LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

Early one morning in May, Luke jogged along the stretch of golden sand close to the sea shore. He never tired of this part of the bay. The sun shone brightly, gold rays illuminating the sweep of sand and glinting on fossil-filled pools, bringing the promise of a glorious day. It was low tide, and at this hour the beach was deserted save for an old man and his dog, and a few noisy gulls comically bobbing up and down on the eddying waves.

Had any woman been watching, she would have found him a striking figure: tall - 6ft 4 - darkly handsome with the first flecks of silver grey gracing his temples, expressive chocolate-brown eyes with a deeply sensuous glint, and a physique that belied his forty years. His body was taut and muscular, with broad shoulders, powerful arms and steel thighs bronzed by the sun. He upped his pace, breaking into a run, moving effortlessly at speed with the grace of a jaguar. It was a good way to start the day. Invigorating. He loved it.

He ran for half a mile, his running shoes leaving indentations in the wet sand, slowing down slightly as he approached the curve of the bay. There was a little girl up ahead, splashing in the shallows, her dark hair worn in two short pig tails tied with pink ribbon. Her white shorts were stained with sand and sea water, and she wore a pink top the same shade as her hair ribbons. She appeared to be digging in the wet sand with a bright yellow spade, a matching yellow plastic bucket by her side.

Molly was having a wonderful time, even though the sea water was so cold it made her teeth chatter. She was digging for pretty shells, and had filled half her bucket with them. She added another cockle shell to her collection and shivered again. Turning round, she reached for her sweater - but it wasn't there, and neither were her sandals. Frowning, she got to her feet, looking to the left and the right, but there was no sign of them anywhere. She shivered again, glanced out to sea, and saw one pink sandal floating on the waves maybe eight metres away.

"Oh crap!" she muttered. They were her very best pair of designer sandals and she didn't want to lose them. Maybe the other one was out there too. She waded into the water, which soon covered her knees, then her thighs, and then reached her waist, little waves sloshing at her belly. Gasping with cold as the icy water bit into her bones, she struggled onwards, but it seemed the further she waded out, the further away the sandal became.

Molly could barely swim but she was determined to get that sandal. Submerging herself up to her chin, she launched forward in a parody of a dog paddle, sending sprays of water high into the air, most of which returned to land on her face.

Chapter 1 - The Hairdresser
Shallara lay back in the salon chair, relaxing as Ariella massaged her damp scalp. She had been letting Ariella do her hair for years now, and had developed a close friendship, one that bordered on the intimate. Sensuous, soft fingertips rhythmically massaged her hairline, moving ever so slowly down to her temples. Exotic oriental music played quietly in the background, and she felt herself drifting deeper and deeper. The wild flower scents from the shampoos seemed to overcome her senses: feminine, sensual and exotic.

She barely noticed that Ariella's voice seemed to be changing. The idle chatter had been replaced by something more focused, more directed. She felt voices in her head leading her through a maze of passages and arches, until she emerged into a sunny courtyard. Somewhere, deep inside, as she continued to drift off, she heard Ariella's gentle voice urging her to, "Sleep for me now."

The private courtyard was surrounded on all sides by a sandy-colored, flat-roofed building. Large arches and deep, shady verandas looked out onto the harsh sunlit area. A crystal clear pool dominated the center of the courtyard, with nubile women playfully splashing each other as they frolicked under the blazing sun. The eunuch leading Shallara was huge. He had baggy, white linen knee-length pantaloons, and a broad, red cloth sash crossed his chest, covering his pendulous male breasts, before wrapping around his huge waist. A red turban sat on his head; it had a large, red gem clip holding it together. He led Shallara to a padded table lying in the shade of exotic broad-leafed palms, and gently pressed her down and onto her back.

