her nephew, Andrew Fisher, was headmaster, as the post is still called at institutions enjoying a certain quality and the self-confidence it supplies. Harriet had served for many years in posts where real nursing was required and the work of every day, so the odd colds, scrapes and the very occasional sprain or broken bone that afflicted the girls taxed neither her competence nor her energy. The duty that most interested Harriet, and which prompted the clearest recollections that transported her back to a colourful period of her life, was in attending the sessions in which her nephew inflicted corporal punishment upon the girls. Corporal punishment for pupils in their final year had been reintroduced to schools when the government belatedly realized, following the London riots of a few years ago, that discipline was necessary to the young. Red Hills was one of the few schools which adopted the measure seriously.

Harriet got no lubricious pleasure from witnessing such punishments, but neither did she feel sorry for the girls, who endured what she thought of as a few mild stripes. That did not stop them from squealing and kicking as the cane lashed their bottoms, for it usually was the cane that was the instrument of correction.

"My word, what would these soft little darlings think of receiving real punishment," was the thought that always occurred to Harriet when she witnessed a caning. Her duty on such occasions was to ensure that no real damage was done, and to offer such soothing care as she deemed necessary. In truth she considered no care necessary but the passage of a very sort interval of time. Such a contrast to her experiences in a previous position, where post-punishment nursing was the work of several days of dressings, ointments and soothing words.

These musings were interrupted by one of the senior girls with a message from the deputy head, Miss Sloan, who requested Nurse Maynard's attendance in the senior dormitory.