LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

Chapter 1: Going "Home"
Katherine McCullough was a junior from the prestigious private college, Sparton, in Idaho. She was studying biology there, but really wanted to go into marine biology. Thankfully, the school had an internship program where for one semester in your junior year you would fly to Florida, stay with a host family, and work at a marine animal rehabilitation center with other educational exhibits as well, such as an invasive species room. Her job would be taking care of the larger animals at the center as well as the smaller exhibits and taking children on tours and out to seine for macro and micro-invertebrates that could only be found in salt water; this was an experience that was impossible to get in the Great Plains.

It really was a miracle that Katherine had made it this far in life. Her dad had left her mom when he found out she was pregnant with her, and her mom drank herself into oblivion. She found herself in the foster care system at the early age of six, and by age eight, she had to sneak out of her window each morning just to make it to school. Her foster family wanted cheap labor and nothing more. Punishment was lack of food or clothing and the word ‘play’ never entered a conversation. There was no time for play between trying to squeeze in homework and keep up with the chores she was assigned.

When she reached high school her biology teacher saw her potential and adopted her, but by that time it was too late. She had lost out on an entire childhood. She'd never had a birthday party, never played with dolls, never went to the park, was never grounded as she never had anything to be grounded from, and had never been spanked. That was probably the only decent thing about her foster family: they did not hit in retaliation. They just starved their children instead.

Under the new regime of Mrs. Hendrichs, her grades began to flourish and she put her complete all into schoolwork. No discipline was needed. She wanted nothing more than to please this woman who would take a teenager into her house and even give her advanced private lessons at home. By the time she graduated high school it was with honors, and she had a full ride scholarship to Sparton.

Now she waited nervously in the airport terminal. She'd already collected her larger suitcase (plus her carry-on bag) and was looking for her host family, the Meres. Supposedly the two adults were in their lower fifties, and they had three daughters, aged 8 (Sarah), 11 (Athalia, or Talie) and 12 (Chrystal or Chrys). It was a Saturday; the school wanted her to have a couple of days to settle in with her new family before having to start attending classes. She was nervous. She had never lived with a normal family with children who didn't work like sweat shop workers before, and didn't know how to respond to that.

Going to See Sir Geoffrey
London has a certain tawdry appeal for North American spanking enthusiasts. The Soho porn shops are chock full of spanking mags, books and videos. The phone booths are plastered with sex-ads inviting Headmasters to attend to naughty schoolgirls who are waiting for them, bent over their desks, any time of the day or night. Ann Summer's sex-shops offer mini-skirted uniforms for would-be maids and nurses, head-to-toe PVC outfits for budding Superwomen, and all manner of leather-goods for men who would worship at their feet.

These venues aren't buried down back alleys; they're cheek-by-jowl with mainstream British culture. The major bookstore chains have more D/s paperbacks on open display than can be found in the restricted sections of Adult bookstores in my home town. London boasts several of the greatest bookstores in the English-speaking world: Dylan's, Blackwell's, Foyles and Waterstones. On several floors, you can pore over the latest titles from the top academic presses, then wander down to the Erotica section to check out your favourite bedtime reading...

In Britain, erotic discipline is firmly ensconced in the bosom of the body politic. The French dubbed it 'le vice anglais' and they weren't joking. Many analysts have speculated that Margaret Thatcher's popularity as a righteous scold was based in part on the fantasy of being sent to the Headmistress' office for a tongue-lashing - or worse. Her mantra was 'no pain, no gain', and her most ardent supporters were upper-class men who attended elite schools where, in their student days, the cane was in regular use. Thatcher derided Cabinet Ministers slightly to her left as 'Wets'. Two have written memoirs in which they recall incurring the Iron Lady's wrath and having to report to Whitehall for verbal thrashings that went on for an hour or more. Despite such humiliations, they remained loyal to the bitter end. Might their unrequited fidelity be explained in part by the enthralling appeal of the strict Matriarch for wayward bourgeois lads?

The combination of sexual prurience and ruling-class moralism creates a culture in which erotic discipline flourishes, in which the synapses of pleasure and pain become fused and confused. It dates back a long way. From Swinburne on, flagellation themes have always figured prominently in English pornography. Today, the country's tabloids keep the home fires burning. Their stock-in-trade is the sex-scandal, where they make the traditional Christian connection between "sins of the flesh" and their public expiation. The tabloids are modern-day equivalents of stocks, ducking stools and whipping posts in the town square - scourging and titillating the public simultaneously. The kinks of the high and mighty are ruthlessly exposed. Aristocrats, vicars, novelists, sports stars, Cabinet Ministers, and half the House of Lords, it seems, have all found their illicit affairs and erotic predilections splashed across the front pages of the mass-circulation dailies.

Miles LaPage groaned loudly and put his head in his hands. "I can't do it any more," he groaned out loud, "I just can't bloody well write this stuff any more."

His study was elegant and comfortable with French windows overlooking a large well-tended lawn. It was lined with books and spoke plainly of comfort and wealth. Wealth indeed, for Miles was the world's best known and most successful writer of spanking literature. He had under his writing belt some 3000 short stories, 5 volumes of collected short stories, 12 bestselling novels, 4 plays, 2 TV dramas and 3 film scripts for highly successful films. In a world with an insatiable appetite for spanking fiction, he was the undisputed king.

So why was the undisputed king of spanking fiction groaning out loud in his study? The problem was he had six months to write his new novel and not one single idea was in his head. He had taken a leaf out of the book of a once famous author, one Ian Rankin. Rankin had been a highly successful writer of crime fiction though crime was now so passé that even the charity shops no longer stocked crime novels. However, in his heyday, Rankin had revealed some of his methods to British television. He had a folder full of clippings and notes of ideas which he maintained constantly. When a new novel loomed he would trawl through his folder until just the right idea appeared and then he was off on his writing.