Her dream became even more sensual and erotic as she felt herself being prepared for her first night in the harem. Girls wearing bright silk skirts and tops massaged her, rubbing oils and lotions into her silky skin. Her nails were cleaned, polished and buffed; exfoliate was applied to her arms and legs, and vigorously rubbed off. Her skin felt clean and alive. Her hands and feet tingled, and a deep warmth suffused her breasts. Shallara felt her thighs being gently eased apart, and offering no resistance, she felt a cool, aromatic cream being applied to her pubis before the hair was gently scraped away; she knew that this was the way of the Sultan's harem.

But all too soon, it was over. Shallara seemed to snap back to reality as Ariella moved her chair upright, and began to blow dry her hair. Ariella's bubbly chatter had started again, and Shallara struggled to retain fragments of her dream as it started to fade rapidly into the past. Uncomfortable, she squirmed in the chair as she tried to reposition her skirt which seemed to have ridden too high up her thighs.

All too soon, Shallara had bid Ariella farewell, and arrived back in her apartment. She needed to use the bathroom, her panties were damp and gave off a telling, musty odor.

Abominable Mother-In-Law
Bradley Carter admired his reflection in the mirror. A tall, broad-shouldered, handsome man, grinned back at him, white teeth contrasting with tanned skin. "You've got it made, mate," he told himself.

It was true. Since he had married Emily Graf he had elevated his accommodation from a grubby one bedroom bachelor pad in an insalubrious area of the city, to a spacious four-bedroom detached house in the 'Millionaire Belt' to the west of the city. The house was luxury personified with landscaped gardens, a double garage, and an outdoor swimming pool. Emily had cleared his overdraft and other debts, opened up a joint current account, and provided him with a platinum credit card. Consequently, the new house was rapidly filling up with his latest acquisitions - designer suits and shoes, state-of-the-art home cinema, hi-fi, billiard table and two new electric guitars (why buy one when you can have two?). In the garage was a gleaming Lancia sports car and a set of golf clubs to go with his expensive annual membership to the local club. Yes, life was good. And it was all thanks to Emily.

At 25, Emily was seven years younger than he. She was an intelligent, bookish girl who was petite, shy, and sweet natured. She wasn't remotely pretty, but what the hell did that matter when she was filthy rich? She also adored him. Not so his mother-in-law, Gretchen.

At the thought of his mother-in-law, Bradley frowned. That woman was the one single blot on his ever expanding horizon. Gretchen and her parents emigrated from their native Germany in the 1960's as Gretchen's father had secured a high-ranking government job. He was surpassed in salary by Gretchen's mother who as a qualified barrister, earned considerable amounts of money. Gretchen followed her mother into the legal profession and owned a thriving law firm - the same firm that employed Emily as a solicitor. The Graf family were wealthy beyond measure.

Bradley had met Emily's parents early on in his relationship with their daughter, and he knew at once that they had hoped for someone better for their only daughter. His future father-in-law, Otto, had asked some searching questions concerning Bradley's financial affairs and career prospects. Unfortunately, Bradley lied in his responses - a fact that was easily spotted by Gretchen Graf.

Gretchen was a statuesque woman with blonde hair and cool grey eyes. Those eyes darkened to hard slate when she looked at him.

"So, Bradley - you are an accountant? That is a very noble profession. When did you qualify?"

"Oh, um ... last year," said Bradley.

"And where did you study?"

"Cambridge," lied Bradley.

"I see. Which college?"

"Erm ... do you know, Mrs Graf - I can't quite remember. This wine has quite a kick to it, doesn't it?" He gulped down a few more mouthfuls and tried not to panic.

Alex wasn't known for being punctual, but this afternoon he made sure he was at the gym five minutes early. Today was the last day of tryouts, which meant he had to make damn sure he was on top of his game. For the millionth time, he cursed himself for procrastinating this long; now that time was running out, he was dangerously low on options... and the ones that were left didn't exactly play to his strengths. Sadly, aside from hiking and bike-riding, he wasn't too much of an athlete. He just hoped to god that he was enough of one to make the team.

