LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

Gambling is a bad habit. More than a bad habit. More like a vice. He got that now. It shouldn't have had to come to this, his reddened ass hanging out for anyone to see, for him to get it through his head. Or maybe it did have to come to this for him to see the light.

---oOo---
Steve always thought he was pretty good at picking the winners of football games. He had played a little ball in high school, though if truth be told, as the third string wide receiver on a team which ran the ball 80% of the time, he didn't really play in high school - mostly, he sat on the bench and watched others play. It wouldn't be much of an exaggeration to say that the only difference between him and someone watching in the stands was that he had a better seat.

Still though, he was on the team, so he felt he knew more about football than the average fan. His first foray into gambling was also in high school. One of his classmates was running those football betting sheets which were popular in the 1970s and 1980s. All the college and pro games were listed, along with the point spread on each game. All Steve had to do was to pick the winners of at least 4 games against the point spread without any losses. The minimum bet was $10.00 for the sheet, and the odds were 4 to 1, so if he won all 4 games, he made $40.00. Not bad for a HS student back in those days.

He played those sheets and won three weeks in a row, making $120.00. From that point on, he always thought his betting acumen was, in his own words, "better than most" ... pun definitely intended.

He played through the years, mostly when he was still single. He usually bet pro football games, though occasionally he would foray into the World Series, or the odd college basketball game during March Madness. He lost more than he won, but not by too much; by his own estimate, most of his losses were not because he chose badly, but because of some uncommon event in the game. "If only he hadn't fumbled on that drive," he complained. "We would have won if he hadn't thrown that last minute interception. If he hadn't gotten hurt on the second play of the game, I know we would have won that game," he lamented. Typical of most gamblers, the fault was never his; it was some unseen force which turned the hand of fate against him.

Once Steve got married to Jennifer, his gambling habit fell by the wayside. Money was an issue, as it is with many newlyweds - plus Jennifer knew he gambled, and made it clear she didn't like it. So for the most part he stopped gambling, though he occasionally managed to get in on part of the action when a friend would bet on a game.

Greg ducked his head as he came out of the low door of his cottage - one of a row of brightly painted, red-roofed fisherman's cottages that nestled shoulder to shoulder, flanked from the northern gales by the lofty crag above. From a distance the cottages appeared to tumble down the steep cliff side to the seafront below.

The late afternoon September sun shone on the sweep of golden sand and glinted on fossil-filled pools. He never tired of wandering along the tide line of the bay, especially off-season when the tourists had fled from the blustery north Yorkshire winds to find warmer climes down south.

It was low tide, and the beach was deserted save for the gulls as they wheeled through the sky and skimmed the surface of the sea to bob comically on the eddying waves.

He set off along the mile-wide bay, a fossil-seeker's paradise. Had any woman been watching, she would have found him an arresting figure, tall - 6ft 4 - darkly handsome, chocolate brown eyes with a sensuous glint, and a smile to set pulses racing and just the right amount of stubble to be sexy. Today he looked particularly striking as he wore white Chinos and a white shirt, for no other reason than all his remaining clothes were dirty and he hadn't got around to washing them.

Head down, his unruly dark thatch of hair topped with a baseball cap, he walked on the damp sand, leaving a trail of solitary footprints in his wake. Anything of interest or possible use found its way into the big canvas bag on his shoulder. One of his more satisfying finds on a previous occasion had been a large rubber-soled gents slipper. He had pounced on it, cleaned it up, and dried it out on the top of his wood burning stove, and as a joke tested its stinginess on the bottom of a former girlfriend (she was not impressed, and voluntarily moved from current to former girlfriend status). There were no such finds today, and the canvas bag began to fill with an assortment of unusual shells, ammonites, and a curiously shaped piece of driftwood.

It had been raining heavily earlier, and the force of the downpour on the shale and clay land had caused the cliffs to crumble a little, revealing more fossils. He prized them out of the rock carefully with a rock hammer and pocket knife, and added them to his growing collection.

