LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

Chapter 1
"Oh my God! Woman, you don't just burn your bridges, you blow up the road as well." Laughing at both the unfolding story and the young woman gracing her San Francisco bedroom, Kylee handed her best friend since grade school a second glass of Pinot Noir and took a seat on the cushioned bench at the end of the bed. "I mean, no kidding; all his stuff out the window?"

Accepting the offered glass of ruby comfort, Valerie leaned back against the oak headboard of Kylee's bed, taking a deep sip. "Shirts, pants, you name it, right out the window."

Shaking her head, Kylee took her own swig of Napa Valley red and leaned forward to rest her arm on the blue silk of her favorite bedspread. "OK, Val, we've had our wine and you've had your cry. Now spill."

Setting her glass down on the nightstand, Val ran her hands through her hair. 'Hair straight as a stalk of Idaho wheat and just as blonde,' her mom liked to say. A complete opposite of Kylee's almost blue-black curls, courtesy a heritage consisting of both Greek and Portuguese. The girls had met at a Seattle, Washington, neighborhood pool their third-grade summer, one light-skinned and slathered in sunscreen, and the other already well-browned by the early July sun. Val had offered to share her kickboard with Kylee, and a lifelong friendship was born. As they got older, they found they shared a lot of common interests. Sports, fashion, and to their parents shared headaches, boys. Luckily for Val and Kylee, their tastes in the male gender ran in two different directions. Kylee always went for the loud, athletic types. Val preferred the quieter debate and chess club boys.

"Come on, Val, you're stalling. I want to hear every detail, including how you got away clean."

"What do you mean, got away clean?"

Shrugging, Kylee swirled her wine a little and looked up at her friend. "You know, got away. I mean, let's face it, Ming the Merciless isn't exactly your usual type."

Taking up her glass again, Val frowned down the bed at her friend. "What do you mean my type? And don't call him Ming."

"I mean, unlike the last two milksops you dated, he didn't strike me as the kind of man who would respond to his clothes flying through the air with just a shrug and a tear. And while we're on the subject, why not Ming? I like Ming. It fits him better than Jason."

Val had to partially agree with her best friend. Her last few boyfriends were indeed milksops. First, it had been a bartender/actor she met during her early years as a special events organizer in LA. It had been her first big break, assisting the more seasoned employees with a Tropical Expressions venue for the latest celebrity-endorsed rum. A combination of too much caffeine and too little sleep had robbed Val of her usual calm.

The Intern
Mary Louise Rossington stood at the front of the Lanark Island Ferry craning her neck for her first glimpse of what was to be her home for the year. She still could not believe her luck that out of who knows how many thousand applicants she had been picked as this year's intern for the prestigious Lanark Island Herald.

Only a week before she had found out that she had been on a shortlist of five with a Stanford girl, a woman from Princeton and two Harvard graduates who had majored in Journalism. As a girl who had never left Iowa, she knew she was a make-weight candidate and had already settled for wondering how to best exploit the fact that she had even been shortlisted for her resume.

The Lanark Island Herald was a small newspaper serving an island community of at best a few hundred people clinging to an old fashioned way of life off the Massachusetts coast. It employed only two people and came out only once a week, so when she had told her non-journalist friends about it they had not understood the significance of the honour. Even her parents had urged her to apply for one of the big city newspapers for her internship.

"But Mom you don't understand, it was the first newspaper in the US that had a women editor," she had tried to explain.

"Oh Mary, that was ancient history, no one cares now. Don't you know all that ultra-feminist stuff is so 1980s?"

"But Mom, that isn't it; the publisher owns half the press on the East Coast. Sure, the Herald is run just for history's sake, but every Lanark intern since the year dot has gone on to big things. They say if you complete an internship with the Herald then you are in the 'family' and half the women editors in the country started out on the LIH."

Mary hugged herself in disbelief. She doubted her folks got it, but she did. Not that everything was clear cut; there had been some strange stories and legends about Lanark Island. They said that not everyone took to island life and one in five girls did not stick the year out. That's why the application and interview process had been so strange, she supposed.

There had been over 1000 multiple choice questions in the attitude survey and she had had to write three essays on literature comparatives, including one on the Story of O as compared with Justine. That had been fun, but she had thought at one point after she submitted her efforts that she should have taken a stronger traditional feminist line.

