LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

Honoria

Honoria Van der Biek pushed a stray dark curl from her brow as she sat quietly on the passenger side of the front seat of the cowboy's pickup truck. The two of them had enjoyed an evening of food and wine (beer for him) and pleasant conversation in each other's company. It had become a sort of ritual for the two of them over the past several months: every two or three weeks they would get together and make the long drive into town from the depths of the isolated valley deep in the Colorado Mountains.

The cowboy, Mark Reston, had a ranch that was near the State addiction rehab facility; 'near' being a relative term in this remote part of Colorado. As the chief administrator of the facility, it was impractical for Honoria to socialize with her employees... which was fortunate really because most of those employees were less than desirable dinner partners. Shortly after she had taken over at the rehab facility, there had been an attempted escape. The escapee had tried resting in the Mark Reston's barn but was discovered. When Honoria showed up to collect her 'client', she and the cowboy had hit it off immediately. She found him attractive, sexy and dominant; he lived alone and they didn't work together: what wasn't to like?

They went to dinner a few nights after that and through the course of dinner conversation, her need for what became something of a ritual had been established. Right now Honoria sat quietly in the pickup truck with the cowboy, knowing what the rest of the evening held in store. She was frightened. She was thrilled. She was a ball of emotions.

Mark was driving them back to his ranch where Honoria had left her car. No trace of emotion showed on his face, though he was always amused at the change she underwent the moment she got into the truck on the drive back. Almost unstoppably chatty during dinner, she was silent as a stone in the truck.

He watched her out of the corner of his eye and marveled at how her conservative attire hid one damned alluring female form beneath. He should know: he'd seen her undressed more than once. He also appreciated the concern and apprehension that was building beneath that quiet surface as they both knew what was coming next. When they got back to his ranch house, she would be subjected to something that was very primal ... something that she desperately needed on a regular basis ... and though she might initially complain or plead, it was something she knew deep within that she could not survive without.

Mark parked his truck next to the ranch house and turned to his quiet dinner partner. "Go on in and get ready," he said in his deep bass voice. "You know what to do."

Honoria looked at him with pleading, watery eyes, but she said nothing.

It is a perfect evening; four old friends out for dinner to reminisce and share new tales amid lots of laughter. We met in college where we rented a house together and at first I was a little leery of being the only girl with three guys, but it worked out pretty well. We shared chores, kept the place reasonably clean, and became the best of friends. We keep in touch and make it a point to have a special night together at least twice a year. Tonight we met at Ben's house and rode together to the restaurant. Dinner and dessert were wonderful and we stayed long enough to let things settle. When Jason said he thought it was time to move on Ben told me I should go to the ladies room. Vance agreed and reminded me that I might not have another chance for quite a while. I'm almost thirty years old and know perfectly well if and when I should use a bathroom, but I headed off to the rest room anyway.

It was slightly embarrassing to be spoken to like that in a public place but the next phase of our visit was starting. Ben is driving and we're heading back to his house. I'm in the back seat with Vance and Jason on either side. Ben just slid a tape in the car stereo and we hear the beginning of Beethoven's Eighth Symphony. It is sometimes referred to as a maiden between two giants, the Seventh and the Ninth. I've heard it a million times before but had never realized the significance of that designation till now. I am the maiden between two strong men. As we listen I reach out to hold each of their hands. It was this symphony that started it all...

---oOo--- A famous orchestra was giving a concert at our university. Beethoven's Eighth Symphony was the premiere piece as far as we were concerned since we were all music majors and our own college orchestra had played it the year before. We were all intimately familiar with every note and to say we were looking forward to seeing a professional performance was a large understatement. It was my job to get the tickets but unfortunately I waited too long and they sold out. At least the college radio station was going to broadcast the concert so we could hear it, but that was small consolation.

I was in the dog house and although the guys were polite about it I knew they were really mad. There was tension in the air as we gathered in the living room to listen. I again told them I was sorry but they were having none of it and when one of them told me to just be quiet and stand in the corner it met with almost unanimous approval. We had always believed in democracy in our house so I went along with the majority and stood as directed.

Jane Compton's face was pink as she removed her dress and then slipped off her panties. She knew everyone was looking at the newcomer with interest, and her embarrassment actually helped her to keep her mind away from what was to come. Over the table she went, legs slightly apart and with her head resting on her arms. How on earth had she got herself into this sort of thing? It was bizarre and absurd and most people who knew her would never have believed that it could happen. These thoughts, however, were abruptly interrupted.

CRACK!

The first blow from the table tennis bat landed squarely and hard across her bottom.

"Ouch!" she cried, unable to stop herself from doing so.

"Don't worry, Jane," she heard somebody say. "Shout and yell all you want ... there's no shame in that!"

Before she had time to assimilate the words however, the bat descended again, in a slightly different place.

CRACK!

"Oh!" Again she couldn't help the yelp of pain; somehow it just came out of its own accord.

CRACK!

"Owww!"

The same reactions applied to the rest of her session. The bat struck ... she cried out. No allowances were made for the 'newbie' and after her allotted eight hard blows Jane felt her bottom hot and throbbing. As she took her place beside the other half naked member of the group who had been spanked already she knew that her face was scarlet but part of her was pleased ... she had done it ... she could accept a spanking from a virtual stranger. All right, it hadn't been that long or all that hard, but it was a start.