Moving further down past brimming rock pools, he noticed something at the waters edge and set off towards it, thinking it might be more driftwood. But as he drew closer it became apparent that the driftwood was in fact a figure crouching down in the shallows. She was hugging herself, rubbing her arms as though she were cold. Indeed, at this time of year if she stayed in the water for much longer she would more than likely get hypothermia.

"You ok?" He moved closer.

"She couldn't even wait for tomorrow's paper," my husband muttered as he hung up the telephone receiver.

"The new rankings are online already, sweetheart," I informed him patiently. "You knew this was coming, ever since Saturday you've been whining about it."

"It's not really fair," he protested sullenly. "Carolina's still ranked higher than Duke and the Tar Heels lost to Virginia Tech, which had already beaten the Blue Devils, but I'm somehow the one who's going to... who has to..."

I chuckled. "Bare your bouncy bubble-butt for Brittie to blister... Is that what you're trying to say, honeybun? Something like that?"

Paul's facial cheeks pinkened at my childish but accurate alliteration. "How did I end up agreeing to a bet like this one anyway?"

I struggled to stifle a grin, knowing that Brittany and I had maneuvered him into accepting that standing wager by appealing to his masculine ego and his loyalty to his alma mater's basketball team.

"However it happened, darling, it's now a done deal. Your team was knocked out of the top spot in the poll so now you have to pay off Brittie - or at least your naked fanny has to." I couldn't help smirking at his little-boy apprehension.

My spouse's normally handsome features were twisted by a discontented frown. "It was actually a ridiculous bet to make, I don't see why it should be considered-"

"Don't go there, Paul," I interrupted him sharply. "Welshing on a freely agreed-to wager, that would be considered a serious disciplinary offense - by both Brittany and myself." My voice became pedantically pointed. "Right now you're facing a playful bet payoff which will sting you most thoroughly, I'm quite certain. But trying to avoid that would result in a major-league punitive spanking session courtesy of each of us, and in my case that would mean a 'reminder' hairbrush walloping as well."

He gulped anxiously. "You know I wouldn't do anything like that, honey, I was just thinking out loud..."

I stood up and gazed intently into his pale blue eyes, facing upward due to his ten-inch height advantage over me.

"That's gratifying to hear, sweetie, because I know how much Brittany trusts and admires you, and that you'd never want to jeopardize those feelings that she has."

He nodded pensively, conceding my point. "No, of course I wouldn't."

Smiling warmly, I stepped forward and gave Paul a tight hug which he returned. "That's my good, trustworthy husband... who'll soon be sporting a sore seat that's shining brightly," I giggled while still holding him. "That will be fun to see, honeybun, even though I love you dearly."

He snorted softly as I broke our embrace. "Voyeurism! You'll enjoy it, that's for sure."

"And you won't?" I demanded breezily.

"Not entirely," he replied. "At least not at the surface level anyway."

"This isn't going to be true punishment," I reminded him. "You're at least halfway looking forward to it, I can tell that, even though Brittie will probably get plenty of tears from you before she's finished."

Big Sister
Jeff pulled up to the small townhouse, stopped the car and sat back to look at the place for a few minutes. It was his, it was really his. He had owned the place since the day he outbid everyone else at the auction and signed the papers, but now settlement was over and he was moving in. Now it really was his place. He sighed happily, then popped the boot and climbed out of the car. He picked up one of the sealed boxes, heaved it onto his shoulder and started to carry it inside. As he walked up the low steps he felt the full weight of the carton and wondered what on earth he had packed in it to make it that heavy. He was trying to balance the carton on his shoulder and fumble around for the keys to the door all at once. With alarm he felt the carton slide back on his shoulder and began to stagger backwards.

"Whoa!" came a bright female voice behind him and he felt a steadying hand on the carton; he righted himself and dropped his keys.

"You might want to put the box down before you try that again," Jeff's unseen saviour advised.

"Thanks," a blushing Jeff muttered as he put his other hand on the carton and gently lowered it onto the porch, then turned to look down into a pair of sparkling, bright green eyes.