Now Miles sat with his folder which, when opened, seemed to him full of dead ashes, a folder full of sterile ideas and rubbish. Abruptly, he turned the whole lot straight into his waste bin and within five minutes his Facebook and LinkedIn pages had notices heralding his retirement from spanking fiction. He sent out a Tweet and a text and lastly an email to his agent. Within minutes the world reeled with the horrifying news that Miles LaPage had scribed his last spanking. Naturally, there were responses but he saw none of them. Miles had put on his walking gear, donned his boots, and was already striding from the car park on the long winding path up onto the moors.

It had rained for days in heavy bursts interspersed with steady drizzle and everywhere dripped, but today it was dry. The sun shone and there was sparkle on everything as the sun caught the wetness and turned it to beauty. He had left his mobile on his desk which of course is foolish when out on the moors where the weather can change in the blink of an eye, but he knew he would have no peace with it.

Miles was a big man with the build of a labourer, though he had never done manual work. He had dark hair and a strong jaw and women across the globe longed to be spanked by him (as well as other things of course).

A Burning Experience
Angela was reaching the end of her first term at Midchester University, a Victorian redbrick university with an excellent academic reputation. She had taken to it like a duck to water, and was having a great time. Her weakness was partying and drinking too much, after the repression of a very strict grammar school.

That Wednesday afternoon she was frantically finishing off an essay that was due on Friday. Due to her procrastination (another of her faults) she had been working all hours to finish it, and was very sleepy.

She finished her last cigarette and realised she had none left. She cursed and decided that fresh air and a walk to the corner shop about half a mile down the road to buy some more fags would do her good. She pulled her coat on, grabbed her bag and left without checking her ashtray.

On the way back she saw two fire engines race up to the Hall of Residence. She broke into a run to see what was going on. To her horror, she realised it was her room that was the centre of attention. As she reached the entrance, her friends greeted her with, "Angela, Thank God you're all right!"

After the initial shock had worn off, she was told that smoke was seen coming under the door of her room and one of the girls had pressed the fire alarm. The head porter had found her wastepaper bin blazing and put it out with a fire extinguisher, and apart from a scorched sheet and a soaked mattress, there was thankfully little damage.

The firemen had concluded that Angela had carelessly left her last cigarette on the ashtray, and the filter tip had dropped, still alight, into her wastepaper bin and caught fire.

The housekeepers changed Angela's bed and bedding and helped her clear up the mess. A very chastened Angela had a disturbed sleep that night, thinking about the possible consequences of her stupidity, had a neighbour not smelt smoke coming from her room so quickly.


Next morning at breakfast the senior tutor of the hall of residence beckoned her over and summoned her to a meeting at 7 pm, immediately after dinner. Angela knew she was in for it, particularly as smoking was only just tolerated, but heavily discouraged as unladylike and unpleasant.

After a dinner that tasted like cardboard, and many jokes from her friends about her foolishness, and comments that it was a good job she wasn't at boarding school or she would be in for a good swishing, she nervously made her way to Professor Wainwright's suite of rooms. She felt just as nervous as she had at school when reporting to the headmistress. Apart from butterflies in her tummy, she had a nervous twitching in her bottom, like she experienced before the slipperings she had received at school. She knocked on the door, a stentorian, "Enter!" boomed out, and she obeyed.

To all outward appearances, Jim Benson was an ordinary guy. Tall, well-built and reasonably handsome, he held a good job, made a decent salary, lived alone in a comfortable loft apartment in a trendy but not too pricey part of the city.

An affable man with an outgoing personality, he socialized with a regular circle of friends, men and women, dated frequently but with no one woman in particular, and generally seemed at ease in all social situations. He watched his diet, didn't over-indulge in alcohol and kept himself in good shape through regular exercise and workouts at the neighborhood fitness club. Given his many attributes, his friends often wondered why no young woman had yet managed to snag the 27-year-old bachelor.

The answer to that question resided in an important little bit of information to which his circle of friends was not privy. Jim was a secret spanko who spent much of his private time in pursuit of his avocation. A casual perusal of the internet browsing history on his home computer would have revealed a long list of spanking web sites.

Jim wasn't just a lurker, however. Over the years, he'd contributed regularly to a number of spanking story boards and, under a clever pen name, was a well-regarded author on one prominent English-based site in particular. He also enjoyed several of the better video sites.

As mentioned, Jim was a closet spanko. To date, he'd never yet personally experienced the thrill of giving a spanking to anyone, or for that matter, being on the receiving end either. His enjoyment of his avocation had been limited to reading and writing stories, viewing videos and the vicarious thrills he'd managed to achieve whenever he spotted a pretty young woman with a particularly spankable backside.

He would often kid himself that the real reason he belonged to a fitness club was not for the use of the exercise equipment but for the numerous opportunities it afforded him to surreptitiously view the well-toned and tightly clothed bottoms of the many young female members. Quite a few unknowing young lovelies had been the victim of more than one hot spanking in his ever-active imagination and several were often later featured in one of the stories he submitted to his favorite site.

This state of affairs seemed destined to remain unchanged as, for all his wit and charm, Jim seemed at a total loss when it came to finding a young woman who might be inclined to engage in a little spanking play, let alone making a connection with her. Oh sure, there were always the websites, but Jim wasn't about to take that kind of risk.

---oOo---
Just back from the fitness club on a dreary, rainy Saturday morning, Jim booted up his computer and started to surf his favorite sites for the latest uploads as he ate a bowl of cereal. One site was, he noted, offering its famous spanking machine for sale.