LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

Chapter 1
My name is Peter Sparrow, and at the age of 41 I find myself standing in the corner with my bare ass blazing like a beacon. I'm supposed to be reflecting on the error of my ways, but instead I find myself thinking about the nature of my somewhat unconventional relationship with Sylvia.

What a woman! Not only is Dr Sylvia Jennings attractive and sexy, she's super intelligent and very much in control ... of aspects of my life as well as her own. And you know what? I wouldn't have it any other way. I've always been attracted to strong, dominant women, and she exemplifies those characteristics in abundance. Even now I can't believe my luck in finding someone like her.

It's not that I'm weak and ineffectual - far from it. I'm an architect, and a few months ago I gave up my job and took the leap into self-employment and it's one of the best decisions I ever made. In a professional capacity I'm extremely capable and hard working and I enjoy challenge at a high level. I'm perfectly able to make hard decisions, initiate multi-million pound developments, manage the work of others and shoulder responsibility. My clients regard me as a confident, reliable, affable sort of guy who delivers on schedule.

Where women are concerned, I'm fortunate to be the stereotypical tall, dark and handsome guy, and I've never had any trouble attracting females. Lucky me. I confess I've had my pick of desirable women in the past, but there's never been anyone special - until now. I've been living with Sylvia for almost two months, and wow, what a huge change in lifestyle it's been, and in the process I've rapidly come to terms with my submissive side.

Sylvia inherited a wonderful old country house on the coast. Ridley Manor is a big place in its own grounds. It has six massive bedrooms, and plenty of space for me to have a large office for my business, as well as a consulting room for Sylvia (she's a clinical psychologist and has moved her private practice from the city to this idyllic country retreat). From time to time, some of her clients opt to have an afternoon appointment, stay overnight, and conclude their session the next day. The arrangement works well, though at times like this I stand and squirm in case anyone should go snooping around the house and catch me with my pants down.

And why am I standing here with my pants down? Um, because I broke one of Sylvia's rules. She's a stickler for rules, and she must have eyes in the back of her head, because she somehow discovers all my little infractions and logs them in the punishment book. You wouldn't believe how many entries there are in that book!

The Christmas Cowboy
Sarah couldn't wait; she needed this vacation and by damn, she wasn't going to let anything like a snowstorm interfere. While loading the ski gear in the car, the first snowflakes began to fall and stick to her hair and eyelashes. When she was a little girl, she used to try catching them on her tongue. It looked beautiful; she loved watching the flakes, such delicate works of art - no two the same. She closed her eyes and pictured herself shushing down a mountain trail covered with fresh fluffy white powder. She shivered, and she wasn't sure if it was the cold or from excitement.

A few more trips back and forth to finish loading the car and she was ready to set forth on her ski trip. Planned over a year ago, the trip was supposed to be for her and Dan. They hoped for a white Christmas and knew a ski trip was just the answer. Unfortunately, Dan was no longer around, but it didn't mean she couldn't go. One more stop at the gas station to fill up, and she was off on her Christmas vacation. There wasn't much traffic on the interstate at this hour so leaving early had been a good decision. If all went well, she would be ahead of the traffic, and settled and on the slopes by early afternoon. Turning on the radio, she kept humming along and living in her daydreams.

As the elevation began to increase, so did the snow. The windshield wipers that had been swishing back and forth on the lowest speed were no longer doing their job. She inched up the lever, and the slip sliding of the wipers across the window had her mesmerized until she felt the car slide a little. Fully aware now, she noticed the snow was sticking to the road, no longer just melting as it hit the ground. The outside temperature gauge showed it had dropped since she last looked and soon the road would turn to ice. She let her foot up off the accelerator and lessened her speed. Better to arrive safely, she said to herself.

Turning on the radio to keep herself company, she was searching for a clear station when out of nowhere, an animal crossed in front of her. Tapping her brake to avoid a collision, the car began spinning and she wasn't able to recover control. When the car finally stopped, she was no longer on the road.

It took her a few minutes to get her bearings. Scared silly and shaking, she thanked the powers that be she was upright and not overturned. With the exception of a bump and cut on her forehead, she had no other apparent bodily injuries, and she began to calm down. Her breathing returned to normal and she started to assess her situation.

Undercover Boss
I wasn't born rich. I worked my way up from nothing, starting out as a rag boy, wiping down tables and learning everything I could about business. I cleaned the bathrooms, slaved in the hot kitchens washing dishes and chopping and peeling endless vegetables. Eventually, I became a bartender. There's good money in that and I did well, but I wanted more. I wanted to own the restaurant. I got promoted to manager, saved my pennies and quarters, and when the economy took a turn for the worse in the 1970s and the owner hinted he was interested in selling, I gave him a lowball offer which he accepted.

That first restaurant in Brooklyn was little more than a bar that served food. I made a few modifications and turned it into a hot nightclub. Within a few years, I'd opened two more, and then a high-end place in downtown Manhattan serving tiny portions of French cuisine at obscene prices. The money was rolling in, but so were my expenditures. I always worried. I was never secure. I opened a hotel, and then invested in a casino in Atlantic City. My share was miniscule, but it got my foot in the door. Within five years I used the profits to buy a failing casino. I revamped it, brought in some sexy dancing girls, and it became a hit joint. I worked ninety hours a week and loved every minute.

That, of course, was a long time ago. I'm fifty now and I've got an empire of over a hundred ventures from Manhattan to Miami. I work from an air-conditioned office on the top floor of a skyscraper, and I rarely get to see the actual places I own. That's why, every now and then, I like to visit undercover. It's a great way to see how the place is really running, to get the typical customer experience. If I don't like what I see, changes get made.