"Hi," said the owner of the eyes, thrusting her hand at Jeff. "I'm Bobbi, we're neighbours."

"We are?" Jeff answered rather stupidly as he took the slim, out-thrust hand.

"Uh huh," the girl replied. "I live there," and she jerked a thumb at the adjoining townhouse. "I saw you at the auction, but didn't get a chance to introduce myself."

"Oh great, thanks, nice to meet you. I'm Jeff."

"Hi Jeff," Bobbi smiled.

Jeff stared at his pretty new neighbour. She was a petite girl. Jeff was not tall, but Bobbi only came to his chin, which put her at about 5'1". She was slender, but there was strength in her small body, she had a lovely even tan and a cloud of golden hair floated around her perfectly formed face.

"Would you like me to open the door while you bring that inside?" Bobbi asked kindly.

"Oh yes, thanks."

Jeff bent to pick the carton up again and Bobbi stood there, regarding him with some amusement.

"Jeff," she prompted.

"Yeah," Jeff grunted as he lifted the carton.

"I need the keys."

"Oh yeah," Jeff said, cursing his social awkwardness inwardly, put the carton down again and picked up and handed the keys to Bobbi.

"Thanks," the girl said and calmly opened the door.

As Jeff followed the pert bottom, encased in tight faded blue jeans, he began to think that buying the townhouse was one of the best moves he had ever made.

Jeff put his carton down inside and Bobbi asked, "How many more of those have you got?"

Good Girl - Bad Girl
Sometimes too much of a good thing is really NOT a good thing at all.

Take Mother Nature for instance. She can be far too generous at times. Height for example: a certain amount of height is a good thing, but it's not easy being the tallest kid in school when you're barely ten years old, and a girl. Then there's hair. Long and luxuriant is fantastic... but not when it's also wildly fluffy and mouse-coloured. Intelligence is a blessed gift, but being fiercely intelligent, and skipped several grades, and still being smarter than the rest of your class who are now two years, or more, older than you and being beaten flat by a little kid; that's a very mixed blessing. And when a girl's figure starts developing, well, bouncy isn't always best.

But Nature also keeps things in balance, by adding eyesight so poor that it needs glasses like the bottom of coke bottles; buck teeth and years of braces and acne; and, as the cherry on the top, a name like Myrtle.

Myrtle wasn't on track to enjoy her school years.

The one ray of sunshine and sanity was Dudley. Dudley was also a grade-skipper, he was intelligent and young and weedy and a natural victim for the entrenched bullying that's regarded as 'just a natural part of growing up' by everyone who hasn't been the designated target. He was also, from an early age, perfectly sure of his sexual orientation. Being very gay, and outrageously out, in school isn't a survival factor. But Dudley was also viciously wasp-tongued when necessary, able to slice fiercely into every insecurity and lay bare the deepest fears of any bully who wanted to start name calling. And if a verbal barrage wasn't enough protection, Myrtle would step in; she was a state champion in Tae Kwan Do (her parents' attempt to 'bring her out of herself'. Not naming her 'Myrtle' would have been a better choice.)

Dudley and Myrtle, two kids whose parents should never have been allowed to name a family pet, let alone a child. Dudley and Myrtle, two misfits who stuck together. It made school survivable.

After school they both went to university and studied law. They shared a small, cheap, tatty apartment which Dudley and his friends redecorated and refurbished. Dudley had a wonderful social life and still managed to get through his exams. Myrtle studied hard and did two degrees at once, passing both with honours.

When they moved into the post-university world, they shared an increasingly upmarket series of apartments and houses. They enjoyed house sharing. Old friends know you better than anyone. They nag better, too.

"Mattie, you have to go. He's our boss, and an invitation from him is like an order from anyone else."

"Nobody will notice if I'm missing. They never notice when I'm there."

"And whose fault is that? I keep telling you, I can make sure they'll notice you."

"I don't WANT to be noticed."