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Chapter 1
It was going to be a big adventure! Excited and a little scared, 21-year-old Rebecca had packed her bags with everything she would need for her year away from home: a year of travel, seeing new countries, expanding her horizons ... a trip of a lifetime ... and she was doing all this by herself.

Picking up her bags, Rebecca kissed and hugged Maggie, her landlady and surrogate mum, then walked from the little terraced house and climbed into the black cab that was going to whisk her away to the airport.

Rebecca smiled at Maggie and called out, "Thank you for everything, Maggie."

"Take care, Becky. Make sure you behave yourself and come and see me when you get back."

Rebecca knew she would miss Maggie. She had lived in her house for the last three years, during which time she had been to University and studied history, gaining a very creditable 2:1. It was Maggie who scolded her when essays were late, who praised her when her grades were good, and on quite a few occasions punished her when she felt it was deserved. Early bedtimes, groundings and a smacked bottom had all been used to good effect. Rebecca blinked back a tear and looking through the cab rear windscreen, waved goodbye as the cab drove off.

"I guess you are off travelling then? Where are you going?" asked the cab driver.

Rebecca smiled. "I'm flying to the USA, then crossing the country and in about two months I will be in California... after that I'm off to the far-east, Thailand, Vietnam, and then Australia."

The cabbie smiled back in his mirror. "Have you remembered your passport and your money? I've had a few of you young teenagers forget them in the past."

A quick check in her pockets confirmed she had everything. "Yes I have them, thank you."

The rest of the journey passed quickly and before long Rebecca was presenting her passport and checking in her bags. The woman at the check-in looked at the passport and then at Rebecca. She liked what she saw: a pretty petite brunette with a pair of nicely tanned legs, about 5' 2'', hair in a pony tail, dressed in trainers, pink ankle socks, white shorts and a pink crop top that showed a flash of tummy and the beginnings of breasts, but obviously no bra. Then the woman attached two red flight tags to the Rebecca's bags and put them through to the loading area.

"One moment please." She smiled at Rebecca and then got up and disappeared around the back of check-in with Rebecca's passport, which she showed to a lady security officer. "Helen, look at this passport. I swear she looks 14 or 15, has the most adorable freckles, and I think she is off travelling."

Helen nodded. "OK, I will check her details; perhaps we have found what we are looking for."

The Sirens of Salem
Tom Forman was feeling exceptionally full of himself as he sat across the table from the owner of Jeffers Pharmacy, the largest of the three drugstores in the town of Salem. Although it certainly wasn't the largest contract he had ever negotiated, Tom was still surprised and very pleased that he was able to convince the conservative pharmacist to stock so much of Tom's new line of power foods and beverages. The success definitely made his two day swing through Blaine County worthwhile.

It was three o'clock on Friday afternoon. However, Tom wasn't particularly anxious to make the two hour drive back to the stark one bedroom apartment he had been calling home ever since his wife divorced him a year ago. He gulped the last of his second martini and looked across the table at his companion, Frank Jeffers, a man at least twenty years older than Tom. "So, Frank, what do you folks do for fun around here on a Friday night?"

Frank gave Tom a fatherly smile. "Go home and spend time with our families," he replied quickly. "Of course, the Pizza Hut over on Salem Road is popular with the younger crowd."

Just then, the waitress approached the table. Tom, who fancied himself a lothario, noticed that she was reasonably attractive for a woman who was at least thirty. He reasoned that under any circumstances she was probably the best this town had to offer. And she wasn't wearing a ring on the third finger of her left hand. "Can I get you anything more here?" she asked cheerfully, her blue eyes moving back and forth between the two men.

Frank shook his head. "Nothing more for me, Franny," he said. "I've got to get back to the store."

Tom flashed his best smile toward Franny. "I certainly wouldn't mind buying you a drink, honey, as soon as you're all done here."

Franny's pleasant smile turned to ice and she glared at the salesman. "No, thank you," she said in a very controlled voice. Then she dropped the check on the table, turned around, and walked away stiffly.

Tom huffed and looked over at Frank. "What's with her?" he questioned rhetorically. "I was just trying to be friendly."

Frank slid out of the booth and stood up. "She's not looking for that kind of friend," he answered. He turned toward the door. "Tom... I hope your power bars sell better than you do. Thanks for lunch." He walked away without waiting for a reply.

Tom flushed slightly, took a deep breath, and gathered himself together. He had been rebuffed before many times. He was determined not to let it bother him, especially the rejection of some small town yokel who was probably way past her prime. He picked up the check and studied it for a few seconds. Then he took out his wallet and set down the exact amount plus fifty cents.

1. The Taste of Him
As Sarah approached the pub, she marvelled at her complete lack of panic. This was her third try, her third attempt to meet someone who might...

Although she wasn't panicked, she still wasn't able to complete that particular thought.

Besides, she wasn't even sure if this would work out. They had written back and forth, and although Mark's writing was intriguing, it was distant and impersonal, almost professional in its feel. It didn't charm her the way some of the others had, and yet she nonetheless had a nagging feeling that it would be worth seeing him in person. Beyond writing, she had also learned that much could be learned about a man by his choice in pubs, and he certainly passed muster on that account. She hadn't even bothered to stop by his chosen meeting place beforehand to scope it out; he had chosen one of her favourite locations.

To his further credit, he had been very understanding thus far. He had sent her a name and a picture. She had sent him an excuse and an apology. She had set rules for herself, and refusal to give either of those things to strangers on the internet were among them. He asked if they were meeting for a drink, or perhaps something else as well. She had said just a drink, this first time. It was another of her rules which she made very clear to him in a patient e-mail, and which she made clear to herself by booking a bunk in a hostel for the night.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and peeked in. There he was, alone in the room which would have been cheery when filled with patrons, but now, in the mid-afternoon lull, instead presented a snug sense of privacy.

