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Various extracts from the Diary of Lady Lucy Harrison...

Diary Entry: Tuesday 10 March 1863
It was with no little astonishment that I today received my good and dear friend Lady Susan Blakeney, though it was perhaps more correct to say my former friend and most certainly former Lady Susan Blakeney. The entire town is abuzz with the news of the death of her grandfather, Sir Percy, who was commonly acknowledged as the wealthiest man in the kingdom. All had expected Susan, as I should call her now, to inherit his vast fortune for was it not the case that she was his sole heir and lived under his care since the death of her parents so many years ago? By all accounts both Sir Percy and Susan had enjoyed amicable relations. Certainly it was for this reason that I spent such considerable time and effort in staying on friendly terms with the girl.

Today I learned that all the rumours and innuendo that have so circulated London these last few days are in fact true. The girl had been cut out of the late Sir Percy's last Will and Testament and left with nought but the dress on her back, and furthermore the executors of her grandfather's Will have given her to the end of the week to vacate the home in which she has resided these last years.

As is understandable, the girl was much distressed and I could not fault her for that. For a time I feared that she had come to my door to seek my aid for she was quick to describe me as her dearest friend in the entire world. I confess my shock at the news left me quite speechless for a time. To think that all of those years I have spent pandering to the whims of this girl in the hopes of her assistance and companionship when she finally came into her inheritance are wasted at the stroke of a pen! Had Sir Percy no consideration for my endeavours at all?

Foolish as she is, Susan mistook my understandable fury for shock. I had it in my mind to explain to her that under no circumstances was I prepared to compound my wasted efforts on giving to her money and resources I could ill afford so that she might regain some small measure of her standing in society. She could starve in the gutter for all I cared or sell her body as a common whore. It was at this point that I learned that as shocking as the morning's news had been I yet retained a capacity to be confounded further.

The girl wishes to enter service! She was abashed and frightfully shamed to make such an appeal and I could only imagine the indignity such a request imposed upon her. For a woman of her breeding and education to seek a servant's position! Who could endure such debasement?

The Crystal Ball
Irish Cream Liqueur

Think of a bottle of Irish cream liqueur. Consider its promise of sultry decadence without falling foul of social norms. Picture in your mind's eye the warm color tones of the label and the liqueur, painted in shades off a rich, golden palette; patterns that blend as they swirl, an illusion of motion, airbrushed to look quite static. Using your imagination, savor the delicate sip which delivers that delightful yet subtle blend of tastes, one that simultaneously tantalizes yet satisfies, piques yet soothes, calms yet arouses. Imagine swooning as the sensual elixir caresses your lips and your palate, every contact with the creamy potion satisfying a sensual need.

It's a sensory experience that oozes dreamy eroticism, caresses your senses, calms yet arouses.

I like to think of my entering into her apartment as being a 'Baileys experience', from the deep piled cream carpet that cuddled my toes, to the warm cream-colored walls topped with ornate crown mouldings. A fire glowed in the hearth, radiating gentle waves of heat to warm and comfort, embrace and seduce. There were off-white, deep leather chairs, bookshelves with leather-bound books, display cabinets with exotic displays - glittering lead crystal vases filled with cut-glass beads, Waterford crystal ornaments sparkling with life, and a brass clock with its mechanism whirring around.

Anastasia herself was the epitome of grace and old fashioned charm. Her appearance was graceful, chic and stylish. Long bangs swept to the side of her head in a blond, curly bob, while a few stray wisps demonstrated a refreshing will of their own. Anastasia's fair complexion offered an unblemished canvass. Glossy, moist lips hinted at a seductive spirit; deep, intelligent hazel eyes expressed her inner soul - intuitive, sensitive, dominant yet compassionate. Teardrop sapphire earrings sparkled in the soft light, a glittering diamond choker circled her graceful neck. Her deportment and movements exhibited ballerina-like grace, her manner and expression conveyed as much as her words.


The Crystal Ball

She invited me to sit at the round mahogany table, a central pedestal and turned legs accentuating its elegant simplicity. A black cloth covered its surface, a flawless quartz crystal ball stood on a rosewood stand at its center. It seemed to have a way of pulling my attention towards it, the tantalizing and elusive gift of prophecy on offer.

"Will it be able to predict my future?" I asked in a wishful tone.

Anastasia's laugh was like the tinkle of delicate crystal bells, cheerful without being frivolous, laughing at me sans malice.

"No, Adèle, it is your mind that will create the future, not the ball. For wherever your mind goes, your body is sure to follow. Only you can create the future for which you yearn."

I looked at her, a smile flitting across my lips. I was smitten with her beauty and bewitched by her charm. She was so self assured without an ego, so assertive without an attitude.

The Request is Granted
She had asked for a spanking!

Kat and I had discussed this request at some length over lunch, and agreed that her request would be granted. She had told me why she wanted to be spanked, and what she felt it would be like, or should be like. From what she said, it was clear that her ideas about a spanking shared between two adults were very much the same as my own. My fear, of course, was that Kat might find the reality was not the warm and comfortable means of dealing with a problem of behaviour that she either imagined as a woman, or vaguely remembered from when she was a little girl of ten, several decades ago. It has been said that pain leaves no memory, and that is probably partially so, but only partially. The intensity of pain experienced does fade in time like all bad memories, but never fully disappears. Then, too, there is the reality of pain at the moment it is experienced.

