Fairy Tale Fantasies By Kristin York
Fairy Tale Fantasies By Kristin York A Newsite Web Services Book Published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved. Copyright 2007 © by Kristin York This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission of the author or Newsite Web Services, LLC Published by Newsite Web Services, LLC P.O. Box 1286, Loganville, Georgia 30052 USA
[email protected] disciplineanddesire.com
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Not Such an Ugly Duckling
1
Little Red
15
Achille’s Purse
34
Mr. Wolf and the Problem with Piggies
50
Snow White - 2002
65
Pete and Wendy
81
Grandpa Jack’s Magic Beans
97
The Twelve Dancing Princesses
121
Frogs are People, Too
137
Old Lady Shue
158
The Princess, the Peas, and the Innkeeper’s Son
176
The Doppelgang-up
198
Not Such an Ugly Duckling "You coming to bed?" Jeremy called to Grace from the kitchen. "In a bit." She squinted her eyes to better make out the button she was sewing back onto his shirt. "I need to get this mending done." He didn’t say much by way of reply -- but the next thing she knew, a large, man-shaped shadow had fallen over her work. "The mending can wait." "That’s what I’ve been telling myself for the last three weeks," Grace pointed her foot in the direction of the overflowing laundry basket. "But, as you can see, it seems to have taken on a life of its own." "So does something else." His hand was gentle on the top of her head as he turned her to face the part of him that had grown rather prominent. "And while I can and will sew on my own buttons, I’d rather not have to take care of this all by myself." The sensual promise in his low voice had her securing her needle in the front of the cotton dress shirt. "Ooh … that does appear to be a problem," she said as an answering smile danced in her eyes. "I guess the mending can wait." He took her hand and helped her to her feet. "I was hoping you would see it my way." "How could I not?" She stretched languidly and twined her arms around his neck, making certain to rub against his body in all the important places. "Minx." He lifted her by the waist. "Wrap your legs around me, Gracie. Mmm-hmm … that’s the way." Cupping her bottom with possessive hands, Jeremy carried his wife to the bedroom. The short ride made her arch and strain against his erection and, by the time he had her undressed, her body had already prepared itself to accommodate his length. He discarded his pajama bottoms and joined her in their bed; but when she arched up and would
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have pulled him down on top of her, he only shook his head and rolled to one side. "Huh-uh." A playful, promising smile lit his eyes. "Not yet." "Please?" He levered up one elbow and slid his hand slowly up her thigh. "Remember what a tease you were this afternoon at lunch -- the way you tormented me when you knew I had to go back to work?” Dark hair fell across his forehead, and she reached up to push it out of his hazel-brown eyes. "Well, now it’s my turn." "Oh really?" There was a hint of challenge in her voice. "Are you saying that you intend to make me as crazy as I made you today?" "No." He bent down and captured one stiffpeaked nipple between his teeth, nipping with just enough force to make her moan with delight. "Crazier … much crazier." "Mmmm." She relaxed back onto the pillow. "Go ahead, then. Take your best shot." What followed was sweet torture. There was something wonderful, Grace decided, about being married to the same man for so long. Just as a violinist learns to coax beautiful music from his instrument, Jeremy knew how to make her sing with desire. Everywhere that his hands roamed, his mouth followed -- tasting, teasing, driving her relentlessly toward ecstasy. "Let me touch you." Her breathing was harsh, labored. "Honey, please." "Huh-uh." He was straddling her hips, using lips, teeth and tongue to coax her dusky pink nipples into aching peaks. "Not yet," he murmured as he drew both her questing hands up and captured them above her head. "I’m not finished with you, sweetheart." "But honey," She was strung so tight that she feared she’d snap at any moment. "I don’t think I can take much more."
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"That’s okay." He tore his attention away from her breasts long enough to retrieve two silk neckties from beneath his pillow. "I came prepared." Her eyes opened wide at the sight, but she did not fight as he bound one hand, then the other, to the headboard. Her restraints were not tight -escape would be easy enough, should she wish for it -- and that fact gave her the confidence necessary to truly give herself over to the sensations he was creating in her. "Well, aren’t you the boy scout? I bet your instructors didn’t have this in mind when they were teaching you to tie knots." "That’s me." He moved back to her breasts, suckling each one in turn, then kissed his way down her belly. "Neither rain nor sleet nor dark of night -." "That’s the post office, silly! Oh…yes." Her giggles turned to throaty moans filled with pleasure as he settled with his head between her thighs. "Please, Jeremy." She arched off the bed, offered him the very core of her body, and he accepted. "Oh yes…like that." The first orgasm shuddered through her the moment his tongue found and probed the concealed pearl within the heated folds of her sex. "That’s right, sweetheart. Let yourself go." The warmth of his whispered encouragement made her break out in gooseflesh, and she shivered as the last of the waves of pleasure rippled outward toward fingers and toes. "Please, Jer!" She twisted against her bonds. "Please … I can’t wait any longer." He chuckled and blew cooling air against her swollen folds. "Mmm … greedy little thing, aren’t you?" "Yes." Eyes shut, she moved restlessly, her blonde-brown hair fanning out on the pillow. "I want you, honey. I need you!" "Good." Jeremy smiled and cradled his wife’s hips in his hands. He watched with satisfaction as
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her eyes grew round with wonder. "Now that I have your full attention -- ." He took command of the situation, first inhaling her scent, and then using his tongue to drive her back toward the peak of release. When she, once again, came undone in his arms, he cupped both her buttocks and orally imitated the counter-motion she sought. She sobbed out his name and, having released herself from the ties, somehow managed to roll over and climb on top of him. When he felt her narrow passage tighten around him in welcome, it was all he could do to control himself. Still, he wanted to see her face bathed in pleasure just once more before he took his own release. "That’s it," he said, his voice graveled by restraint. "One more time, baby … cum for me one more time." He knew that he’d found her internal pleasure spot when her moans altered in pitch and frequency. Then her muscles were spasming around him, milking him, and he drove into her once more, hard and deep, and tumbled over the precipice with her. For a long time afterward, Jeremy and Grace lay entwined, their naked bodies pressed together in a companionable fashion. Grace was the first to break the spell by wriggling out of her husband’s grasp. "Hey," he growled. "Where do you think you’re going?" "Gotta brush my teeth," she replied. "And put some pjs on." "No you don’t." Jeremy rolled over and reached for his wife, but she alluded his grasp. "Okay, brush your teeth. But no pajamas. The kids are gone and I want to feel your skin against mine." Grace went quickly to the adjoining bath and got out toothpaste and toothbrush. "Honey, you know I don’t like to sleep in the nude," she mumbled around a mouth full of mint-flavored bubbles. "Well, I think you’d better learn to like it." There was a teasingly authoritative note to his voice.
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"Because you’re my woman, and I say you don’t need pajamas tonight. In fact, I think I should throw all your pjs away." "All right, Mr. Caveman." Grace rinsed her mouth, caught sight of herself in the mirror, and grimaced. At least during their lovemaking, she was able to forget the myriad imperfections of her almost-forty body, but one look in a mirror brought reality crashing back down around her. "But no squeezing my fat rolls in the middle of the night -even if you do mistake them for my boobs." "Excuse me?" She heard the disappointment in Jeremy’s voice and pasted on what she hoped was a confident smile before joining him in the bedroom. "It was nothing, honey." She slipped beneath the covers and curled up, her head on his shoulder. "Let’s get to sleep." "I don’t think so." His words were gentle, but there was a hint of steel behind them. "You know how I feel about you cutting yourself down, Grace." Grace bit her lip and wrapped her arm more firmly around his waist. "I was just kidding, hon. Really." "And I don’t consider this a joking matter." He hugged her briefly, then said, "Sit up, please." "No." She looked up into his eyes, alarmed. "I … I didn’t mean it. Honest! You don’t have to spank me." "Sit up, Gracie." Jeremy disentangled himself from his wife’s grasp and began to stack pillows against the headboard. "I think we need to have a little discussion about this habit. You know I will not allow you to say hurtful things about the woman I love -- not even in jest." "But this isn’t fair." With a petulant pout, she sat up and half-handed, half-flung her pillow at him. "I’m tired and I don’t want to be spanked. It’s not fair that I get punished just because you can’t take a joke."
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"Gracie Ellen." He called her by her full name. That always meant trouble. "I’m warning you." Overcome by a torrent of emotions, Grace crawled to her husband and flopped herself down over his lap. "Fine. You want to spank me? Well, go ahead. At least I’ve got plenty of padding for you to work with." Smack! His hand fell with a resounding slap across the center of her bottom. "Young lady, what on earth has gotten into you?" She winced at the way his hand imprinted her bottom, then pounded one fist against the mattress in a rare show of anger. "Hell if I know." Jeremy sucked in a sharp breath. His wife never used strong language -- in fact, she believed that only morons needed to supplement their conversation with four letter words -- so he recognized her choice of words as a sign that she was out of control. Something was very wrong here, and he refused to be drawn into the drama of it without understanding what was really going on. Instead of delivering another sharp swat, he laid his hand soothingly on her bottom. "What’s wrong, hon? What’s this all about?" "It’s about the fact that I’m a fat, ugly slob. Surely that’s not so hard for you to comprehend." He wanted to help her -- truly he did -- but he could feel her unraveling before his eyes. He made one last, desperate attempt to reason with her. "Sweetheart, you are not fat, nor are you ugly. You are my wife, I love you, and -- ." "And love is obviously blind." She finished the sentence for him, then recklessly reached back to slap at his calf. "Let me up! I don’t want to talk about this any more." In that moment, Jeremy knew what he had to do. He captured her right wrist and pinned it at her side, drawing her body more firmly against him as he did so. "Okay, that’s it. You obviously don’t intend to listen to reason, so it’s time I tried another method."
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Grace was fuming, and the moment her husband’s hand impacted her exposed bottom, she screeched with fury and kicked wildly. He couldn’t do this to her -- it wasn’t right. Not normally a fighter, she surprised them both by trying to wrench herself up off of his lap. "Stop it," Jeremy commanded, but she couldn’t seem to make herself obey. Her heart pounded, and she fought against the onslaught of fast, sharp spanks. "Let go," she seethed as she yanked at the quilt. "Damn it, Jeremy … red, red, red!" "Oh no you don’t. You know that safe word doesn’t work when you’re in trouble, young lady." He cupped his hand and delivered repeated, stinging blows to the back of each thigh. "This spanking will be over only when I’m convinced you’re ready to talk." Her breath hissed between clenched teeth and she went rigid with anger and something more -- a reckless fury that made her feel cold and hard on the inside. No tears, she told herself fiercely. He won’t make me cry. Jeremy spanked his wife’s tightly clenched bottom cheeks, but to no avail. His hand stung, but the only indication that she even felt the firmly delivered slaps came in the form of reflexive kicks and well-muffled groans. He watched her bottom go from creamy white, to pink, to a heated red and yet she remained rigid with tension. "Are you ready to talk yet?" he asked as he shook out his aching hand. She gave him no response -- absolutely none -and shaking his head, he helped her up off of his lap. He met her gaze, saw the stubborn challenge in her eyes, and gave a reluctant sigh. "I don’t understand this, Gracie. Either talk to me now or go get the bath brush." Her chest was heaving, her neck and shoulders absolutely aching with tension, and she feared the bath brush more than any other implement they
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owned. Still, something in her held back. It was as if someone else -- someone who was clearly a mad woman -- had taken over her body. "I’m fat, Jeremy, and dumpy. No amount of spanking can alter that truth." "Go." He pointed toward the bathroom and sliding off the side of the bed, she followed his directions. She didn’t bother to turn on the light, just jerked the shower door open and reached inside for the brush, muttering a string of expletives the entire time. She knew she’d slammed the door shut entirely too hard when she walked back into the bedroom and saw him standing beside the bed. "Give me that, young lady," he said as he jerked the brush from her hand, "and lean over the edge of the bed. Do you have any idea how much it would cost to replace that shower door? Not to mention how badly you could be hurt if the glass shattered around your arm?" "I -- ." For the first time since she’d started the argument, she felt ashamed. "I’m sorry, honey." "And you’re going to be a good deal sorrier." Jeremy pointed to the bed and, trembling, she bent over. "I will not tolerate recklessness, young lady, or the kind of verbal abuse you’ve been inflicting on yourself." Crack! The oval of wood, swung from a much longer handle than a normal hairbrush, flattened a good portion of her left cheek. Jeremy watched as his wife went up on her toes, listened to her moan as the red flesh turned temporarily white, and then a dark crimson. He put his hand in the small of her back and held her down for a second burning spank, then set his back teeth and went to work paddling her fast and hard. Every time the flat of the brush made contact with her rapidly coloring bottom, she moaned. Every time, he cringed. "Why are you making me do this, baby?" he asked as he worked at wearing down her resistance. "Don’t you know how much I hate to spank you?"