Then there had been the interview. The woman who interviewed her was a fashion editor in New York. She had taken Mary out to dinner and asked her about her home life.

"Were you ever spanked at home?" The question had been thrown out between the soup and the main course.

"Eh... well yes sure," Mary had blustered.

"Call me silly names would you?" Smack, Smack, Smack, Smack! "Take your hand away!" Smack, Smack! "I said take your hand away!" Smack, Smack, Smack, Smack!

"Now, what was it you said about me?" Smack, Smack! "Louder!" Smack, Smack!

Wishful thinking, Bill, wishful thinking: you who has never had the privilege of chastising a female bottom in your life. If only!

All right, I admit. I was fed up, angry, hurt, brassed off, pissed off! Sorry about the language but now you know how I was feeling. I don't usually swear, being too much the gentleman or so I like to think, and I tell you my gentlemanly tolerances had just been stretched to the limit. Well I ask you. How would any man feel who had just been called a conceited male chauvinist pig on his own boat by a woman who I doubt even knew which part of the boat was the bow, which was the stern, what was port, what was starboard - in other words didn't know her arse from her elbow? All right, no more swearing, I promise. That trollop needs a bloomin' good hiding I repeated to myself. (I had told her so just before she swept into the fo'c'sle slamming the cabin door on me). For a moment I toyed again with the vision of her across my knees and me whaling into her bare backside with a slipper. It helped to calm me down. Dream on: she was a solicitor and would have had me in court if I so much as dared lay a finger on her. Let me explain. I will go back to the beginning. Bear with me.

Call me a carpenter by trade, or better still furniture restorer. My father had struggled to put me through a good education hoping I would turn into something special. What a waste! I hated boarding school life, not even my best friend would have called me a scholar and I got away from the place and from home at the first opportunity. I did have one saving grace however. I had always been good with my hands and badly wanted to work with them so I trained as a carpenter and became fascinated working with different types of wood, and from these early stages began taking on work renovating antique furniture. I settled in a little town on the south coast, a prosperous part of England where lots of homes in the vicinity just seemed to have that old piece of furniture that needed touching up, so I opened a little workshop and began to make a reasonably comfortable living. Oh and I drifted in and out of marriage and by the time I'm speaking of I'm getting uncomfortably close to forty, no family and becoming resigned to life as a single gent.

Not quite true to say I was single, for I had a beautiful lady as the love of my life.

The day dawned bright and clear, at odds with the dark-clad figure who moved furtively between the trees. He moved swiftly yet cautiously over the grass, intent on keeping his presence secret, taking care not to step on any dry twigs and attract unwanted attention. He manoeuvred himself into a position where he had an uninterrupted view of the Armstrong ranch, and as he settled down to wait, his face darkened as malice and anger took hold.

It was only a matter of time before they stepped out, as he knew they would. He had quickly discovered their habit of a brief early morning stroll followed by ten minutes or so sitting beneath the cypress tree. His eyes narrowed with resentment as he watched them, the big handsome Texan and his girlfriend. He dismissed the man, and let his gaze drink in the sight of the woman. Even at this early hour, without makeup, dressed in a pair of frayed jeans and a pale yellow shirt, she looked stunning. Her waist length hair was the colour of a raven's wing, black with a faint almost blue sheen that sparkled in the sunlight.

Slipping the camera out of the case he carried over his shoulder, he adjusted the lens and took a few shots, capturing her lithe movements and the joy on her face.

"Bitch," he muttered, "I'll have you soon, you bitch."

---oOo---
Rose and Hank sat with their backs against the trunk of a massive cypress tree, the bright early morning sunshine casting shards of dancing dappled light through the canopy of branches with their clusters of feathery needles. The air was still, with the promise of a fine day ahead.

"I never used to be a morning person until I met you," mused Rose as she watched the interplay of light and shadow overhead. She turned and grinned at Hank. He had lowered his Stetson to cover his face. "Hey - are you asleep?"

"Asleep? No way." A strong firm hand reached up to replace the hat back on top of his head. He grinned at her. "Early morning is the best time of day. It's no time to waste sleeping."

"I'm still getting used to it," Rose yawned. Adjusting her position, she leaned forward and sat with her arms resting on her knees, gazing ahead at the Armstrong ranch. "Your home is beautiful," she said softly.