It had been more than four decades since Kat had been placed across a parental lap, her panties lowered and her bottom smacked. It seemed that she remembered the position and being held firmly in place for her spanking, and the awareness that despite being punished for a misdeed, she was still wanted and loved. Still, a spanking given as a consequence for poor behaviour hurts. That was the point of the exercise then. I wondered if she had forgotten that reality about getting spanked. However this one was going to turn out for her, our conversation had not deterred Kat's wish for her first adult spanking. She had repeated her request, and I had accepted. How could I not?

As the agreed time approached and I drove toward her home, just a few minutes away, those last few moments in the restaurant as we parted to await this private meeting together remained vivid in my mind and fed the imagination. There was the deliciously soft yet firm femininity I had felt with that love pat I had finally dared to give her, and the amazing spark of electricity I'd experienced on briefly touching her chastely clothed bottom. Her wonderful smile that followed promised much. Then the view as she walked away from me, the delectable, undulating motion of her hips as she moved, and the curves hidden yet emphasised by her skirt, its pleats outlining her hidden womanly shape. I could see nothing and imagine everything.

Such thoughts and visions occupied me, swirling about in my brain as the car and I covered the final few blocks between the restaurant and Kat's home on Lady Street. With such distractions, the other drivers on the town thoroughfares and I were mutually fortunate that no mishap occurred.

The house, while being unique in its design was still typical of the town. It was quite large, with a friendly, welcoming appearance.

Hilda was completing her morning household routine. The washing-up had been done, the dining room and hall carpet swept, the kitchen floor mopped, the tea towels hung up to dry and now it was the turn of the bedroom; nothing much to do here but make the bed, ensuring the blankets were straightened with military precision and the counterpane turned down by the exact distance on either side of the bed, all under the watchful gaze of her husband from his photograph on the dressing table: confident, appraising, commanding.

As always, she was doing her duty. All through her married life with Hubert she had done her duty, from the first night of their honeymoon, afterwards as a stalwart support on the canvassing trail when he had first entered local politics, then as his private secretary (unpaid), coping meanwhile with the bringing-up of two children, bearing the brunt of domestic activity so as to leave Hubert free to advance his career. She had sat through interminable dinners and after-dinner speeches, attended coffee mornings and local bazaars - being seen everywhere as the wife of the rising young counsellor, later alderman, then mayor, chairman of the district council, always at the side of the man with his confident, appraising, commanding manner which stood him so well in politics and who insisted everything should be just so and correct, a quality he did not hesitate to bring to his domestic life.

As befitted a man of Hubert's status, their children had done well at school, going on to university and good careers, then good marriages and settlement in good residential areas, doing no damage whatever to their father's self esteem since it enabled him to speak loudly of their achievements whenever an occasion presented itself which not surprisingly he was able to discover so often. His cup was full to the brim when both pounced on highly paid jobs in the financial world of the United States, one in New York, one in Boston.

Hilda quietly put up with all this. She had long since given up the attempt to keep abreast of whatever it was the children she once adored did to earn their enormous salaries, and it pained her to think of the direction their lives had taken compared to her own: the daily round of long hours and decisions taken under high pressure, whereas she liked nothing better than to be left alone with her box of paints, her sketch pad and the garden with its never-ending chores. Of what use was their old mum to them now? she thought. Better to stay away, not to interfere.

It accorded with her upbringing, the way she coped, the sense of duty instilled in her by her father, the Methodist minister. She had learnt from an early age the power and satisfaction of private contemplation and cherished over the years a dream world to which she would escape when the world outside became too demanding, or rather too boring, although she would never admit to such an extreme as she felt sure the fault lay with her.

The Merry Wives of (West) Windsor
"It's so good to be home," Carol exclaimed as she unlocked the door with the key from under the mat. It was her husband who lugged the suitcases up the front steps.

"Home?" Bob asked. "Don't you mean Alice and Ted's home?"

"You know what I mean. Here - West Windsor. New Jersey. I can't believe you talked me into a move to Ohio."

"Me? You were the one who wanted to be closer to your family."

"Oh, right - them. Well, anyway, it's great to be back, if only for a visit."

"Can you bring in the rest of the things from the car while I get the bags upstairs?'

"Oh sure. Say, look who's taking a trip to Hawaii." Not-so-casually going through the papers on the table in the foyer, she had come across her friends' itinerary. "How come we never go anywhere?"

"We did go somewhere - we're here," Bob replied, coming back down the steps. "Hey, you can't go through their stuff like that." He grabbed the papers from her hand and put them back on the table.

"Why not - you go through all their financial stuff."

"That's different. I'm their accountant. I do their taxes."

"Sure, you always have an excuse for everything."

"C'mon, honey," he said, pulling her into his arms and giving her a kiss. "Let's just enjoy this little trip, ok?"

Feeling better in his embrace, Carol gave a coquettish smile. "You're right. Let's enjoy it. We could have a little fun." Her one hand began to caress him in the most intimate of places.

"Mmm, yes - but not right now. Thanks for reminding me about the taxes. Ted said he'd leave everything out in his study if I wanted to get started. Doing it now should leave us more time to visit for the rest of the weekend." He laughed as he pulled away. "I'll never understand how Ted can be such a genius at quantum physics, without having a clue about numbers with dollar signs in front of them."

"What I'll never understand," Carol mumbled under breath, "is how you can be such a genius at being a kill-joy."

"Huh? What was that? Oh - how about you look into ordering some Chinese or pizza or something? I'm sure our hosts would appreciate a bite to eat when they get home from work. We won't have much time before heading into the City for the show."

Bob whistled happily as he headed back upstairs to Ted's study.

Carol sighed. Bob and his stupid accounting. Bored, she began circling slowly throughout the first floor of the house. She had spent countless hours here before the move. The familiar furnishings and pictures comforted her.