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"You shouldn’t." Gracie could no longer prevent the words from coming. Her bottom was literally on fire, and no amount of dancing up on her toes could relieve the throbbing that had set in. "It’s what I deserve. I’m -- I’m so sorry." Her resolve shattered in an instant, and she went from angry defiance to plaintive sobbing. "I -- I don’t know why you love me," she sobbed against the comforter. "I don’t deserve it." "What?" Jeremy tossed the brush to the floor and pulled his wife into his arms. "What do you mean, you don’t deserve it? We all deserve to be loved, Gracie. And no one more than you." He rubbed her back in soothing circles and, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, pulled her gently into his lap. "You are the most wonderful, loving, beautiful woman I’ve ever known. You give of yourself constantly -- to me, to the kids. You’re generous and kind and talented and -- ." She sobbed louder and he sat her back at arm’s length to better look at her. "Honey, what? I don’t understand where this is coming from." She wilted in his arms, her sobs anguished and exhausting, and he could think of nothing better to do than to hold her. "It’s okay," he whispered as he stroked her hair and rocked her soothingly. "It’s okay, baby. I’m here. We’ll talk about it when you’re ready." They sat together for a long time, Grace crying as though her heart would break, and Jeremy soothing her despite his own confusion. His wife had self-esteem issues -- he knew that -- but this had come on so suddenly that he was left bewildered. Had he done something, said something while they were making love? Had he unintentionally set this off? When at last she calmed down, he helped her under the covers, then pulled her close so that her head was, once again, cradled on his shoulder. He stroked her arm and patiently kissed the top of her
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head. "Please talk to me, baby. Why are you so upset?" He felt another sob ripple through her, but was relieved when she finally managed to get out, "Jenny called today. She and Andrea want to give Mom and Dad a portrait of the three of us for their anniversary." The first comment that came to Jeremy’s mind was "So?" but he managed a more neutral response. "And that bothers you?" "Of course it bothers me." More tears trickled down her cheeks and dampened his chest. "You know what my sisters look like. They’re both tall and blonde and gorgeous, just like our parents. And then there’s me. I stick out like a sore thumb whenever we’re together. Anyone who looks at us knows that I wasn’t born into my family." "Oh." Realization finally dawned, and Jeremy gave his wife a loving squeeze. "This is about being adopted, then?" Grace shrugged and let out a deep breath. "I know that I shouldn’t think this way, Jer. I know it’s stupid, and that it’s about how I feel, not how Mom and Dad feel … or Jen and Andi, for that matter. They’re my family and I love them. But sometimes I just wonder what was wrong with me, that my birth mom gave me up. What didn’t she like about me?" "I understand, honey," Jeremy whispered, and Grace knew that he did -- as much as anyone on the outside could understand. For years, she’d kept the hurts of the past walled up inside her; but over the course of the last year, she’d found them increasingly difficult to deal with on her own. Therapy had helped to break down the walls, and she’d finally shared her most private pain with her husband, but there were still times when the old demons reared their ugly heads. Tonight was one of those times. "I’m sorry," she whispered again. "I don’t know what came over me, honey. I can’t believe all the
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nasty things I said to you … the way I fought. Please forgive me?" "Of course, babe." He held her tight. "I just wish you’d said something sooner. I would never have spanked you if I’d known --." "No … no," she said, reaching up to put her fingers to his lips. "I -- I needed the spanking. I don’t know why … and sometimes I wish it didn’t work this way … but I couldn’t have let go without it. In fact, I didn’t even know that I’d put the walls up until you started using the brush. It was the only thing that could have gotten through." He sounded regretful when he answered, "I just hope you still feel that way tomorrow. After all, I haven’t spanked you that hard in months." "Really?" Grace realized the range of strong emotions she’d been feeling had served to block some of the initial pain. She was starting to feel it now, though, and she reached back in an unconscious effort to soothe the throbbing in her backside. "Yeah, really. Now, when is your appointment to have the photo taken?" "Wednesday," she said. "I guess they made the arrangements a while ago, but didn’t tell me until now, because they didn’t want me to back out." "Good move. This is … what? … the third time the three of you have talked about doing this?" "Yeah." She shifted uncomfortably as the throbbing worsened. "So they only gave me a couple of days." "All right, then." Jeremy’s voice took on an authoritative note once again. "There will be no backing out this time, young lady. This is a demon you need to face down." His hug was reassuring. "So, what can I do to help?" "Umm … I don’t know." She wasn’t totally convinced to have the picture taken, but she had yet to come up with a reasonable excuse. "I guess you could buy me a fabulous outfit and send me to a spa to have my hair and nails and make-up done."
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"Would it help, do you think? Would that give your confidence a boost?" Grace went up on her elbow to look at her husband. "It’s okay," she said with a not-quitegenuine smile. "That’s way too expensive, honey. I’ll be fine." Jeremy studied his wife’s expression, then asked, "Where would you go? If you could go to a spa and shop at any store you wanted?" Grace shrugged and settled into her husband’s embrace. "I don’t know, really. Andrea talked about some spa in Columbus that she loves … the Penzone, I think … but really, hon, I’m sure it’s way too expensive. Please don’t worry about it." Jeremy, his mind working, reached over and turned off the lamp on his side of the bed. "Go to sleep, Gracie," he said, kissing her forehead. "And remember … I love you." ____________________ Grace woke up rather sore on Sunday, but calmer than she’d felt in a while. She put the picture out of her mind, and determined not to think of herself as the "ugly duckling" of the family. Still, when Jen called to discuss what they would wear, she found it hard to remain positive. "I don’t know," Gracie said into the phone. "I guess you guys can just decide and let me know. Maybe we should just go with something basic? Like denim or khaki? What do you think?" "I think," Jen said, "that we need a shopping trip. The appointment’s not until seven on Wednesday night. I’ll pick you up at eight in the morning." "Eight in the morning?" Grace was nearly speechless. "Why? It’s not going to take us that long to shop. And what will I do with the kids?" "Andrea’s arranging for a sitter at her house. I’ll pick you and the kids up, and we can drop them off to play with hers so the three of us can go shopping."
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"I don’t know," Grace said, her mind on the checkbook. "I don’t have a lot of extra money to spend." "Don’t worry," Jenny said, her enthusiasm all but pouring through the phone line. "We’ll make sure to keep it in budget. See you then." By Wednesday, Grace was a nervous wreck. She hustled the kids through breakfast and climbed into Jen’s SUV with her stomach doing flip-flops. She’d almost called to back out the night before, but Jeremy had taken the phone from her hand and, pulling her over his knee, had lovingly spanked some sense into her. Her bottom was entirely too sore to even contemplate canceling now, but that didn’t mean she had to enjoy having her picture taken. "Okay, so where to?" Jen asked once the kids had been deposited and Andrea had taken their place in the back seat. "City Center," Andrea replied with absolutely no hesitation. "I saw something there that I just know would be perfect for you, Grace." "For me?" Grace took a deep breath, certain that she couldn’t afford a thing in the upscale mall, but unwilling to ruin her sisters’ fun. "Okay." She looked at Jenny and shrugged. "It’s fine by me." Three stories and half a dozen shopping bags later, Grace tried to talk her sisters out of steering her into the Elisabeth store. "I can’t afford this place, guys." "Actually," Jen said, as she rummaged through her purse, "you can." With a flourish, she produced an envelope that she handed to Grace. "Well, go on. Open it." "What have you done?" Grace murmured as she slit the seal. Her eyes widened at the sight of a $200 gift certificate. She looked from one sister to the other. "Guys, I can’t possibly accept this. It’s too much."
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Jen and Andrea grinned at one another and Andrea said, "Well, I guess you’ll have to take that up with your husband. It’s from him." "Huh?" Her eyes round with surprise, Grace read the note that Jeremy had placed along side the generous gift. For the most beautiful woman I know, I love you, Gracie. Relax and enjoy this day with your sisters. You deserve it. J Grace had to dash away tears before she could do a proper job of shopping, and more on the way into the Penzone salon later that afternoon, but she was smiling when she arrived home that night. She blushed prettily when, as she walked in the front door, Jeremy let loose with a low whistle. "Come here, beautiful," he said as he drew her down onto his lap. "Tell me about your day." "It was … incredible." She wriggled on his lap and was rewarded with a playful smack to the bottom. "How can I ever thank you, honey? You made me feel beautiful." "You were always beautiful," Jeremy said as he brought his lips down to his wife’s. "You just needed to be reminded."
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Little Red "Hunter … honey?" Regina Woods wrapped her arms around her husband’s waist and seductively tongued one of his exposed nipples. "You don’t really have to go … do you?" She looked up, smiling, as the promise of pleasure shuddered through his 6’4" frame. "Wouldn’t you rather spend the day with me? I bet if you called that client of yours....." With a throaty growl, Hunter picked up his petite wife and bore her, giggling, to the four-poster bed they’d vacated not an hour before. She was small enough that he could carry her like a child, but the way she wrapped her legs around his hips and ground her pelvis against his denim-clad erection was all woman. She smiled and nipped at his ear lobe, then clung to his neck as he lowered her to the bed. "Woman," he breathed against the column of her throat. "You know I’m going to have to do this at some point this week." He settled one knee on the bed, high up between her thighs and, keeping his other foot on the floor, began to pry her arms loose from his neck. "Wouldn’t it be best if I got this done on a rainy day, so that I’m not cutting into our hiking time? It’s not like we can do anything much with it pouring like this, anyway." "Oh no? I can think of something to do despite the rain." Regina curled a ringlet of long, red hair around her finger and looked up at her husband, pouting. "I’m surprised you can’t." Hunter chuckled and brought his mouth down on hers, the kiss a searing promise that he fully intended to honor. "Tonight, after supper," he whispered against her mouth. "You, me … whip cream and chocolate sauce? What do you say we whip up a special dessert? Hmmm?" Sighing, Regina allowed her husband to pull away. Black hair, in need of a trim, fell across his forehead and the carefully banked fires of passion
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turned his green-blue eyes the color of the Mediterranean. She arched up, extended their physical contact for as long as possible, then groaned in frustration when he straightened and pulled a shirt on over his head. "Damn bankers. Why do they have to make every single project so hard?" He settled the shirt down over his lean torso and gave her a warning look. "Young lady … do you really want to have to talk about that mouth of yours again? Because the way you’re acting, I’m beginning to think you like the taste of soap." Regina sat up, shaking her head. "No, honey. I’m sorry. It’s just that its going to be such a dull day, stuck up here without a TV or computer." "And whose fault is that? I believe I told you to bring a book. It’s not like you didn’t know about this ahead of time." The thirty-three-year-old woman adopted a childish scowl. It irritated her no end to hear I-toldyou-sos. It made her even angrier when she knew he was right. "Alright then," she said as, grabbing a pillow, she hurled it at his head. "Go on down and spend your day at the site. Don’t worry about little me, up here all alone and unprotect--." Before she could finish the sentence, her husband grabbed both her ankles, yanking them skyward so that she fell backwards on the bed. "You? In need of protection? I don’t think so, little miss queen-of-the-self-defense-class." The t-shirt she’d slept in slid up around her waist and he applied several sharp swats to her bare bottom. "That’ll be enough feeling sorry for yourself, Little Red. Do I make myself clear?" "Ouch! Oooh," the woman cried, wriggling against the stinging blows. Whenever her husband used that particular nickname, she knew she was headed for trouble-- in fact, she knew she would be sporting a backside as red as her flaming hair if she
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didn’t make a hasty retreat. "Okay! No more pity party." "Good girl." He lowered her hips down to the mattress and slid his hand up the outside of one shapely leg. "Now, stay out of trouble today … okay? I want to have fun tonight when I get home, but if you pull another of your stunts, it’ll be a very different kind of an evening. Understand?" Regina nodded glumly, resenting his reference to her previous accidents as "stunts." Okay, so she’d made a few bad decisions in years past -- her penchant for sneaking off on her own had resulted in a twisted ankle one year, a broken wrist and a terrifying night spent lost in the woods the next-but she’d learned her lesson. Besides, she knew her way around better this year, and felt perfectly confident that she could walk to Grannie Martha’s cabin on her own. If only the rain would let up … "You’ll stay right here?" Hunter knew his wife all too well, and meant to extract one more promise from her before he left. "No leaving the clearing, right? And you’ll keep the cell with you everywhere you go … even if it’s just as far as the stand of pines?" Oh well, what did it matter? She had no intention of schlepping out in this downpour, so what could it hurt to make the promises? "Yes dear," she answered with a deliberate sigh. "I’ll stay here … alone … all day. I promise." Hunter threaded one hand through his wife’s disheveled curls and kissed her deeply. "Good girl. I’ll see you tonight." "Hurry back! I’ll have dinner waiting," she called after him, then watched as he climbed into the hardtop jeep and rumbled down the gravel drive and onto the road below. ____________________ After her husband left, Regina donned her grubbiest old clothes and went to work tidying up the cabin. She dusted and mopped, attacked a
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stack of dirty dishes and made more mixing up the filling for a couple of blueberry pies. She showered while her husband’s favorite dessert baked to a golden brown and, made drowsy by the steady sound of rain on the roof, decided to take a nap while they cooled. Cocooned in the warmth of sheet and comforter, she quickly drifted off to sleep. She woke suddenly, her heart pounding, then scrambled out of bed when the shrill whistle of the cell phone sounded for the second time. She found it on the seat of the rocker -- right where she’d left it, of course -- and answered on the fourth ring. Forgoing the customary salutation, she asked good-naturedly, "Calling to check up on me, eh?" "Should I be?" It wasn’t Hunter, but rather Grannie Martha, who sounded decidedly unwell. "Regina? I was hoping you were up this weekend. I wonder if I could ask a favor of you." "Well, of course you can, Martha. What’s the matter? You don’t sound so good." "Oh, just a cold dear," the older woman answered in a raspy voice. "But I’m not feeling much like going out, and my daughter’s having car problems and can’t get up here, so I was hoping maybe I could ask you and that nice husband of yours to pick me up some cough syrup? Whenever you’re in town next would be fine." "Oh, of course. In fact -- ." Hurrying into the bathroom, Regina opened the medicine cabinet and took down a nearly full bottle of Tussin-X liquid. "Yes, I have some right here. I’ll bring it over just as soon as Hunter gets home." "Oh, that would be so kind of you." A sudden spasm of coughing took the old woman away from the phone and by the time she was back, whispering a hoarse thank you, Regina had slipped into her shoes. The rain had stopped and surely Hunter would understand why she’d gone to Martha’s -- if she chose to tell on herself. After all, this was an emergency. "Actually," she told the old woman gently, "I think I’ll just pop on
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over. Do you need anything else? Some soup, maybe … or anything else?" "No, no … no need for you to go to any trouble dear. Just the cough syrup’s fine, and I’ll gladly pay you for it." "Don’t be silly." Wedging the phone between her neck and shoulder, Regina wrapped two generous slices of pie in foil, retrieved a can of chicken noodle soup from the pantry, and carefully loaded everything into a small basket. "I’ll be there in half an hour." She hung up, wedged the cell phone in beside the pie, and headed out the door. ____________________ Hunter turned off the highway and followed a two-lane road into the country, humming along with the radio as he drove. The meeting with the bank manager had gone well, the construction foreman liked his plans for the re-design and, best of all, he was going to make it back to the cabin before dark. He glanced at the long white box on the seat, pleased with the perfect red of the roses he’d picked up, and shifted a bottle of champagne deeper in between two bags of ice. He’d not been able to get the thought of his wife -- sleep tousled and clad in nothing but an old t-shirt-- out of his head and, consequently, had spent a good portion of the day in an uncomfortable state of arousal. Even after eight years of marriage, just the thought of her had his body reacting like that of a seventeen-year-old. And since his sweet Little Red had kept him up all day, he fully intended to return the favor tonight. His musing stopped when he reached the turnoff to the narrow road up the mountain. There, blocking the path, were two sheriff’s cars, several uniformed officers and two men he surmised to be detectives. An officer waved him over, so he brought his jeep to a grinding halt and stuck his head out the window. "Hi there," he said with what he hoped was a friendly smile. "Something wrong, officer?"