"Our home," he corrected, lightly brushing her lips with his own.

"You told me it was restored and extended in the 1980's, but when was it first built?"

"My great great grandpa built it back in 1882. It's been in the family ever since. We'll raise our kids here, you and I," he said, with a twinkle in his blue eyes.

Rose extended her left hand, splaying her fingers. The diamonds set into her engagement ring sparkled, and the beautiful emerald stone in the centre of the ring caught the light and shimmered.

"I've only been engaged for three months, and now I'm getting married. I can hardly believe it."

THE APOTHECARY'S DAUGHTER: is a sexy and satisfying spanking romance with a fairy-tale quality, telling the story of the apothecary's daughter, Yasmina, and her ordeal at the hands of her wicked step-mother. This results in a public whipping and harsh treatment in jail. But Yasmina avoids a death sentence by escaping and is subsequently befriended by kindly old Alys who teaches her that spankings need not be cruel, but erotic and enjoyable - a fact reinforced by the enigmatic Tristan, whose destiny is inexplicably linked with Yasmina's.

THE CASTLE: Beth is shocked when she finds her boyfriend has been cheating on her with her best friend. Distraught, she drives off and heads north where she gets hopelessly lost and runs out of petrol. She’s picked up by a rustic and very old-fashioned family in a horse and cart, and they give her shelter for the night in a castle. Alerted by a sharp noise in the night, Beth peeks through a crack in the wall, and learns of the spanking proclivities of her hosts. Beth wakes in the morning to find other people milling around this strange place. A procession emerges, led by Milo - a huge man with chains around his wrist. Attached to the chains are naked women; they are led to a platform in front of the crowd, where they are strapped. Enraged, Beth throws a rock at Milo. Big mistake! She is hauled on to the platform herself. The situation looks bleak, but Milo's retribution is interrupted by the appearance of Lord Ingram. The command is given to clean Beth up and bring her to him. Once in his room she reluctantly obeys his commands to lift her gown, but when he fondles her she slaps him. Outraged, he announces her death sentence and has her dispatched to the dungeon. But a castle guard named Rolaund is sympathetic to the victims of the cruel regime at the castle of the sadistic Lord Ingram ...

THE DREAMER: Single, wealthy and attractive, Alice enjoys all the benefits of a nice lifestyle. But she is not content as there is something missing from her life, something that has eluded her, something that she can only glimpse in her dreams. Her recurring dream is of a house in the woods, and a mysterious figure waiting for her there. One day, acting on impulse, Alice gets in her car and drives north, convinced that by doing so, she will somehow unravel the meaning of her dream. As she explores the quaint alleyways of York she finds herself in a narrow passageway which leads her to a curio shop full of treasures and esoteric objects. Venturing inside she meets the enigmatic proprietor who sells her a very special box. Back at home she opens the box, and finds the key to a new life of passion and discipline at the hands of the man she was destined to meet.

THE GREEN MAN: is who ... or what Laura discovers when she journeys to Oak Lodge, her house in the country, and revisits her secret place; for deep in the heart of the wood is a clearing where there stands an ancient oak. The sun and dappled shadows play tricks as she imagines she sees a face in the leaves, but the face is as real as the man who leaps down from the tree to entrance her, and spank her and birch her, and couple with her beneath the oak. A few weeks later Laura returns to the village for the May Day celebrations, where there is a giant effigy of Jack In The Green, embodying the vibrant spirit of the wild wood. She meets Adam, and the two have a whirlwind romance. There is only one thing missing from the relationship, and even when Laura plucks up the courage to ask Adam to give her the spankings she craves, he does so in a half hearted fashion - until the pair go together to Laura's secret place, where something both strange, erotic and deeply satisfying takes place.

THE WOODSMAN: is an atmospheric and sensuous story set in two different time periods. Alysha disobeys her stepfather's warning and ventures into the wild woods where she encounters the Woodsman, a fierce, commanding man who is a part of the ethereal landscape. Alysha is irresistibly drawn to him, and as events unfurl we see her indignation mingle with wishful submission. He knows her secret and deepest needs... he spanks and straps and birches her as the prelude to a long education under his guidance. Five hundred years later, Alice, holidaying in an English country cottage, encounters a fierce, commanding man to whom she is irresistibly drawn...