He stood to greet her. She cautiously offered her hand, which he turned into a hug complete with a quick peck on the cheek that she dutifully turned away from. She blushed, stammering and fumbling her way through a hurried introduction, ardently hoping that he wouldn't judge her too harshly on these first awkward moments.

And then he talked, his lilting accent filling the silence that she was unable to banish on her own: he recounted tales of his own history and asked simple questions on her own, listening attentively as her answers gradually grew from halting, stammering one-word wonders and started to resemble the actual sentences that a sane person might offer in the course of a normal conversation.

He patiently avoided 'the subject' at first ... not so much dancing around it as purposefully turning his back on it. They were each well into their second pint before he casually brought up the reason for their meeting, just a quick reference before returning to more mundane subjects.

"Later," he said when she started to ask. "I don't want to risk scaring you off just yet."

Judicial Snafu
by Jeff Chadwick
Thirty-two-year-old Brooke slipped on her nightgown, poured a cup of coffee, and sat at the kitchen table. Bleary-eyed, she looked over yesterday's unopened mail. An official looking envelope marked 'Corrections Department' caught her attention. She opened it and read the contents. Then she read again, to make sure the words were real.

To: Ms. Brooke Erica Hoffman (ID# 26630149937)

This letter serves as official notice that Brooke Erica Hoffman is summoned to appear at the Southside Corrections Facility at 9 am on March 7, 20**, to receive judicial corporal discipline as per sentencing in Circuit Court case #4761002. Attendance is mandatory. Petitions for postponement must be applied for at the Correctional Facility at least 3 days (excluding weekends and public holidays) prior to a scheduled disciplinary session. Postponements are granted only for medical reasons. If an emergency situation arises that prevents attendance at a session, an emergency petition must be applied for within 3 days (excluding weekends and public holidays) following the scheduled disciplinary session. Failure to comply with these conditions will incur additional penalties.

The words made no sense. What sentence? Brooke had never been to court, ever. Was this some kind of mistake? Was it a joke? Confused and more than a bit panicked, she called the number listed on the letter.

After twenty minutes navigating phone menus, she finally reached a bored-sounding operator. "Ma'am, you are definitely in the system for a twenty swat discipline session. What for? I'm sorry ma'am, I can't seem bring up the records of your court case. No ma'am, I don't know why they aren't available. They should be. There have been some computer issues lately. You'll need to talk to someone in person, ma'am, there's nothing I can do here."

Obviously it was some kind of mistake. Brooke worked a part-time contract with a PR firm, and was a freelance writer on the side, so she figured she was entitled to take a day off to go deal with it. She got showered, dressed in a simple blouse and skirt combination, and drove to the facility as quickly as she could. But not so quickly that she'd run the risk of a ticket. That would be a bad idea right now, she suspected.

Judicial corporal punishment had been proposed right about when Brooke graduated from journalism school. Her first big splash as a wet-behind-the-ears newspaper writer came with a column supporting the idea. She'd argued it was much more humane to dole out a sound strapping to minor criminals, rather than relegate them to the overcrowded and brutal prison system, which was less likely to reform them than to turn them into hardened criminals. That had gotten her journalism career off to a flying start.

Chapter 1
Damn the luck! Wouldn't you know it? The dumpster was only about twenty yards from the cabin, and Ron and Clair had collected trash in the car on the trip - mainly paper cups and food wrappers. It would take only a few seconds to make a dash with the trash. Clair went for it in a sprint.

But Mr. Finney whirred around the curve on his little golf cart. Clair dropped in the trash and let the lid on the dumpster fall shut with a bang - and sighed.

"I'm busted, aren't I?" she said.

Mr. Finney chuckled and stopped the cart.

"'Fraid so, Mrs. Lattimer," he said as he stepped out. "You know what the rules say."

"I know, I know. Rule 6. No ladies allowed away from their cabins after five wearing clothes below the waist," Claire said.

"Actually, socks and shoes are okay," Mr. Finney said.

He reached into the basket on the back of a cart and brought out a clear polymer paddle with a double regiment of holes running the length of its business end. Claire examined the weapon for an instant, then looked around. Only a few of the cabins had vehicles parked in front of them, but it was only Wednesday. They would fill up by the weekend. A pickup truck was parked a couple of cabins down and a man in jeans, white tee, and dark shades sat on its little porch nursing a beer. Watching. Thunder rumbled in the east.

"We're gonna get it this evenin'," Mr. Finney said. "Hear Beaver Run is already out of its banks. Gonna come a gully-washer."

"I think I'm going to get it right now, Mr. Finney," Claire replied.

The man chuckled. Somewhere between middle age and death, Mr. Finney, as always, was dressed in pressed khaki. A floppy straw fedora was centered on his head.

"'Spect that's true, Mrs. Lattimer."

Clair unbuttoned her white walking shorts and shimmied them down to her knees. Black panties followed. She bent and grasped her shins.

"Why don't you turn t'other way, Mrs. Lattimer, so Mr. Barker can see."

Clair waddled around so the man on the porch could see her bare bottom.

Sometimes, the whole thing seemed absurd. Clair Lattimer, thirty six years old, looking much like a prim school teacher - which she was (maybe not so much the prim part) - standing bare-bottomed where a man who was not her husband would see her get spanked.

"Ready, Mrs. Lattimer?" Mr. Finney said.

Clair quickly brushed a stray lock of her short chestnut-colored hair out of her eyes, widened her stance a little for stability, and grasped her shins tighter.

"Ready, Mr. Finney."

The paddle crashed into her bottom with such force she almost stumbled forward.

"OH!"

Damn, he hit hard for an old guy! Clair regained her stance quickly and the second swat almost lifted her off her feet.