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The deputy was all business when he asked for Hunter’s license, but lightened up considerably when a cursory examination of the interior of the jeep revealed no other passengers. "We’re looking for a boy suspected of shooting his father this morning." He held up a snapshot of a teen with unkempt blonde hair and a far-away look in his eyes. "Name’s Justin McBride. You ever seen him around here?" ____________________ Regina knocked at Grannie Martha’s door, waited for several minutes, then knocked again, harder. "Martha, are you okay?" Worried by the old woman’s silence, she tried the door and found it unlocked. Poking her head inside, she called out, "Grannie Martha, are you in there?" "Yes, honey." The answer came from behind the half-open bedroom door. "I don’t want you to catch this, though, so why don’t you just leave the cough syrup on the table and go on home." "Don’t be ridiculous," Regina called as she nudged the front door shut. "I’ve brought you some goodies along with the medicine and -- ." She pushed the bedroom door open and caught a shocked breath. "What the hell?" "Hello, lady," a large, blonde-haired boy said with a polite smile and a bob of his head. He used the rifle in his hands to beckon her to a chair beside the white-faced Martha. "Come in and sit down. Grannie’s been coughin’. She needs that medicine." Regina took a deep breath, let it out slowly to calm herself. As a social worker and counselor, she’d been trained to remain calm in the most difficult of situations. Edging obediently across the room, she decided that no amount of lectures or role-played crises could truly prepare you for the shock of having a gun pointed at your mid-section. "My name’s Regina," she said as she slid gingerly past the young man. "What’s yours?" ____________________
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"Nope. Sorry," Hunter replied after carefully studying the photo. "My wife and I built a summer cabin up here three years ago, and we visit frequently, but I can’t remember ever seeing him. Does he live around here?" "Actually, he lives about ten miles further down the main road, but we’ve got a couple of witnesses that say he hijacked their car and headed this direction, just shortly after a neighbor of McBride’s found the man, shot dead in his dairy barn. A search party turned up the car -- he’d left it in a ditch a couple of miles up the mountain -- but he was gone and the rain’s made it hard to track him. You said you have a cabin up there? Anybody home right now?" "Yeah, my wife." Hunter reached for the cell phone. "I’ll call her now and tell her to lock the doors. You mind letting me through?" The deputy waved to the drivers of the cars that blocked the road. "No problem. You let us know if you see anything … okay?" "I will," Hunter called out the window as he dialed Regina’s number. "Thanks." ____________________ The whistle of the phone caught everyone in Grannie Martha’s cabin by surprise, and Justin McBride reacted by cocking the gun and leveling it a Regina’s head. "You got a phone with you, lady?" he asked, pronouncing his words with slow, laborious precision. "Yes." She sat very still, not wishing to further alarm the boy. "It’s in my basket." "Who’d be callin’ you?" he asked as he eased the gun back a bit. "Probably my husband," she said as the phone whistled for the third time. "He’ll be worried if I don’t answer."
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"Where he at right now?" The boy peered inside the basket with a speculative glance. "He close by? Got a car?" The shrill, repetitive whistling died out. "He’s probably on his way back to our place," Regina lied. Hunter wouldn’t be back until nearly 8:00, but if she could make the boy think there was imminent danger, maybe he would leave. "And yes, we have a car." ____________________ Hunter hung up the phone, swearing, as something cold and heavy wrapped itself around his heart. "Calm down, Woods," he told himself. "She’s probably in the shower or outside." His hands tightened on the steering wheel and he stepped down harder on the accelerator. "Regina, if you’ve forgotten to carry that phone with you," he muttered as he hit redial, "I am so going to bust your butt." ____________________ The phone rang again, and Justin slid the basket closer to Regina. "Answer it," he said around a mouthful of blueberry pie. "Tell yer husband to come over to Grannie’s. I need to borrow his car." Regina reached carefully for the phone, answered on the tail end of the second ring. "Hello?" "Red, thank God! I was worried when I didn’t get you before. Did you forget to take the phone with you outside?" "No," she replied, her eyes on the boy who held her at gunpoint. "I just couldn’t get to it before. Where are you?" "I’m on my way home. Be there in about ten minutes." There was a slight pause, as if he had something unpleasant to say, and then, "Sweetheart, I don’t want to worry you, but you need to stay inside until I get home. Lock the doors, and shut all the windows. Understand?"
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She didn’t answer immediately, because all her attention was on the boy who was waving the gun at her and mouthing, "tell him." To make matters worse, Martha began another coughing fit, wheezing and gasping as if she could not get air, and the tone of his voice changed in an instant. "Who’s that?" he demanded. "Who’s coughing." "It’s Grannie Martha." The barrel of the gun felt cold, even through the thick hair at the base of her scalp. "I’m over at her place right now, honey. And I need the car. Can you come on up?" "I’ll be right there." His voice was tight, controlled. Regina knew him to be angry, but was also certain she’d given no indication of what was really going on. Justin, however, apparently had something to add. He jerked the phone from her hands and waved it in the direction of the wheezing old woman. "Help her," he ordered. To Hunter, he said, "I need yer car, mister. And no police. If I see police, I’m gonna shoot yer wife." ____________________ The moment he heard the male voice, the cold heaviness began to press in on Hunter’s heart. "Who is this?" he asked sharply. "What have you done to my wife?" "She’s okay." The boy spoke slowly, as though it took him a great deal of effort to form the words. "I don’t wanna hurt nobody else, mister. You just bring me yer car and I’ll let her and Grannie go. ‘Kay?" "Yes ... okay." He put his foot to the floor and said, "I’ll be there in five minutes." The jeep bounced up the rough gravel road, but Hunter didn’t care about the tires, or the exhaust system, or anything else he would normally have been careful not to damage. His wife was in danger, and nothing else mattered. He would do anything to protect her, including lay down his own life to save hers. He only hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
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____________________ "What happened?" Regina asked the boy as she sponged Martha’s ghastly white face. "What do ya mean, what happened?" He jerked the gun up a little and looked at her suspiciously. "Who says somethin’ happened?" She shrugged and turned to wring out the wet cloth. "You seem like a nice young man, Justin. In fact, I doubt you’ve done this kind of thing before." She spoke in a gentle, even tone of voice. "I work with a lot of kids your age at my job. Maybe, if you tell me what’s wrong, I could help you figure out a better way to handle it." "You can’t help me." He sounded sad and frightened. "I done somethin’ real bad, and now I got to get away before the police find out." His mention of the police seemed to alert him to a possibility he hadn’t thought of before, and he gave Martha a sharp glance. "You got a radio ‘round here?" The old woman nodded and whispered, "in the kitchen." "Alright then," Justin said as he nudged the bedroom door all the way open. "You two just stay right here, and no funny business. I’m gonna listen to the news." "Okay." Regina returned to her chair and gave him a cooperative, non-threatening look. "We’re not going anywhere." Once she was certain that he was occupied in the kitchen, she turned to Grannie Martha and whispered, "Do you know him?" Martha shook her head. "Not personally, though I’ve heard of him. He was born healthy but came close to drowning when he was five or so. The accident made him a little slow. Word is his mama up and disappeared the next year, and his daddy drinks pretty heavy." "Poor thing," Regina murmured. "I wonder what’s happened."
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"Damn!" Something clattered to the floor in the kitchen and both women jumped when Justin lurched through the bedroom door, looking dangerously terrified. "They know ‘bout Pa," he said, tears running down his face. "They say he’s dead -- dead! I didn’t mean to kill him … I just wanted him to put his old whip down, that’s all. Oh God, what am I gonna do? If they catch me, they’ll put me in jail forever -- I just know they will." Regina was jolted by the shock of the boy’s admissions, but she managed to keep her expression neutral and was relieved to see that Grannie did the same. "Justin," she said, "you need to calm down. Whatever’s happened, we’ll go to them together … explain that it was an accident. If you’ll just put the gun down, I’ll do everything I can to help you. Please." She spoke softly, almost in a whisper, and kept her eyes locked on his. "Put the gun down." The sound of a car door closing startled them all and, before she knew what was happening, she found herself hauled from the chair and marched forward, the end of the gun jammed between her shoulder blades. "You answer the door," he said. "If it’s yer husband, you get me his car keys. If not, get rid of ‘em." The light rapping at the door was followed by the sound of Hunter’s anxious voice. "Regina, it’s me. I’ve brought the jeep. Open the door." Regina obediently opened the door and held out one hand. "Give me the keys." Hunter’s heart thumped painfully at the sight before him. She looked terrified, and for good reason. Behind her loomed a tall, stocky boy with a rifle. He dangled the keys on one finger and gently dropped them in her hand. "Alright, mister," Justin said. "You come on in here, and don’t try anything dumb. You ain’t gonna be able to trick me, ‘cause I’m smart enough to know what’s what."
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Hunter nodded and inched carefully through the door. "Of course you are," he said smoothly. "I’m here, no tricks and no police, just like you asked. Now please, let my wife go." He saw a flicker of indecision in the dull eyes and adopted a slightly more commanding tone of voice. "You promised you’d let her go if I brought you my car." He inclined his head in the direction of the open door. "That’s my jeep right out there, and it’s all yours. All you have to do is just get in it and go." "I can’t." The boy’s hands were trembling now, and his mouth worked as though he didn’t know what to say. "The radio man said they know ‘bout Pa and that they’re watchin’ all the roads. Yer wife’s gonna have to come with me, so’s they’ll let me through." "No." Hunter met his wife’s frightened gaze and knew he could not, would not let her get in that jeep. It was rule number one in self-defense: never let an assailant take you away from the initial crime scene. "You can have my jeep, but you are not taking my wife anywhere." "Don’t mess with me mister!" Justin’s voice was loud and laced with panic. "Yer wife is comin’ with me. I need her." "No." Regina heard the calm, authoritative air in her husband’s voice and found it soothing. She watched his face expectantly, certain that he intended to give her some signal. She saw his gaze slide briefly to the right and answered the command by silently mouthing, "one, two …" On three, she threw herself to the floor and Hunter executed a kick that would have made their martial arts instructor proud. The gun roared to life, but the only damage was done to the ceiling as the two men tumbled to the floor. By the time she scrambled up and retrieved the rifle, her husband had Justin McBride pinned to the ground and was about to hit him for the third time.