---oOo---
In her late thirties, Jane Compton was a divorcee with two daughters, both of whom were now grown and living elsewhere. Caroline, the elder girl, was on a graduate trainee scheme for the Civil Service while her younger sister, Amy, was still at university. Jane's ex-husband, Donald, worked as a Senior Executive in one of the major banks and the long hours that he had worked (and presumably still did), including a number of trips abroad each year, had been one of the reasons that they had drifted apart.

She had married young and had the girls almost immediately. She had been very happy to stay at home and look after the children when they were small. However, Donald had been very traditional and insisted Jane's place was at home, even when there was no real reason to do so. With no career experience to fall back on she had been content to do that for a while but as the girls had grown they didn't need an awful lot of attention, and eventually they left home to go to university.

The couple lived in a large house in the Surrey countryside. The large garden was looked after by a gardener for most things and somebody came in regularly to maintain the swimming pool.

So far this tour was proving a lot more interesting than she had expected. As the daughter of a prominent family and a rising star in the political arena, certain things were expected of her, and showing up at official engagements as the dutiful daughter was one of them. She even managed most of the time to look vaguely interested in what was going on.

Today there was no need to feign any interest. It was genuine. The invitation for her father had not been a surprise. After all, Sir Morgan Harris was the Chairperson of the Committee on Penal Reform and everyone agreed that he would be getting a ministerial office at the next reshuffle. It was only natural that he should be asked, but that the invitation had included her as well had been a bit of a surprise. Victoria did not like surprises. She much preferred to be the one springing the surprise, being on the receiving end never ended well as far as she was concerned.

And of course her dear father, the ever-inclusive stepfather, had managed to get Justine added to the invitation.

"It is important that we make her feel at home, Victoria. She is part of the family now." If she heard that one more time she might just scream.

She had agreed of course, but inwardly she groaned. Justine was the daughter of her new stepmother and just because her father had remarried he seemed to think that made Justine her stepsister. She neither wanted nor needed a stepsister, and even if she did, Justine would be the last choice on earth.

The girl was just a year younger than her own twenty and so uptight it was appalling. Worse she wanted to get to know Victoria, wanted to spend quality time with her and that simply would never do. Victoria had spent years carefully cultivating an image that she presented to both her family and the world. As far as everyone was concerned she was the dutiful daughter, the former Head Girl and now undergraduate who was interested in charity as well as active on the student union front. Why she was even captain of her polo team.

Having someone following her around had meant that Victoria had to seriously curtail her activities and that was something she was simply not prepared to do even in the medium term. She might be happy to act in a certain way but that did not mean that she was going to give up her fun. Not for anyone. With Justine hanging around there was a danger that her new 'step-sister' might discover too much about Victoria and, worse, she might spill the beans. Years of carefully cultivating a chosen image would be gone in seconds.

Dealing with Justine had been surprisingly easy, hardly a challenge at all. Now the girl was properly under her thumb and had joined the list of people who possibly knew the real Victoria but who equally would face ruin if even a hint of what they knew ever escaped their lips.

1. The Problem of Cecil
Mary Hartwell
Pimlico
London SW1

Prof. Harold Hastings
Dept. of Cultural Studies (C19th CP Div.)
University of West Anglia
Feshampton
UK

October 22nd 1932

Dear Professor Hastings,

Further to our recent telephone conversation, I enclose this letter with a parcel containing the collection of my grandmother's correspondence written during the late 1860's. Some of the letters she must have acquired from relatives during the course of her life, particularly from her brother (my Great Uncle Cecil) and from their cousin Jasper and their Aunt Julia. I have sorted them into chronological order. I hope they may prove useful to you in your research.

Very briefly: my grandmother, Lydia Hartwell, was born on December 16th 1849 at Hartwell Hall, then as now the family seat of the Hartwells. Her father, Sir Lionel Hartwell, and his brother Richard had both been educated at Greystones, the public school featured within much of this correspondence. As I mentioned to you, my grandmother lived a full life right up until her death a month ago. These letters bear witness to an early episode - she was eighteen - which typified her courage and adventurous spirit.

I feel sure you will find the narrative that unfolds here as engrossing as I did. Should you have any further questions concerning Lydia Hartwell, please feel free to contact me.

Yours sincerely,

Mary Hartwell

---oOo---
Hartwell Hall

January 5th 1868

Dear Aunt Julia,

I hope you are in good health and that life in Bloomsbury treats you well. I write to you on a somewhat delicate matter. You have always been such a kind, honest confidante and I know you will advise me well, as you always have.

Do you remember a visit you made to us when I was about fifteen? It was summer I think. I was being most neglectful of my studies with Miss Jameson at that time and one day during your visit she had cause to punish me with her ferule. I came out of the library crying and you took me in your arms and consoled me. The incident has no doubt faded beyond your recall by now, but I have never forgotten your words to me that day. You spoke of the importance of this kind of punishment - on a young lady's posterior - and how cleansing it was.

Aunt, I have an overwhelming need to confess for I am in a quandary of guilt and confusion. When I became sixteen - over two years ago now - Miss Jameson ceased that form of punishment. But, greatly to my surprise and embarrassment, I have found myself desiring to experience it again. I wonder at my strangeness in wanting to be punished, to be beaten on my derriere (as Miss J has always called it).

And now I come to the worst part of my confession about which I can only blush.