The nineteen-year-old college freshman had gotten himself into a bit of a pickle. Due to his impressive grades and exemplary citizenship in high school, the institution was willing to waive 75% of his tuition... on two conditions. The first was that he maintain a Grade Point Average of 3.5 or higher - no problem. The second was that he participate in at least two official extracurricular clubs or activities per semester, one of which had to be a competitive, intramural event. This shouldn't have been a problem either, had he not listened to the drunken frat boys who assured him that there were always plenty of open slots and that he shouldn't hurry.

"Alex?" A female voice came from behind him. "Hi!"

Alex turned to see Jill striding up to the gym. Jill's was a very distinctive appearance. She was the tallest woman Alex had ever met, her 6'2" frame giving her four inches over himself, along with almost everyone else. Hell, she was probably one of the tallest people he had met. With her blue eyes and long, platinum blonde hair, Alex thought she looked like a Valkyrie out of some Norse opera. The first thing he had said to her, when they'd met in Classics last week, was, "Hello, I'm Alex. You're really tall." Jill had blushed and shaken her head at him, but she didn't seem to take it in a bad way. She had continued sitting next to him, and usually provided conversation on the way out of the building.

"Oh, hey there!" Alex replied as she came up to the door. "Here for paddling tryouts?"

She shook her head. "I'm already on the team. It's, like, my favorite sport."

She smiled broadly. Jill had this wide, full-cheeked grin and freckled girlish face that looked almost out of place on her stature. Alex smiled back.

"I used to be pretty good back in middle school," he said, recalling his sea-kayak trips around Puget Sound, "but... uh... it has kinda been awhile."

"Oh, don't worry, I'm sure you'll do fine." She sounded like she meant it, which honestly confused Alex a bit; his arms were not exactly bulging. "You want to work together?"

Alex raised an eyebrow. "Together? They don't have the new people together for tryouts?"

Grandmother's Bed
What a house it was! Nooks and chimneys, brick, wood and tile, rambling up and along, part Stuart, bits of the eighteenth century, bits of the nineteenth century, a house to love and cherish, and it was all hers. Yes it was all her house. Only twenty three years old and the proud owner of a house to die for. No money mind, no dosh, no spondulas, no ackers, shekels, shillings, groats and a credit limit of just a couple of grand. But who cares when they own a house like that.

Grandmother had left the house to her only grandchild. Her children didn't need the money, they were all smug, self-satisfied and successful, pompous, opinionated and overbearing. She certainly wasn't going to leave her house to that lot, but Sally was a lovely girl, head screwed firmly on and very loving. She had known that Sally had no money, but she trusted the girl would find a way to keep the house going for Sally loved the house as well as her grandmother.

One caveat though, one warning was carefully written down in her neat, beautifully precise script, written in violet ink with the fountain pen her father had given her so many years ago. It read, "Sally, I really cannot explain my reasons, but I place a stricture on your ownership of the house. Under no circumstances must you sleep on the bed in the Blue Room."

The Blue Room was in the oldest part of the house; it was large with a subtly sloping floor and polished oak floorboards far wider than anything modern would possess. The walls were the original and painted in the most gentle of egg-blue. The small latticed window was only a short distance above the ground because the room below was partly set into the rising ground. It was a beautiful room, a room that took the breath away, a room to linger in, inviting vases of flowers, open windows and the buzzing of bees on a summer day.

Against one wall and facing the window was a huge bed. It was an oak four-poster with an enclosed roof to it with blue grey curtains and a pelmet for the three sides. The backboard went right up to the roof of the bed, and was richly carved as were the front posts. The whole thing spoke of history: of deflowering and affairs; of deaths and births; whispered secrets and servants eavesdropping; conspiracies and kings. In short, it was a bed inextricably linked to the house for there was no way it could ever leave through the small window or even the door. It must have been made for, and in, this very room, or at least its final assembly stages.

Sally was utterly bewildered by this stricture, and at a loss as to why there should be a ban on sleeping in such a wonderful bed.