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"Hunter!" she cried as his fist made contact with the boy’s nose. "Stop it! Honey, stop! He’s just a kid." Regina’s cries finally penetrated and her husband let go of the cowering boy’s shirt. Breathing heavily, he glanced at her. "You okay?" "Uh-huh," she murmured, "but I’d better check on Martha." He nodded and held out his hand. "Give me the gun." She handed it to him, barrel pointed skyward, and hurried into the bedroom. The relief in Martha’s eyes mirrored her own, and a call to 911 brought the sheriff to the door in less than five minutes. ____________________ The drive back to the cabin was an uncomfortable one. Regina -- a box of roses on her lap and ice melting against one leg of her jeans -said nothing beyond a timid, "I’m sorry." "I’m sure you are, Little Red," her husband replied, much too quietly. "And you’ll be a hell of a lot sorrier long before I’ve finished spanking you tonight. Understand?" She bit her lip and nodded. "Yes, sir." The truth, however, was that she did not understand her husband’s behavior at all. She was, in fact, hurt by his silence and apparent lack of concern. When he ushered her inside with a stern order to "get ready for bed … now," anger overruled common sense and she turned and told him, "No." Hunter set the roses and champagne on the kitchen table and, without looking at her, said, "Young lady, you really do not want to try my patience right now. Go get ready for bed." "No! Damn it, Hunter, I will not let you order me around like a frickin’ little puppy dog! I’ve been through enough hell for one day, and if you think for one moment that I’m going to lay over your lap
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and let you spank me on top of everything else, you have completely lost your mind." He took a deep breath and turned to face her, found it took every ounce of self-control he could muster not to pick her right up off the floor and shake some sense into her. "You disobeyed me," he said through clenched teeth. "You will be spanked. Go." She shook her head and her breasts rose and fell in time to her angry, almost panicked breathing. "I’m not going to let you spank me. Not tonight." The words were a mistake -- she knew that by the look in his eyes -- but she was too furious to back down now. She stood her ground even when he strode toward her and grasped her roughly by the arms. Lifting her to his eye level, he ground out, "Damn it, Regina, you could have been killed today -- and all because you decided to ignore your promise and go waltzing over to Martha’s on your own." "Do you think that’s news to me?" she panted, chest heaving. "Do you think I’ll ever forget what it feels like to have the end of rifle pressed into the back of my head, or the sound it made when you kicked him?" She began to struggle, kicking and clawing at his hands in an attempt to get free. "And what about Martha? If I hadn’t shown up, she might be dead right now." "I don’t care." Afraid of what he might do if he continued to touch her, Hunter eased his wife down to the floor and stepped back a pace. "I know that sounds awful -- but damn it, Regina, it’s you I love. If something had happened to you -- ." "He was just a kid," she said softly. "A hurting, confused, not so bright kid." Frustrated, he scrubbed both his hands through his thick, black hair. "And that’s supposed to be a comfort? Honey, that’s like putting a loaded gun in the hands of a five year old and assuming everything will be fine because he’s not smart enough to kill anyone on purpose." He kicked out a
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chair and dropped down the seat, rested his elbows on his knees and let his head fall forward into his hands "Damn it, baby dead is dead. It doesn’t matter how you get there, you’re still going into the ground." Equal parts fury and fear scraped his voice raw. "And I couldn’t bear that. Don’t you see? If you had died today … I don’t know what I would have done. It would kill me to lose you." "Hunter?" Something came loose inside of her at that moment and Regina fell to her knees in front of her husband’s chair. "Oh honey, I’m sorry." Sobbing, she reached up and laid her palm against his cheek. "I’m so sorry. Please … forgive me." He nodded and drew her into his lap. "Of course, sweetheart. Of course. I always forgive you. You know that." She cried into his shoulder for several long minutes, but eventually forced herself to sit up and wipe away the tears. Swallowing hard, she looked up into his ocean-blue eyes. "I … I guess I have a spanking coming, don’t I?" "Yes." He wrapped his arms around her and held her even closer as he said, "I have to know that you take me seriously, honey … that you’ll think twice before disobeying me again. Do you understand?" "Yes." She took a fortifying breath and rose from his lap. "I’d like to take a shower first, if that’s okay." "Sure." He scrubbed a hand over his stubbled chin. "I’m going to go work on the firewood. Why don’t you call me when you’re done." Regina stepped into the shower, the steady sound of her husband’s axe breaking open small logs a perfect counter-rhythm to the heavy hammering of her heart. Everything she’d felt today -- worry for Grannie Martha and the adrenaline rush of fear when she’d stepped into the cabin, the terror of the moment when the gun had exploded and now the dread of the spanking yet to come -- was coiled inside her, tight as a watch spring. Worst of all was the memory of her husband’s eyes, of the raw pain
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she’d seen there when he’d explained why he was going to spank her. Of everything that had happened, hurting him was the thing she most regretted. She showered and dried quickly, slipped one of his old shirts over her head and went, barefoot and bare-bottomed, out to the porch. For a moment, she stood silently, watching him work. He’d taken off his shirt, and the way the muscles rippled across his shoulders and back made her suck in a sharp breath of awareness. He was so big, so alive with raw, masculine power, yet she knew that she had nothing to fear. He would spank her hard, and she’d probably not do much sitting for the next few days, but she knew in her heart that he would never truly hurt her. "I’m ready," she said at last. He turned and met her gaze. "Okay. I’ll be a couple more minutes here. I want you to wait in the corner." "Yes sir." He watched her go, then picked up his shirt and used it to sponge the sweat from his body. He’d never wanted to let her off the hook more than he did tonight, yet he knew that she needed him to be consistent. Sighing, he walked up the porch steps and let himself into the house. He found her standing in the empty corner of the bedroom and noticed that she’d already laid out the round, tenholed maple paddle for him. Seating himself at the foot of the bed, he quietly called her over. "Okay, sweetheart," he said as drew her in between his long legs. "Tell me why you’re going to be spanked." Her lower lip trembled, but she managed to answer, just the same. "I disobeyed you, sir. I was supposed to stay here at the cabin, but I went over to Grannie Martha’s instead, and I nearly got us both killed in the process." Tears filled her eyes, spilled down her cheeks. "And I’m so sorry." "I know you are, babe," he said as he pressed his forehead to hers. "And I hate to have to spank
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you, but we both know this is for your own good. You cannot continue to disobey me like this, Little Red. You have to learn to listen to what I tell you, because I don’t make rules unless I really think they’re necessary for your safety and well being. Understand?" She met his eyes and nodded. "Yes." He took a deep breath and held out his hand. "Okay, sweetheart. Over you go." Steadied by his strength, Regina lowered herself over her husband’s hard thighs. Her stomach was positively swarming with butterflies and the flesh of her bottom, as he pushed the shirt up and out of the way, broke out in goosebumps. Then he clamped his legs closed on hers, and it was all she could do just to keep breathing as he laid the smooth wood against her madly tingling flesh. "I want you to understand that this isn’t a punishment," she heard him say. "This is discipline, to help you learn to do things differently. Do you understand?" She took a deep breath and squeezed his ankle. "I understand." It was a true spanking from the beginning -- no warm up and no let up. The first crack of the paddle against her unprotected flesh made her gasp, and she didn’t have time to catch her breath before the hard wood connected a second time. "Hunter … please!" she cried out as the sharp, blistering spanks fell. He was paddling her hard and fast -- much too fast for her to count the strokes -the pain of each individual smack radiating outward to fingers and toes even as the next fell. "You will not," he said as he repeatedly brought the paddle down against one crimson cheek, "disobey me, young lady. When I tell you to stay put, you will stay put. Do I make myself clear?" "Y-yes," she sobbed out. "You will not take risks with your own safety." He set the other cheek ablaze with crisp smacks
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that landed repeatedly in the same spot. "Do you understand?" "Yes! Yes!" she cried out, agony in her voice. "I’m sorry…so sorry! Please stop!!" "I know you are," he said as he continued in the relentless rhythm. "But there’s a difference between being sorry, and knowing that you never want to make the same mistake again." He maneuvered her farther forward, and applied the same blistering force to her upper thighs. "This spanking will be over only when I’m certain that you’ve learned both lessons." Hearing those words, and knowing that he meant them, the last vestiges of Regina’s selfcontrol slipped away. All she knew was pain; all she felt was remorse. Drained of all ability to fight, she simply hung, limp and sobbing over her husband’s knee. In minutes, the terrible throbbing had become so intense that she barely noticed when he stopped and tossed the paddle to the floor. "Okay, baby … okay," Hunter soothed as he lifted his wife up and helped her settle, face down, on the bed. "It’s all over now. All done." He stroked hair away from her face, and handed her tissues, then stretched out beside her and began to knead the tension from her shoulders. "I love you so much, honey. I never want anything to happen to you. Okay?" She nodded against the coverlet, though she wasn’t able to stem the flood of tears just yet. "I’m s-s-sorry," she hiccuped. "So s-sorry." He kissed her and laid a hand, very gently, on her blistered bottom. "I know, sweetheart. And I forgive you. Now, how about I get you tucked in before I take my shower. That way, if you fall asleep, I won’t have to wake you up." Nodding, Regina made her way slowly, painfully to the head of the bed. She waited while her husband drew back the covers, then collapsed, exhausted, on her pillow. "No covers," she
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murmured before he could pull the blankets up around her. "It hurts too much." "Okay." He leaned over and kissed her temple. "I’ll be back in a few." When he returned twenty minutes later, she was fast asleep. ____________________ Regina awoke in the middle of the night to find her husband’s hand resting possessively in the small of her back. She moaned, not because of the pain in her bottom, but because of the throbbing that was going on in other parts of her body. Rolling gingerly onto her side, she propped herself up on an elbow and studied her sleeping husband. "Hunter?" He did not answer, so she moved closer, pressed the length of her body against his deliciously naked form. Slowly, her hand crept over his flank until her fingers tangled in the nest of hair and found the prize she sought. Smiling to herself, she kissed his shoulder. It wouldn’t take long for her to wake him, and she relished the thought of interrupting his dreams first, then his sleep. Gently, she began to rouse the sleeping giant, first by touch, and then by taste. Hunter awoke from an incredible dream to find that his wife was, indeed, straddling him. Surprised and unbearably aroused, he gripped her waist and eased her down until the entire length of him was wrapped in her warmth. When she grasped the headboard and began to slide along his engorged shaft, he thought he would surely lose his mind with the wanting; but then she found release and, watching her shudder with pleasure, he was reminded that she alone held the cure to his madness. He joined her in the age-old ritual, drove into her one last time, and as his very essence surged into her welcoming body, whispered, "I love you, Little Red. I always will."
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Achille’s Purse I sit in front of the computer, one leg bouncing impatiently as I wait for the web page to download. Damn it, I don’t have time for this. It’s nearly 6:00 now-- you’ll be home in half an hour-- and my research is only half done. "Ten sites," you reminded me this morning. "Ten sites that adequately describe both the legend behind and the current meaning of the term ‘Achilles’ Heel.’ I want the URLs, along with a paragraph summary of each web site you refer to, on my desk by the time I get home from work. Is that clear?" Oh yes, you made it perfectly clear. You’d assigned me another of your infamous "projects" -this one a time-consuming search for meaningless information -- in order to guarantee that my attention remained focused on the trouble I’m in and the consequences I’ll face later tonight. There went my plans for the day, shot to hell by one of your assignments. Have I ever mentioned to you that I absolutely hate, despise and loathe the silly essays, research reports and repetitive lines that you often assign as part of a discipline session? Sure -- I asked you to spank me to help me break a few bad habits, and I always submit to that method of discipline. Don’t I? Okay, I submit graciously about 90% of the time, but that’s pretty damn good, all things considered. After all, it is my butt that’s going to be red and sore and blistered by the time you tuck me into bed, so a 90/10 split between compliance and defiance seems admirable from my point of view. But this research nonsense? It’s more than even I can tolerate. The browser status bar finally flashes "done," and I hurriedly scan the web page. I’m a teacher, for heaven’s sake -- an English teacher -- off on summer hiatus. I could write you a far more complete history of this particular Greek myth than
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all of the "Achilles’" web site owners combined. Ah, but that’s where you’re cleverness comes in handy. You don’t want me to write a report based on my own knowledge of the subject, because that would be too easy. No, you want to see proof that I worked at this, and what better way than to make me go in search of web sites that you will later read and compare to my notes? Heaven knows I’d best find some kind of quote to include in every paragraph, too, because you take points off if you think I haven’t read the sites I’ve visited; and those point deductions will count against my butt later tonight. I scan the page, screen hop to my open Word document and painstakingly type in the APA-style bibliographic information. That’s something else that I hate about projects like this one. You are terribly thorough about making me work to complete the assigned task and, since you know I hate APA documentation, you make sure that I both include it and that it’s done correctly. I guess that’s what I get for marrying a newspaper editor. Nobody understands the by-laws and "but if" clauses of the APA handbook like you, honey. I learned that lesson the hard way. It was the first time you decided on a nonspanking punishment. Do you remember? I’d received a speeding ticket and having declared that a spanking was obviously not enough to deter that particular habit, you plunked me down in front of the computer -- on a beautiful Saturday morning, no less -- and told me not to get out of my seat until I’d located and summarized the content of fifteen web sites containing information pertinent to the subject of driving too fast. An hour later, I presented you with my hastily completed assignment and made a break for the door, hoping to make it to the mall before the sidewalk sale racks were picked over. You, of course, called a halt to those plans by circling -- in bright red ink -- every careless mistake I’d made. Then you handed me the
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paper and your trusty APA handbook, and sent me back to try it again. You know, I’m still quite certain that you chuckled as I walked away. You were well pleased with yourself that day. You looked anything but pleased last night, though. My goodness, the fuss you made over that new handbag! Any mouse in the corner might have thought I’d paid a king’s ransom for it, but it was actually inexpensive, for a designer purse. After all, a half-off sale on Dooney & Bourke is unheard of. How could I possibly resist? I’ve wanted that blue and tan backpack forever -- have asked for it as a birthday or Christmas gift for three years running -and there it was. It was the perfect color, the perfect size -- and at $145, the perfect price! At least, that’s what I thought. "A hundred and what?" You bellowed so loud that the walls shook. "You can’t be serious." "Of course I am." I grabbed my bargain, already laden with my wallet, car keys and the like, and clutched it to my chest. "Remember the wish list I gave you last Christmas? I asked for one of these, but you complained that $300 was too much to spend for a purse. So, since you knew the price, what did you think ‘half price’ meant?" "You spent a hundred and fifty-three dollars on a purse?" Your green eyes flashed and I couldn’t resist taking a step backwards. "Take it back." I clutched even tighter at my hard-won prize. "No … I won’t!" You took one step in my direction, then another, and I quickly amended that statement. "I mean, I can’t. It was a going out of business sale, Ben. All sales were final." I watched you squeeze your eyes shut and I swear I could see the numbers float through your head. "One, two, three ... ." Unfortunately, you looked only minimally calmed when -- having counted to ten -- you opened your eyes and pinned me with the look. "Ben, please." I knew that look, and the backpedaling was immediate and heartfelt. "Look,