A few weeks ago, I stopped by one of my restaurants. It's a small place in Soho, modest and unassuming, yet with delicious food, high prices, and luxurious service. The trick to a place like that is to make it seem like a hole-in-the-wall so that when people discover it, they think they're the first and that it's special and unique. That way they not only spread the word to their friends, but they never complain about the bill. Customers are treated like royalty, and I only hire genuinely gorgeous waitresses who know how to flirt without being obvious. I bring in top chefs and give them carte blanche in the kitchen, so they are loyal and motivated. Attention to detail matters, so my managers have to be perfectionists.

Unfortunately, I'd heard some disturbing stories about this particular restaurant. Revenues were still good, but one of the key indicators I track is repeat business, and it was down 27% from the previous year.

Spanking Cheat
Those readers fortunate enough to have, within striking distance, acquaintances who share their predilection for the creation of sore bottoms (one way or another), may be interested to hear about the ancient game of Spanking Cheat.

The earliest known reference to this delightfully ingenious pastime is to be found in a letter from the playwright Christopher Marlowe to his compatriot, Sir Sydney Browne, dated April 23rd 1589:

Forsooth, my friend, there can bee no greater sport and delighte than a game of Spanking Cheete with a paire or more of buxom wenches when the bloode is highe. Yesterday night at Lambeth, upstairs at the tavern there, I was a cunninge winner and dealt meaty whacks to the arses of Mistress Ann and her friend, in number equal to the cardes left in their hands at the ende.

To best illustrate the sheer fun of this 'sport and delighte', I present here a short fiction that will I hope both entertain and provide guidance on the manner in which the game can be played.

---oOo---
Rachel closed the front door and shook some of the rain off her umbrella onto the Welcome mat.

"Is that you, Rache?" called Susan from the kitchen.

Rachel rolled her eyes. "Who else would it be? Sergeant Pretorius?" An impish smile curled the corners of her mouth.

Susan appeared from the kitchen, drying her hands. "Don't even joke about him!"

The two twenty-five year olds had had a painful experience on holiday in South Africa the summer before. Pretorius had been one of the policemen who'd had a hand in their being whipped with a sjambok when an illegal beach party they'd attended had been busted.

"Sorry, love," said Rachel, still smiling as she removed and hung up her duffle coat. Susan came forward and they hugged, before enjoying a long, slow kiss. Susan reached round and squeezed Rachel's right buttock.

Rachel moaned. "Mmm ... nice."

Susan stood back. "Oh! Guess what?" she said, running a hand through her dishevelled blonde hair.

"What?"

"Prudence and Emily are coming round on Wednesday!"

"They are? Oh goodee! What fun!" Rachel's eyes lit up with excitement. "Yes, of course, it's school holidays, isn't it? I wonder what the fiendish Prudence has in store this time!"

"I dread to think," replied Susan, nervously.

"Don't worry, Susie. I'll protect you."

Susan guffawed sarcastically. "Protect me? Like the last time? If that's your idea of protection, then ... then ..." Rachel raised her eyebrows and gazed lovingly at her dearest friend.

"Then what?" she asked, taking Susan in her arms again. "You know you love it really, if not quite as much as I do."

Susan laid her head on Rachel's shoulder and chuckled. "Yes ... well ..." She began to purr as Rachel ran her fingers affectionately through her hair.

Chapter 1
In which Butterfly encounters the F. I.D., meets a Greek god and gets a very sore bottom. Butterfly McKendrick was on her way to see her Uncle Dragonfly McKendrick. Her uncle was undoubtedly the cleverest and most eccentric of anyone in a family noted for its intelligence and oddity. His many inventions had made him immensely rich but he still lived in the small house with the large garden that he and his wife Posy had bought when they first married. The house looked in need of some tender loving care because Dragonfly McKendrick simply didn't notice unpainted windows or leaking gutters. Butterfly pushed open the front door, which was never locked, and made her way through the narrow walkways which was all that was left as every conceivable space was covered in bookshelves which in turn were packed with books.

She walked into the kitchen but her aunt, a wonderful cook, shouted, "Stay out I'm making turnip soufflé."

Butterfly stayed out for she loved her aunt's turnip soufflé and went out into the garden. Much of the garden was given over to animals: there were two goats, many chickens, a few geese, two turkeys, a whole host of rabbits and a peacock. At the bottom of the garden there was a beech hedge which shielded the wooden workshop where her uncle produced the fruits of his genius. She walked in. In the centre of the workshop was the weirdest contraption she had ever seen in a long history of weird contraptions created by her uncle.

"What is that?"

"Oh hello, Butterfly. It's my latest invention... a Fiction Insertion Device, or F. I. D. for short"

"What?"

Her uncle laughed, "I don't know, Butterfly! Really, with your ability I'd have thought you capable of at least taking a guess. I'll explain. The human mind has always created stories, fables, and tales. We tend to say they are not real but what is real? Well of course it depends on your definition of reality. If we take Tabor Staskorski's definition, the reality is there, it is just in a different dimension. The problem is then how do we bridge the distance between the story and its real self. I have found how to do that. It doesn't work well with music but I may be able to solve that; art is very difficult and moving images extremely dangerous. However, anything in written fiction is ideal. My machine can insert the operator into any fiction ever written. Of course you can't do anything much, especially to famous books, because you might change the plot and that would be awful. So, for example, you can follow Oliver Twist as he walks to London or see him in court after he gets falsely accused of picking pockets but not rescue him."

"Don't be silly, Uncle Dragonfly, you can't go swanning around in Oliver Twist with that thing, someone would notice."