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I’m sorry. If I’d known you were going to get this upset, I never would have purchased it, honey. But my birthday’s in a month, so why don’t we just consider this your gift to me? You hate to shop anyway, so maybe you could look at this as my making it easier on you -- ?" You held out your hand and there was absolutely no mistaking the command in your tone. "Give it to me, Jocelyn." I shook my head and stashed the long-coveted item behind my back. "Hun-uh." Something about the considering tilt of your head made my stomach come alive with nerves. "Jocelyn Rose Andrews, I am going to give you ‘til the count of three." "No! Ben, you can’t do this!" "One." "I work too, you know." "Two." "It’s not like we’re hard up for money!" "Three." I saw the determination in your eyes and felt tears well up in mine as I handed over the purse. "Wh-what are you going to do with it, Ben? Please don’t throw it away!" You rolled your eyes, disgusted, and dumped the contents onto the bedspread. "If this is my birthday gift to you," you said through clenched teeth, "then I will decide when to give it to you; and it’s not your birthday yet." I relaxed, just a little, as I realized I’d won -well, in a manner of speaking. I might not have the purse now, but I knew you couldn’t take it back and you clearly didn’t intend to waste $150 by throwing it in the trash. So, I’d have to wait until my birthday. So what? Now I had something to really look forward to. I suppose I should have done a better job at hiding my triumph, because the next thing I knew, you were pushing me down to lay, face-first, over the edge of the bed. Your hand landed on my
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upturned bottom with a loud crack that fairly echoed off the walls, and I realized much too late that our "discussion" was far from over." "You know that we discuss all purchases over $100 before we buy." Your hand beat a most unpleasant tattoo upon my stinging bottom cheeks. "Don’t you, young lady?" "Y-yes … yes, sir!" I gasped and wriggled, but to no avail. I could not right myself, no matter how hard I tried. "And you know how I feel about this purse fetish of yours. Yes?" "It’s not a fetish," I began, but my arguments were quickly cut off by a volley of swats to the back of one thigh. "Okay, okay! I know how you feel about my buying purses." "You also know better than to be deceitful, don’t you?" You were walloping my bottom good by this point, and I had to remind myself to keep breathing. I guess you didn’t care for the delay in my answer, though, because you yanked both my shorts and panties right down to my knees and went back to your task with renewed vigor. "I asked you a question, young lady." "Yes, yes," I cried out as I twisted beneath the fresh onslaught. "I – I shouldn’t have tried to keep it from you by ch – changing purses and hoping you wouldn’t notice! Owww, Ben! That hurts!" "It’s supposed to." Your low growl took me by surprise, as did the sudden cessation of spanks to my reddened posterior. You lifted me up and turned me around, not bothering to let me pull my shorts up before you propelled me -- with a resounding smack -- to the corner. "Nose in the corner, young lady," you ordered. "I’ll be back to deal with you when I’m calm." It was at that moment that I realized how truly angry you were, and my resentment at what I’d deemed unfair treatment resolved into genuine remorse. Suddenly, the backpack didn’t seem nearly so important -- not if it meant I’d damaged
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the trust that you had in me. I blinked back tears and slumped a bit in the corner. I’d really messed up and, as is customary when I’m in a predicament, I began to look for ways to make it up to you. I wonder if you know, honey, how hard it was for me to make the suggestion I gave you once you called me out of the corner. I would have done it, too -- would have donated the purse to the thrift store -- if you’d wanted me to. Even when you said that wasn’t necessary, I felt no great relief. There was still disappointment in your eyes, and the sight of it weighed heavy on my heart. I would have gladly gone over your knee, too, but that wasn’t what you had in mind. "You will be properly spanked," you told me as you pulled me to stand between your thighs, "but not tonight. I want some time to think about this first, so I don’t get carried away." That hurt me more than anything -- the knowledge that after an hour of cool down time, you still believed yourself too angry to discipline me without getting "carried away." I tried to blink back the tears but, refusing to be banished, they spilled down my cheeks and dripped off my chin. "I’m s-sorry," I whispered, as my heart twisted inside my chest. "Please forgive me." You sighed and pulled me into your lap, and I collapsed against you, sobbing, when you said, "I forgive you, babe. You know you were wrong and there will be consequences for your actions, but of course I forgive you. I love you, sweetheart." Several minutes later, when I’d finally managed to get my tears under control, you announced phase one of those consequences. "Since buying purses seems to be your Achilles’ heel," you told me, "you will spend tomorrow researching that topic." You laid out the exact specifications and I listened, unhappy, but certainly not so stupid as to complain. "I want the bibliography on my desk when I walk in the door tomorrow. If it’s not, you will be spanked
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and your assignment will double to finding 20 sites the next day. Understand?" I nodded, a bleak picture forming in my mind. I hate to do meaningless busy work, especially when it’s going to be graded by someone as meticulous about details as you. There is, in fact, only one thing I hate more than busy work, and that is disappointing you. "Once you’ve turned in an acceptable paper--," you continued, "a paper which I have graded -- the second and final phase of your discipline will be carried out." "A spanking?" I guessed. "Yes, young lady." Your gaze was unwavering. "You will be soundly spanked for what you’ve done. Do I make myself clear?" I leaned forward, my forehead dropping to your chest. "Yes sir. And Ben? I am sorry." "Me too." You chuckled a little then, and the band that was squeezing my heart eased just a bit. "Now, let’s get you into bed. You’re going to have a busy day tomorrow." You helped me undress and, aside from this morning’s reminder, have said nothing else about the purse or the discipline I have coming. It’s 6:25, and the printer is whirring and churning out my last-minute work -- which I sincerely hope you’ll be pleased with. I do not want to be spanked and then have to start all over on the research. I’d much rather have this over with tonight. By some miracle of fate, I actually manage to have the report on your desk before I hear the grinding and thumping of the motorized garage door. Hurrying to the kitchen, I slide a bowl of green beans into the microwave and start them heating, then take a skillet of pan-fried chicken breast out of the oven. I clatter about, taking the rice off the stove and setting out plates, silverware and the good cloth napkins, all the while listening for your approaching footsteps.
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"Hi, honey." Your smile catches me a little off guard, but I’m relieved to see that you’re not still nursing a grudge. "You made my favorite chicken, didn’t you?" "Mmm-hmm." I transfer the rice to a bright yellow serving bowl and take the smaller turquoise dish, filled with the now hot green beans, out of the microwave. "How was your day?" "Pretty good." You snatch a piece of my homemade bread off the cutting board and cover it with the real butter that you love, and I don’t dare touch. Why fat sticks to me and not you is beyond my comprehension, but there are some things a woman just doesn’t question. "I met with the new owner today and he was so pleased with what he saw, that he’s given us permission to start production on that addition to the Sunday paper." "You mean the arts and entertainment ‘zine?" I look over my shoulder and smile when I see your unabashed grin. "Honey, that’s great. I just knew you could convince him it was worth the extra money." You take glasses down from the cupboard and pour us both a glass of the iced tea I brewed special today. It never hurts to be extra nice, I’ve learned, when my butt’s in a sling. "So, did you get your assignment done?" you ask the minute we are both seated at the table. "Yes … sir." I’m not sure why, but whenever I’m in trouble, the "sir" just slips out. "Good." You reach over and squeeze my hand. "I’ll read it after supper." I can feel the heat that stains my cheeks red, but busy myself by fixing my plate, and buttering a piece of bread for you. "I’m really sorry, honey," I mumble as I hand you the token peace offering. "I know you are." There is nothing unkind in your words, but your tone makes it clear that you do not intend to let me off the hook. "Unfortunately, being sorry doesn’t make the consequences disappear. Does it?"
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I pause, a forkful of tender chicken half way to my mouth, and mumble, "No sir." "Mmmm." You swallow your first bite and smile at me. "Your chicken is perfect -- as usual." I laugh a little at our "insider’s" joke. We both know that it took me years to get my grandma’s recipe right, and we threw out a lot of inedible poultry before I finally figured it out. You grin at me and I know what you’re going to say before the words are even past your lips. "Would you pass the -- ?" "Salt?" I finish for you. "Yeah, I know … I didn’t put in enough, but that’s better than too much." You roll your eyes and then we’re both laughing at a shared memory of chicken so salty that not even the dog would touch it. In that moment, as we share a bit of humor that is uniquely ours, I know that everything will be okay. No matter how much trouble I might be in, you’ll always be gentle with my heart. In the long run, that’s the most fragile part of me. I look into your green eyes, bask in the warmth of your laughter, and know that my heart is safe in your keeping. After supper, you help with the dishes -something that amazes my girlfriends, married and single alike -- and then head into your office. My stomach knots with nerves as I hear the old rolling chair squeak beneath your weight. I can only hope that you will find my work satisfactory because, no matter how gentle and loving you’ve been this evening, I know that you always stick to your promises. If you think I’ve slacked off, I’ll be spanked and put to bed, only to face double the work load and another spanking tomorrow night. I sincerely hope that doesn’t happen. I hear you boot up the desktop and sigh, minimally relieved. If you were unhappy with the paper, you wouldn’t bother to check out the web sites. I’ve passed part one of the test and, knowing it will take you some time to verify my research, I go to the living room and curl up in my favorite
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chair and try to concentrate on the book in my hand. Half an hour later, I clip the bookmark to the same page I started on and make my way to your office. You look up from the computer screen, take your glasses off, and motion me over to sit on your lap. "Come here, Jocelyn, and let’s discuss your research." I go to you on shaking legs and can’t relax, even when you pull me down to sit atop your knee. You are so much bigger than I am and being drawn into your lap makes me feel like a little girl -- a little girl who will, very soon, have a sore bottom and a tearstained face to go along with her naughty behavior. I snuggle in and try to hide my face in your shirt, but you sit me out on your knee and look me in the eyes. "You came up with some interesting sites, Jocelyn." You reach around me and turn my paper over, revealing a grade of 89%. It’s not great, but it only means eleven extra swats, so I can hardly complain. Patiently, you explain the mistakes I’ve made and allow me to ask questions before setting me on my feet and saying, "I want you to go to the bedroom now, and get ready for your spanking. Put on a nightshirt -- no panties -- and lay out the leather paddle and the strap." I can’t stifle the gasp that escapes my lips -- after all, you rarely use both implements in one session -- but you only shake your head and reply, "You paid an awful lot of money for that purse. Since you appear to be fond of leather, I thought I’d indulge your expensive tastes for once." Your eyes meet mine, your look begging me not to make this any more difficult. "Is that a problem for you?" "No sir." I shake my head and turn to leave the room, then go back and, raising your hand to my lips, kiss your broad palm. Soon, this very hand will have me writhing and crying out for mercy; but it’s important to me to show you that I understand, and
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that I will accept my discipline to the best of my ability. "I love you," I murmur against your flesh. You cup my cheek, oh so gently, and I see the comprehension in your eyes. "I love you too, sweetheart … and everything’s going to be okay." I nod once and then, stomach churning, leave you to your thoughts. I have no idea, really, how you prepare yourself to dole out a spanking; but I know how to get ready for one. I hurry to the bedroom and make short work of getting changed and laying out the implements of your choice. The paddle -- two pieces of leather stitched around a hard, yet flexible, core -- feels heavy in my hand. I put it out on the bed and then reach into the closet for the strap. For a moment, I consider the two implements, trying to see what you see, to understand your purpose. The paddle resembles a small round balloon. It will cover most of one cheek at a time -- stinging with every swat -- and I feel certain that you will use it first. After a thorough session has left me tender and throbbing, you’ll doubtless send me to the corner, during which time any blessed numbness will wear off. Then you’ll have me take my position over the edge of the bed or the back of the chair, and you’ll drive the lesson home with burning strokes of the strap. I will likely be welted and miserable tonight, but I also know that I will go to bed with a clear conscience. This episode will have been put to rest. There will be nothing hurtful between us once this is done. The sound of your footsteps on the stairs cuts short my morbid musing and I scurry to the corner, holding my nightgown up so that you will see my white, unmarked bottom when you walk into the room. I know full well that it won’t be white for long, and there will likely be plenty of marks to remind me, in the days to come, just how unpleasant the consequences of disobedience can be. I stand up a little straighter when I hear you behind me, moving out the straight-backed chair.
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You sit down and there is something akin to regret in your voice when you call me from the corner. "Jocelyn Rose," you say, and a shiver courses through me. "Bring me the paddle and come here. You have behaved like a naughty girl, and now you’re going to receive the spanking you’ve earned." It takes all my willpower to move out of that corner, pick up the paddle and hand it to you. Do you know how hard it is, I wonder, for me to do this? Do you realize what it costs me to lower myself compliantly over your lap, then to remain in position as I feel the leather held flush against my vulnerable flesh? Do you have any earthly idea of how much I want to fight the strong arm that pins me down and the hand that wields the paddle? I go over your knee and, for a brief moment, our eyes meet. Yes, you know. I see it in your eyes, feel it in the reassurance of your legs clamped over mine. You acknowledge, with every action and every word, that you respect the power I have given you. You will not abuse it. You will not abuse me. The spanking will hurt, but you will never harm me. "Tell me why you’re here," you say as, gripping my waist, you pull me snug against your body. "I spent past our limits, bought something that I didn’t really need, and then tried to hide it from you." I try to swallow the lump in my throat. "I’m sorry, Ben, and I know I deserve to be spanked." "Mmm-hmm." Your simple agreement with my statement is reinforced as I feel you draw back your arm. I tense, waiting for that first awful spank, and then it explodes across my bottom, sharp and biting. "You deserve a sound spanking," you say as you snap the paddle down a second time, "and that’s exactly what you’re going to get." I gasp and writhe, jerking with each stinging blow to my nether cheeks. This is a true discipline spanking, the pain sharp and intense from the beginning. There is no warm up -- there never is when I’m in trouble -- and the fast, unrelenting
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rhythm takes my breath away. When you add your voice, lecturing me about responsibility and honesty, my breathless gasps turn into tears. You know, every time I find myself in this position, I swear I will never earn another discipline spanking as long as I live. My legs are pinned between yours, my bottom high and my nose almost grazing the carpet. When I reach back in an attempt to protect my burning backside -- and I inevitably do -- you simply grasp my wrist and hold my arm firmly at my side. It is then, when I am utterly defenseless, that you make your point most clear. I beg and plead, rock my hips and twist my useless left hand around the rungs of the chair, but all to no avail. I am completely at your mercy and, hard as I might try to put an end to this spanking, I know that this will be over only when you believe I’ve learned my lesson. The sound of the paddle is, at first, quite loud; but soon I can barely hear it, or you, over the sound of my own cries. I sob as you paint my bottom and legs a vivid shade of red, and continue to cry even after you’ve marched me to the corner and instructed me to "think about" my crimes. In that moment, I’m fairly certain I’ll never be able to carry the blasted backpack that I’m now paying so dearly for. I have no idea how long I stand there, crying and wishing that I could rub away some of the sting, before the bell on your trusty not-just-forthe-kitchen timer rings. Welcome to round two. "Okay, bring me the strap." I turn, but can’t seem to make my feet move. You look tired as you say, "Jocelyn Rose. Do you really want to make this worse than it has to be?" "N-no sir," I whisper, and somehow I manage to make my leaden feet move. You hold out your hand and I reluctantly give you the strap, but I cannot repress the sob that bubbles up when you instruct me to put my elbows down on the seat of the chair.
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"All right, young lady. Let’s take care of the points you lost on your research paper first. What was your score?" I fervently wish that the floor would open up and swallow me, but I remain standing -- well, bent at the waist, my legs spread wide -- before you. "Eighty-nine percent, sir." "Okay. You got eighty-nine out of a hundred points. So, how many points did you lose?" "Eleven sir." I feel you shift position, know you are comparing the length of the strap to my waiting bottom, and tense. "Count them out please." The strap cracks against my flesh, searing my already throbbing bottom with eleven burning lashes. I manage to count them, shifting from one foot to the other as the welts spring up against my punished flesh. I cannot, however, stem the tears that spill down my face and form a puddle on the leather seat of the chair. "Okay." Your hand is oddly reassuring as you caress the small of my back. "You exceeded our agreed upon spending limits. How many shall I give you for that?" Oh, how I hate this part. It’s bad enough to be spanked, but so much worse when I have to choose my own punishment. I take a deep breath and blurt out, "Ten, sir?" "Ten will be fine. Count them." Ten times the strap blazes a trail across my naked bottom. I count in between sobs. It seems to take forever. "You purchased something on a whim, not because you needed it, but because you wanted it. How many?" I lay my forehead on the chair. "Please, Ben … please don’t make me choose!" "Young lady, don’t make me ask again." "T-ten, sir," I say, automatically tensing my welted cheeks.
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Once again you instruct me to count the strokes. It’s slower going this time, as it takes me a considerable amount of time to calm myself enough to get out the numbers in between each burning lash. When the tenth falls across my upper thighs, I screech and nearly stand. Your hand on my back is the only thing that prevents me from rising. "It’s okay, sweetheart." Your tone is one of gentle reassurance. "We’re almost done. Just be still a little longer. Neither of us wants to have to start this over again." I shudder and sob at that thought, and you graciously allow me time to gain some semblance of control before you ask that last, unanswerable question. "You tried to deceive me by switching the purses and hoped I wouldn’t notice." Your sigh is almost as hard for me to bear as the raw, burning pain in my bottom. "How many?" Remorse fills my heart as I face up to my last, and most harmful, sin. "Twenty." You are silent and, for a long moment, I fear that you haven’t heard me. Can I work up the courage to ask once again for twenty from that horrid strap? Then, very quietly, you tell me, "Count them." I feel you draw your arm back and clench my teeth against the expected assault. The lick of fire falls full on my upper thighs and I cry out, bending my knees and sucking in sharp, frenzied breaths until I can manage to choke out, "One." The second lash falls just below the first, and I feel almost frantic as the pain explodes across that sensitive skin. Somehow I still manage to choke out, "T-two." My sit spot, that area most likely to come into contact with the seat of every chair I will dare sit on from now until next week, is the next to suffer. I go up on my toes and shamelessly plead with you. "Ben, please … I can’t take any more." Your voice is raw with sorrow as you offer, "Three."
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The next stroke falls, thankfully, across the crown of my well-punished cheeks. I have never been quite so grateful for a bottom-welting lick of the strap. At least you haven’t targeted my thighs this time. "Four," you say, fully aware that I can no longer speak. I feel your weight shift once again, and clench every muscle in my body in preparation for the fifth of twenty strokes. It falls low, targeting my sit spot once again, and I sob and dance away. I can’t bear this any more -- I just can’t. Much to my surprise, I don’t have to. I hear a sound, tense again, then find myself pulled up to sob against your chest. I notice, through my tears, that the strap has been consigned to a corner of the room. Your hands move up and down my back, your touch gentle and filled with concern, as you murmur soothing words against my sweat-dampened hair. "It’s okay, honey. It’s over now … all over, and you’re forgiven." "But I thought … you didn’t -- ." "Shhh." Your lips find mine, your kiss silencing my arguments before you say, "I gave you what you needed, babe. It was my decision, not yours." "O-okay." I nod my understanding and gratefully allow you to lead me to the bed. You help me stretch out on my tummy, and then surprise me by applying a soothing aloe gel to my burning buttocks. Surprised, I raise my head and look back at you. "Ben?" "Hmmm?" Your frown of concentration eases a bit as you look at me. "I love you." Your smile strips away the iron band that’s squeezed at my heart since last night. "I love you too, babe. I always will."
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Mr. Wolf and the Problem with Piggies Once upon a time, on a quiet, tree-lined street in the suburbs, a woman looked out her kitchen window and stared in disgust at her neighbors muddy back yard. "Yes … pigs!" she said into the phone. "Can you believe that? Right there in the back yard. … Well, I thought you’d said no pets. That’s why I decided to call you. I mean, they’re tearing the place up. … You’re welcome. Just being neighborly. … Okay. ‘Bye." The woman set the phone down in its cradle and looked out the window once more, her pinch-faced expression revealing triumph. The renter from next door would soon get hers. ____________________ "Mr. Wolfe?" The secretary’s voice came through the intercom, interrupting his paperwork. "Mrs. Henry is on line three." Aaron Wolfe stifled a groan. "Did she say what she wanted?" "Something about one of her renters keeping pets." "Okay." He set down his pen and speared a hand through sandy brown hair. "I’ll handle it." Blowing out a slow breath, he picked up the phone and said in a pleasant, professional voice, "Good morning, Mrs. Henry. What can I do for you today?" Alberta Henry had long since retired to Florida, but she had yet to fully trust her attorney/realtor to manage her rental properties in northern Ohio. Aaron had taken on the day-to-day management of Mrs. Henry’s accounts as a favor to his own sweet grandmother, but he often tired of the octogenarian’s many concerns and complaints. Was so-and-so paying their rent on time? Had the house on Tyler Street been leased yet? Perhaps if it had new carpeting? But no, the last time she’d splurged on carpeting, her investment had been ruined by
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the dog "that young thing from Pasadena" had the nerve to sneak in. Mrs. Henry called at least once a week, peppering him with questions and admonishing him to keep "a good eye on things." Since he’d just spent an hour on the phone with her yesterday, he felt sure that something must be wrong for her to call again today. "Well, apparently you need to do something, young man. I’ve just had a call from my old neighbor in River Heights. She says that the renter there -- what’s her name? something Wilbur, I think -- has taken to raising pigs. Did you hear me, Mr. Wolfe? That girl’s got pigs in my back yard -- and in that quiet little suburb, no less! Now I expect you to drive right out there and set this to rights! I’m not paying you to let my properties go to wreck and ruin, you know!" You’re barely paying me at all, Aaron thought to himself. To his client, he replied, "If she’s got pigs there, I assure you they can’t have been there long. I visited every one of your properties at the beginning of the month and there were no problems at that time. But I will, of course, take a drive out there this afternoon to take care of this." "Alright then." That seemed to pacify the old bird. "You’ll call me when you’ve been out there? I hate to have to toss someone out, but I’ve always insisted on no pets and I’ll be darned if I’m going to change the rules now." "I understand Mrs. Henry. Now I have to go. I have a client waiting." "I expect to hear from you this evening, Mr. Wolfe." "Yes, of course. I’ll phone you later. Goodbye." He put down the phone with an exasperated sigh. It was going to be a long day. ____________________ Charlotte Wilbur sat on the back stoop of the small but comfortable house she had leased. She liked the cozy suburban community of River
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Heights, despite the fact that her home was not as modern as those of her friends. While most of the people she worked with had settled in upscale condos or newly built houses, she’d chosen a home that had been built in the 1970’s. Within the walls of her little house, she saw character -- within the neighborhood, a chance to blend in and go unnoticed. As a volunteer with the local animal protection agency, it was important that she be able to house the occasional animal over night without arousing the suspicions of an on-site landlord. Thank heaven that Mrs. Henry, the owner of the home, lived in Florida and Aaron Wolfe, the attorney to whom she sent her rent checks, only visited once a month. With any luck, she’d have Prudence and Penelope, the two baby potbellies, weaned and placed in good homes before his next visit. Petunia, the mama pig, scurried up the cement steps and flopped down in Charlotte’s lap. She gave a small grunt and, smiling, Charlotte began to scratch behind her perky black ears. "Yes, I know, Mama. Those little ones are wearing you out, aren’t they?" The largest of the three animals let loose with a soft belch and rolled over onto her side. The young woman brushed back her own dark locks and went to work on the exposed underbelly. "You know, I’m going to miss you when you’re gone, old girl. I always heard that pot-bellied pigs were wonderful pets, but I never really believed it until now. I’m not quite sure I can stand to be alone again." Petunia raised her snout and looked at her benefactor with sympathetic black eyes. Charlotte had always been an animal lover, but she’d had no luck finding a rental that took pets, so she’d had to give up her beautiful English setter when she’d moved back east. Remington, named after a television character, had gone to live with her former fiancée’s sister on a large ranch in Montana. It had been a hard decision for Charlotte, especially
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given the circumstances surrounding her move, but Montana had been Danny’s home and his death had left her feeling alone in a place she’d never really grown accustomed to. Moving back home to Ohio, where she could heal from the horrible heartache of losing the man she loved, had seemed the only sensible thing at the time. Even now, she knew it was the right decision. That didn’t, however, make it any easier to give up the beautiful animal that had patiently allowed her to cry into his shiny coat. He’d been such a comfort to her following the accident that claimed her fiancée’s life. And now here she was, falling in love with a potbellied pig that she wasn’t technically allowed to keep in her rented home. She shook her head and a tear or two escaped the corners of her eyes. "I miss him. You know?" she said as she watched the two smaller pigs tumble about on the lawn. "Who do you miss, Miss Wilbur?" She started and turned around to find one Mr. Aaron Wolfe leaning negligently against the outside of the chain link fence. "The father of these little lease-breakers, perhaps?" "Mr. Wolfe." She glanced quickly back at the piglets, then sighed and shooed Petunia off her lap. "I don’t suppose this is a social call?" He inclined his head slightly and caught her nervous gaze with steady green eyes. "No, it’s not. I’ve just had a rather disturbing call from Mrs. Henry -- one we need to discuss." Charlotte’s fingers curled in the folds of her light cotton skirt. "I’ll meet you around front." She walked through the house quickly, glad that she had not allowed her porcine friends to reside beneath her roof. At two years old, Petunia was well trained, but her piglets would not be trustworthy around carpeting and furniture for another month. All three had, consequently, been living outside in a small, portable doghouse that she’d borrowed from the local animal shelter.
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"They’ll be out in a couple of weeks," she said as she opened the door for Mr. Wolfe. "Honest. And I haven’t had them in the house." The sandy-haired man on her doorstep gave her a carefully neutral look and said, "May I come in?" "Oh yes…of course." Charlotte opened the door and stood back to allow him entrance. "Feel free to look around. They’ve only been outside." He walked slowly down the hall, poked his head into the kitchen, and then returned to the living room. "Sit down, Ms. Wilbur." She watched as he opened his briefcase and withdrew a stack of official-looking papers. Great … there went her house and probably her security deposit to boot. "Really, Mr. Wolfe … they’ve done no damage. I don’t see why we can’t be reasonable about this." He placed the papers on the coffee table and withdrew a pair of glasses, which he shoved onto the bridge of his nose. "Who said we weren’t going to be reasonable about this? Your lease agreement says very specifically that pets are not allowed. Is it unreasonable for the owner of this house to expect you to live up to your end of the agreement that you willingly signed?" This wasn’t going well at all. Charlotte blew a dark ringlet of hair away from her face and picked up the papers in front of her. She scanned the page and, finding what she’d been looking for, pointed out a carefully worded clause in the contract. "But it doesn’t say no pets, Mr. Wolfe. It says no dogs or cats, but other pets may be considered." She sat back in her chair and offered him a small, smug smile. "There are absolutely no dogs or cats here." "Other pets?" He removed the glasses and she realized that his eyes were sparkling, though whether with anger or amusement she could not say. "Other pets constitutes a bird or a fish -- not a pig, and certainly not an entire family of pigs. Where on earth did you get them, anyway?"
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She hid her anxiety behind smooth features and answered his question in a placid tone. "I volunteer with the local animal rescue society. We got a report that they were being neglected -- starved, actually -- and went to pick them up. The babies are already spoken for, but they were too young to be weaned. I volunteered to keep them until they were six weeks old." "You volunteered? Even though you knew it might mean losing your house?" "Well, no. After all, the agreement I signed only forbids dogs and cats." She leaned forward and met his gaze, challenge sparking in her nearly black eyes. "Technically, I don’t think your complaint will hold up in court." "And just what do you know about legal agreements?" he asked, eyes flashing. "Enough to know that you don’t really want to fight this, Mr. Wolfe." She rose from her chair. "I’m thirsty. Would you care for something to drink?" Aaron Wolfe stared at the determined woman before him. She was tall, almost as tall as he, and she carried herself with a confidence that he admired, but he could hardly afford to show leniency in this matter. "No thank you." She shrugged. "Suit yourself. I’m going to make some iced tea. If you want to talk, you’ll have to come out to the kitchen where I can hear you." He sat on the sofa, momentarily dumbfounded by her utter lack of remorse. She was keeping pigs -- pigs, for heaven’s sake -- and she appeared quite certain that she could get away with it. He drummed his fingertips on his knees for a moment, then stood abruptly and stalked after her. Of all the nerve! She was standing at the sink, humming as she filled a teakettle with warm water, and the happy sound infuriated him all the more. "Change your mind about the tea?" she asked without turning around.
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"I did not." The words came out clipped and brittle. "Ms. Wilbur, my client is not willing to compromise on this rule. In fact, she’s already authorized me to evict you. I only drove out here in the hopes that we could come to some kind of a peaceful resolution." Charlotte bit her lip, worried but unwilling that this man should see her concern. "Look, Mr. Wolfe," she said, very quietly, "the piglets are four and a half weeks old now. In just a couple of weeks, they’ll be ready to go to their new homes. In the meantime, they’re not really doing any harm." She turned to him and smiled brightly. "Couldn’t you just look the other way for a few more days?" Aaron shook his head. "Look, Ms. Wilbur ...." "Charlotte." "What?" "I’d prefer it if you’d call me by my first name. It’s Charlotte." "Alright," he said, a bit surprised. "Charlotte, even if I could look the other way, I doubt your neighbor would do the same. She’s the one who alerted Mrs. Henry in the first place." She put the water on to boil and leaned against the counter, facing him. "I knew it! I could tell you were an animal lover from the moment I laid eyes on you. And really, pot-bellied pigs are such wonderful pets…very clean in fact...." Aaron speared a hand through his thick hair in agitation. "Ms. Wil -- Charlotte, are you even listening to me? You can’t keep those pigs." He folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the refrigerator, knocking a handful of magnets and the papers they were holding to the floor. Charlotte giggled a little as she watched him stoop, flustered, and gather up her things. However, when he looked up at her with steel in his eyes, she felt something flutter in her stomach. "Get rid of them," he said as he tossed the papers down on the table.
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"Or what? You don’t have a legal leg to stand on and we both know it. And besides, I’m a good tenant … you’ve said so yourself. I always pay my rent on time and I take care of any minor repairs myself. You’d be stupid to try to boot me out and we both know it." "Stupid?" He repeated the word, incredulous. "Yes, stupid. You’ll have a hard time renting this place out again, what with the furnace so old and no air conditioning." He could hardly believe her audacity. His eyes narrowed in frustration. "Miss Wilbur, I’m warning you. If you don’t get rid of those pigs, I’ll be forced to take action." "And what action will that be, Mr. Wolfe? You clearly can’t evict me on the feeble evidence you have now, so what exactly will you do?" A thought came to her and she blurted out, "Spank me?" The words hung in the air for a moment before Aaron spoke. Silently returning a photo of Charlotte and a young man to its place on the refrigerator, he asked, "Is that what he would do?" She realized that he held a picture of her and Danny and her breath caught painfully in her throat. "That is … was my fiancée." "Hmmm…too stubborn for him?" Wolfe jabbed. "No." Her voice was little more than a whisper. "He died … 19 months ago." Aaron took a deep breath and turned slowly back to the dark-haired woman. "I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have...." The lively challenge was gone from her eyes. "Please go." He nodded crisply. "You have ten days to get rid of the pigs, Ms. Wilbur. Please don’t make me have to come out here again." Charlotte stood in the kitchen for a long time after he left, wondering exactly what had gotten into her. How could she possibly have mentioned spanking to him? Had she lost her mind?
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It was his mention of Danny, of course. He was the only man she’d ever trusted her shameful secret to, the only man she’d ever told about her desire to be spanked. Then again, Danny’s name hadn’t come into the conversation until after she’d thrown down the silly challenge, so maybe it was the look in Aaron Wolfe’s eyes that had put the notion in her head. The kettle began to whistle and she jerked it abruptly off the stove, nearly burning herself in the process. Yes, that had to be it. He’d looked at her and her stomach had somersaulted in response. Aaron Wolfe had the eyes of a spanker. ____________________ Nine days later, Aaron was still prowling around his office, moody and preoccupied. As much as he hated to admit it, he could not get Charlotte Wilbur and her little challenge out of his mind. Either the woman had ESP or she’d somehow hacked into his computer and knew about the long-standing interest he pursued only via the internet. Then again, maybe she was a closet "spanko" too, in which case -- the possibilities were as limitless as his imagination, which had been running rampant ever since the words "spank me" had come out of her mouth. "I’m going out for lunch," his secretary said, poking her head in the door. "You want anything?" He looked up from the column of figures he’d been trying to add for the last twenty minutes. "Huh?" "I said I’m going out for lunch." The fiftysomething woman -- secretary, receptionist and office mother -- tilted her head to one side and considered him quietly. "What’s up, boss? You haven’t seemed yourself for a week now." "Oh?" With effort, he shook off the thoughts that had plagued him since last week’s drive out to River Heights. "I’m sorry, Nell. I’ve just been preoccupied of late."
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"So I’ve noticed." She smiled cheerfully. "Anything I can do to help?" "No." A sudden picture of Charlotte over his knee, her black hair spilling over her shoulder and down his leg, had him stowing a stack of receipts in his desk drawer. "There’s just something that I have to take care of. I’ll be out for the remainder of the day." Nell shrugged good-naturedly. "Okay. In that case, you have a good weekend." "You too, Nell. I’ll see you Monday." The drive to River Heights was a long and tedious one for Aaron. The I-270 outerbelt was heavily congested, and his mind was running at a mile a minute. What would he say to her? How could he find out if she was actually into what he was into without being too obvious? And what about her fiancée and the pain that he’d seen in her eyes? Was it too soon to ask her out? And for heaven’s sake, what would he do if she still had the pigs? ____________________ "It’s only been nine days," she said as she glared at him through the screen door. "Your paper said very specifically that I had ten days to have them out." "I know." This wasn’t going well at all. She’d been defensive from the moment she’d opened the door. "Look, Charlotte," he said, giving her his most winning smile, "I didn’t come to hassle you … promise. So, can I come in?" She considered him for a long moment, then reluctantly unlatched the screen. "Fine. But watch your step. I’m doing some rearranging." He followed her into the small living room and stopped short at the sight of several cardboard boxes. Disappointment flickered through him. "So, you’ve decided to move?" She whirled around and regarded him with a wary expression. "I most certainly have not. I’m
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just getting rid of some of the old furniture, and putting a few things into storage." "Oh." He watched her take a photo down from the wall. In it, the same man from the snapshot in the kitchen laughed at the camera, his arm draped around a large dog. "Beautiful setter," he said. "English … right?" "Mmm-hmm." She knelt on the floor and began to wrap the picture in newspaper. "His name was Remington. You know … after Remington Steele, on TV? He came into the shelter the night of my orientation. Actually, I met both Danny and Rem on the same night. Falling in love with the dog was the easiest part. Falling in love with Danny took a little longer." He didn’t know what to say. Maybe it was too soon. "Anyway, I suppose you’ll be wanting to know about the pigs?" She gave him a cursory glance and went on. "The babies are both gone." "And the mama?" He saw her shoulders slump. "Have you found a good home for her, too?" It took him by surprise when she rounded on him. "You know, Mr. Wolfe," she said, eyes blazing, "people like you really irritate me. Animals are nothing to you, are they? It doesn’t matter that they have feelings … that they need love. A poor, abandoned thing like Petunia is nothing more that a nuisance to somebody like you." He stiffened, his lips thinning into a straight, angry line. "Actually, Ms. Wilbur....." "Actually what?" She advanced on him, and he noticed the tears in her eyes. "Actually you like pigs … so long as they come packaged up as ham or bacon, perhaps?" "Now just wait one minute." He held his hand up in the hopes of stopping her tirade. "I think you’ve misunderstood my intentions here. I didn’t come to fight with you." "No?" She stepped closer, stood toe to toe with him and jabbed her hands on her hips. "Then what?
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Did you come to huff and puff and blow my house down, Mr. Big Bad Wolfe?" His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, his palm fairly itching with the desire to give her the spanking she so desperately needed. "Technically," he said through clenched teeth, "this isn’t your house. But believe me, Ms. Wilbur, if I start huffing and puffing, you’re going to end up in the next county!" Charlotte knew she was out of line, but she couldn’t seem to control herself. Ever since his last visit, ever since the moment when she’d seen "the look" in his eyes, she’d been consumed by her long dormant desires. She had, in fact, entered the word "spanking" into a computer search engine that very night, and for the first time since Danny’s death, she’d entertained thoughts of what she wanted for her future. Whether Aaron Wolfe was on that list remained to be seen, but there was one thing she was absolutely certain of. The right man would both understand and share her desires. "You know, Mr. Wolfe," she taunted. "I suspect you’re nothing more than so much hot air." "Oh do you?" There it was … the look again. Her stomach somersaulted. A part of her knew this to be madness, but she was beyond stopping now. "Yes. In fact, I’d say you’re nothing more than a wimp in wolf’s clothing. You couldn’t stop me from keeping that pig if you tried." His jaw was taught with tension. "You think not, eh?" "That’s exactly what I think. We both know you’re not going to evict me. Hell, you wouldn’t even have the guts to spank me if I bent over and told you to give it your best shot." For a moment, Aaron was rendered speechless by her words. Then, very slowly, a thought dawned on him. What if this was a test? What if she’d been asking herself the same questions that had plagued
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him all week? "If I were you, Ms. Wilbur," he said in a deliberately soft tone, "I wouldn’t bet on that." She shivered -- he actually saw her shiver -and then she very deliberately stepped away from him and bent over at the waist. "Well," she said, wiggling her softly curved derriere in his direction. "I’m waiting." "Why you little brat." Before he could stop himself, his hand had cracked off her denim-clad backside. "You are just asking for it." Charlotte managed not to gasp, though his hand did impart a lasting sting. "Is that all the better you can do?" she teased. "Why my ninety-seven-yearold grandma can spank harder than that." Aaron knew that he had to get control of himself, before this turned disastrous. He’d been fantasizing about spanking a willing woman for years, but he could see something very vulnerable in Charlotte’s eyes. Surprising both of them, he lifted her into a standing position and slid a finger beneath her chin. "Ms. Wilbur … Charlotte." He had to be careful, to take this slowly. "This is a dangerous game you’re playing; and while I certainly think you’re in need of a sound spanking, I don’t want to do anything that’s going to hurt you. So why don’t we just sit down and talk about this … about what it is you’re looking for, and what it is I might be able to offer." "Shit." Suddenly embarrassed, the young woman began to cry. "I’m so sorry, Mr. Wolfe. I … I don’t know what got into me." She stepped back and hugged herself. "I’ll start packing in the morning. You won’t have to worry about me or Petunia any more." "No. Wait a minute!" Impulsively, Aaron reached out and took hold of her arm. He guided her to the nearby sofa and all but forced her to sit down. "I didn’t say I was offended, or that I wanted you or Petunia out. I just said that we needed to talk about this." Looking at her, he decided that the honest
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approach was the best approach. "After all, when two people like us actually find one another, it only makes sense to see if our unique … um … desires might actually be one in the same." She looked up at him, red-faced. "Desires? You mean you like -- ?" "Mmm-hmm." He nodded and offered her that winning smile. "And it seems to me that we have something important to talk about." ____________________ They talked for a very long time that night, sharing first their personal stories, and then their thoughts on the subject of adult-to-adult spanking. And although Aaron gallantly declined to spank Charlotte that night -- he insisted they get to know one another better first -- it wasn’t long before she found herself over his knees on a regular basis. "Oooh…ouch!" she said as she squirmed under his hand. "Mmmph…not so hard!" "Just who do you think is in charge of this spanking, young lady?" he asked as he brought his open palm down on her upturned bottom. "Oh! You are … you are!" She wriggled under the assault, knowing all the while that her gyrations were driving him wild. "It’s just that it hurts so!" "Mmm-hmm." He pinched one generously rounded bottom cheek. "It’s supposed to, my love." "Oh, but Aaron!" She adopted her best little girl voice. "I’ll be good. I promise! Only, please don’t spank me so hard." He laughed and tweaked the other cheek, then leaned over and placed his lips to the heated flesh. "You know, sweetheart…me thinks thou doest protest too much." "Oh really?" A delicious shiver worked its way up her spine, and the next moment she was arching up to his touch. "So, does that mean I should ask you to spank me?" she asked, breathless. "No need," he said, giving her bottom one last swat. Then he turned her over in his arms and
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carried her upstairs, where he dropped her lightly on the bed. "Shoo, Petunia," she said as she waved their much-loved pet off the comforter. "Mr. Wolfe and I have some honeymooning to do.
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Snow White - 2002 Mrs. Charming carefully laid the open Sky Shoppers catalog on her hubby’s lap and, snuggling up to him on the couch, slid her hand seductively up his thigh. "See, honey. It’s a bargain really. I mean, just think how much I could save over time, if I didn’t have to go to the salon to tan." Prince Christian Alfonso Fredericko James Charming, Chris to his friends, did not so much as look away from the television. "I said no." "Aw, honey … come on." Snow twisted a strand of dark hair around her forefinger and adopted her best pretty-please pose. "You blew ten times that much having your mare bred last month. And you know nobody’s looking for white horses these days." Her husband let out a slow breath. "This has nothing to do with money and you know it. I don’t want a repeat of your last little tanning bed fiasco." "Okay, okay … so I fell asleep. Believe me, I’ll be sure to set an alarm this time -- two, even!" "No." A frown settled between the delicate, dark arches of the lady’s brows. "You’re not being fair, Christian! I said I’d take precautions. I just want some color. All the other women at the royal pool party will be sporting their fresh-from-theMediterranean tans, and there I’ll be with my Casper the Friendly Ghost complexion. I’ll stick out like a sore thumb." "You’ll be the most beautiful woman there. You are, after all -- ." "Yeah, yeah, yeah … I know -- the fairest of them all. Hair black as ebony, lips red as a red, red rose. But for crying out loud, every woman wants a change once in a while -- and this whole ‘skin white as snow’ nonsense is getting old." She stretched her arms out in front of her. "I couldn’t be any whiter if you’d left me in that coffin!"
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"Alright, that does it." Chris pointed the remote at the TV and jabbed the off button. When he turned back to his wife, his expression was set in determined lines. "It seems to me, young lady, that you’ve forgotten just how painful that burn was; and by golly, I’ve got just the thing to remind you." Snow recognized the look in her husband’s eyes and tried to scramble away, but he was too fast for her. His hand closed around her wrist and she was jerked face down across his thighs. "Now then." Whisking her nightgown up to the small of her back, the prince gave his wife’s lushly curved buttocks a preemptory slap. "Let me see if I can match that color." "No!" Princess Charming managed to get her hand back to cover her bottom just before the next smack fell. "I’m sorry, honey. You don’t have to spank me!" She heard her husband blow out an exasperated breath. "I had hoped I wouldn’t," he said as he grasped her wrist and pinned her arm tightly to her side, "but you’ve been harping on this stupid tanning bed for three days now, and that’s about three days too long. When I say no, I mean no -but since you can’t seem to get that through you pretty little head, it’s time I delivered the message to the other end!" With that, he delivered a ringing slap to her left globe. The moment he drew his hand back, an angry red handprint bloomed against her white skin. Nodding his head in satisfaction, he repeated the process several more times, peppering each bottom cheek with several stinging slaps. Snow gasped and wriggled about on her husband’s knees, but he was not dissuaded from his task. She screeched and yelped, but still he continued the onslaught to her naughty bottom. She even bent her knees in an effort to put her feet in between his hand and her smarting backside, but he only maneuvered her farther forward on his left
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knee and, wrestling her legs down in between his, used one strong thigh to pin her in place. "That, young lady," he said, slapping the back of each bare thigh in turn, "is going to cost you!" "No!" she shrieked, already regretting her actions. Feeling his broad palm against her bottom was bad enough, but whenever she fought him, it was her vulnerable upper thighs that paid the price. "No, Chris … please! I’m so sorry." He chuckled mirthlessly and tilted her at an angle that left her lower bottom and upper legs perfectly framed for his attention. "Not half as sorry as you’re going to be, young lady." He slapped her right thigh and she howled. "Now I suggest you hold still and take your spanking like a big girl, else I’ll carry you straight into the bedroom and start over - with the hairbrush." That certainly got her attention and she began to shake her head violently from side to side. "No, not the brush! I’ll be good … honest I will!" "Hmmmph. I hope so," he said as he worked up to the relentless rhythm she knew so well. "Otherwise, you’ll have to take your breakfast standing up!" With that, Chris turned his full attention to the part of his wife’s anatomy that was most receptive to "discussion." He smacked up and down the back of one leg, then repeated the treatment on the other side. He listened to her gasps, felt her legs bend and her back arch in reaction, and knew he was beginning to get through. He lectured as he spanked, reminding her of the dangers of skin cancer as well as reassuring her that she was still the most beautiful woman in the entire kingdom. And by the time he felt her defiance dissolve into tears of release, he was quite sure that he had managed to duplicate the color her skin had been after she’d fallen asleep in the tanning bed. "I’m sorry," Snow cried as the last of the fire inducing smacks fell across her throbbing nates. "I’m s-sorry! Please forgive me!"
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"Alright, sweetheart," he said as he released her wrist and laid a comforting hand in the small of her back. "It’s over now … all over." She shuddered with relief, continued to cry for a bit before he helped her up and pointed toward the corner. "Hold your nightie up and concentrate on the way your bottom feels right now. Then we’ll discuss tanning, and why you are not going to do it. Understand?" "Yes, sir." Nodding miserably, she made her way to the corner and pressed her nose tight against the seam of the two connecting walls. The command to think about her bottom, Snow quickly concluded, had been unnecessary. In fact, it was impossible to not think of the dreadful sting that she was not allowed to soothe. Other thoughts and memories intruded, however, and she found herself reliving the day she’d voiced a wish while sitting on the edge of a deep well. She’d had absolutely no idea what she’d been getting herself into. Many times as a youth, she’d conjured up images of life with her prince, but never had she pictured this. Dangling over his knee, having her bare bum spanked like a naughty little girl had once been beyond the scope of her imagination, yet it was now a rather common occurrence in her life. From the very first time she’d defied him, in fact -years ago, over the magic mirror she wanted to keep and he was determined to destroy -- she’d found that her own Prince Charming had rather traditional views on the relationship between husband and wife. One moment she’d been ordering a footman to fetch her former stepmother’s mirror from the castle just over the hill, and the next she’d been most unceremoniously dumped over her husband’s knee -- and right there in the throne room, to boot! She’d learned then and there not to quarrel with him in public, but her stubborn streak was not always so easily tamed and all these years later, she had less than fond memories of staring at the carpet in nearly every room of the castle.
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"Alright, young lady," Chris called from his seat. "Come talk to me." She turned to find him sitting up a bit straighter, arms open in welcome. Feeling every bit the wellpunished little girl, she let her gown drop and went to him, curled up gratefully in his lap. Much as she hated to admit it, a spanking always worked wonders on her temperament. Tonight was no different. She was, in fact, feeling calmer and more content than she’d been in days. "Now then, sweetheart," Chris said, "do you remember why it is you’re not allowed to tan?" "Mmm-hmmm." She nodded against his shoulder. "I get sunburned way too easily." "That’s right." He stroked her back gently, then let his hand wander down a bit, to cup the flesh he’d just reddened. "And how do you feel when you get a bad sunburn? Do you like it?" "No." "That’s right." The prince held his wife out at arm’s length and, sliding a finger beneath her chin, forced her to meet his gaze. "In fact, I believe the last time you tried a tanning bed, you ended up pretty sick from the burn. Right?" Snow sighed and nodded, acknowledging the truth of her husband’s words. "I’m sorry, honey. You’re right -- and I really don’t want to be that sick again. I’ll stay away from the tanning beds." She curled an arm around his neck and brought his lips down to hers. Eyes open and locked on his, she whispered, "I promise," against his open mouth. "That’s my girl." Chris cupped his wife’s face in his hands, drew his thumb across her bottom lip in a way that made her shiver. "You ready for bed?" She wiggled suggestively on his lap. "I’m not sleepy, but I am ready for bed." With that, Prince Charming rose, his wife in his arms, and carried her to the bedroom. ____________________
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Mrs. Charming, who had every intention of keeping her word to her husband, did manage to go several days without so much as thinking about the pale color of her skin. She might, in fact, have managed to get all the way to the day of the big party without defying his instructions, if only she’d chosen a different day to go bathing suit shopping. But the moment she stepped out of the dressing room in a modest navy blue maillot to find her appearance being appraised by a familiar goldenhaired goddess, all bets were off. Rapunzel, the princess from two counties over, was tall, graceful and golden from the top her head to the soles of her dainty feet. In short, she was everything that Snow was not. Worse yet, she’d picked out a stunningly small bikini for the upcoming pool party, and the black spandex with gold trim only enhanced everything that Snow felt she lacked. Determined not to be outdone by the ivory tower show off, Snow tried on and purchased a bikini of her own. Now all she needed was some color. Shoving all thoughts of her recent spanking from her mind, Princess Charming went home to sulk --and to plan. Locked away in her office, she sat down with Sky Shopper’s catalog, a credit card and her Rolodex. After last summer, there was not a salon in town that would sell her tanning time, so buying her own bed was the only option open to her -- and even that one was fraught with risks. If Chris found out too soon, she’d certainly receive a tanning, but of an entirely different and most painful variety. She shifted in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable, but unwilling to be put off of the task at hand. She simply couldn’t allow Rapunzel to outdo her at her own party! She’d have to go about this carefully, though -- tanning slowly enough to add a little color without her husband noticing was of the utmost importance. Then, once he saw how great she looked at the party and knew that she’d been able to do it without going overboard and burning, she
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just knew he’d have no more objections. He wasn’t an entirely unreasonable man, after all. Having convinced herself that her plan was a sound one, Snow began to flip through the address cards. She’d have to have the bed delivered and set up somewhere else, a place that she could visit frequently without arousing suspicion. Fortunately, she did have a few very old and loyal friends who owed her favors. Turning to the B’s, she called the first on the list. "Hello. Bashful?" "I’m sorry, ma’am," a male voice intoned. "Mr. Bashful is not at home just now. May I take a message?" Snow shook her head and then, realizing that her friend’s butler couldn’t see her, replied, "No, that’s all right. If you’ll just tell me when he’ll be home, I’ll try back then." "I’m sorry, ma’am, but my employer is out of town on business for the next month. However, if you wish to give me your phone number, I will have him return your call -- ." She sighed, exasperated. Ever since he’d discovered Dale Carnegie, Bashful was a new man. Now, instead of hiding in a crowd, he was out there on the win-friends-and-influence-people circuit. At times like this, Snow could almost wish she hadn’t set him up in those darn classes. "No … no, that’s not necessary." She started flipping cards, looking for the next number on her list. "Thank you anyway." She came to Doc next and the idea of housing her tanning bed in one of his extra examination rooms flitted briefly through her mind. It was chased away by the memory of meeting him in the emergency room the night she’d come home from the salon, red as a poisoned apple and nearly as sick as the time she’d eaten one. There was no way he’d keep her little secret. Skipping over his card, she moved on down the list.
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An hour later, she sat back and stared dismally at the phone. She’d managed to reach G&H Mediators, but a secretary had informed her that Mr. Happy and Mr. Grumpy were in the process of moving to a new office, so she was out of luck on that front. Sleepy, the quality control manager at the Mattress Warehouse, couldn’t offer any assistance either. His house was crammed wall-towall with mattresses due to the study he was conducting for his employer, and he simply couldn’t fit a tanning bed in anywhere. Sneezy was in South America, testing his all-natural, holistic approach to chronic allergies and she could only hope that Dopey would check his voice mail sometime soon. Of all of her former protectors, he’d ended up the biggest success of them. Apparently it took a special sort of mind to come up with something as brilliant, and frustrating, as Micro--. She nearly jumped out of her skin when the phone rang. She picked up the receiver and instantly recognized Dopey’s voice. "Hey, Snow. Sorry I was out before, but you know what a slave driver Bill is. What can I do for ya?" Ten minutes later, the arrangements were set. The tanning bed would be delivered to the roomy country house of her busy friend. He’d leave the key under the mat and she could drop by any time to tan. And with any luck, Chris wouldn’t know until after the party. ____________________ You know, luck’s a fickle sort of thing. One day it’s working for you, and the next … well, let’s just say that Snow White was soon to discover what happened on unlucky days. "You what?" Static crackled and she took a few steps out into the yard, trying to find a place where the housekeeper’s voice would come in clear. "I locked my keys in the car!"
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"Oh dear," the old woman shouted back. "Where are you? I’ll send someone out right away." "719 Brothers Grimm Lane. The spare keys are in my desk … second drawer on the right." "Second drawer? All right, Dearie. I’ll send the chauffeur right out." "Thank you." Snow snapped the cell phone closed and took several deep breaths to steady her nerves. This day had promised to be a difficult one from the moment she got out of bed. She’d been up and about early, working on all the last minute details for the weekend’s festivities and absolutely nothing had gone right. The man with the pool company had shown up late and groused around about getting the right mix of chemicals. The caterer had called to verify her orders and she’d listened, open-mouthed, as he rattled off a list of dishes she’d never heard of. It took more than an hour to convince the man that she was giving a pool party -- not a barmitvah -- and another hour to re-order everything she’d gone over with him a month ago; and then he’d had the nerve to complain about all the extra work she was making for him by not just serving what Mrs. Horwitz had ordered for her son’s big day. After that conversation, she’d been ready to tear her ebony black hair out by the roots! Finally, well aware that she’d be cutting it close to get in her tanning time and make it home before Chris, she’d driven all the way out here only to lock her keys in the car. Feeling more than a little irritable, Snow walked around to the back yard, dragged a lawn chair into the shade, and fell asleep. "Hey there, sleeping beauty." She woke to the sensation of Chris’s mouth moving over hers and sat up so quickly that they cracked heads. He sat back, stunned, and tears swam in her eyes. They both spoke at once, putting the same question to one another. "What are you doing here?"
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Chris laughed and left off prodding at the knot on his forehead to gingerly finger the one near his wife’s temple. "You okay, honey? I didn’t mean to startle you." Mrs. Charming’s mind went through and discarded half a dozen explanations in the few moments it took her to answer, "I’m fine. But I didn’t expect you to come out and get me." "The chauffeur was at the end of the drive when I pulled in. He told me you were here, so I sent him back to the house and headed out myself." He looked at her, a question forming between his brows. "What are you doing out here, anyway? I thought the D-man stayed in the city during the week." Snow sat up slowly, as though it pained her to move. It didn’t -- not really -- but she hoped pretending at a headache would help her distract her husband from the truth. "He is in the city, which is why he asked me to water his plants." "His plants?" The prince rocked back on his heels and leveled a surprised gaze at his wife. "I thought he didn’t like plants. Said he always killed them off." She shrugged and made an elaborate show of wincing at the movement. "I guess he changed his mind. Anyway," she said as she rose from the lounger, "it’s getting late. We should probably get home." "Hmm…you’re probably right." Chris stood and held his wife’s key ring out to her. "Come on. I’ll help you with those plants and then I’ll follow you home." He stooped to kiss the angry red spot near her right temple. "You look kind of shaky after that bump." "The plants?" Snow’s heart kicked up a notch. "No, that’s not necessary. I’ve already taken care of them." "You have?" Chris stopped near the front door and, tilting his head to one side, studied his wife
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carefully. "How did you manage that? I thought the key to the house was on your keyring." "I … uh … it was … it is." The desperate woman fished for something reasonable to say. "I had already been in the house. See? It was when I came out that I locked the keys in the car." "Oh?" His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "So, let me see if I’ve got this straight. You went into the house and watered the plants, then came back out, put the keys in the ignition, and -- ." One dark brow rose in challenge. "You got out of the car again, and that’s when you locked your keys in it?" "Yes. That’s right." She attempted a guileless smile, but the look in his eyes said he wasn’t buying her story. "Why did you get out of the car?" he pressed. "After you’d already taken care of the plants, I mean." She was backpedaling fast, the lie growing with every word out of her mouth. "I … uh … I wasn’t sure if I’d locked the door or not." "I see." Chris stared at his wife for a moment longer, then slowly held out his hand. "Give me the keys, please." She was caught. Somewhere deep inside, she knew that; yet she still fought the inevitable. "Why? I told you I already watered the plants." His jaw grew taut and one eyebrow arched up in challenge. "I’d like to see your friend’s new plants. After all, they must be very special to change his black thumb into a green one." He caught and held her gaze. "The keys, please." Snow swallowed hard and took an instinctive step backward. "I don’t have time for this, honey. I have to talk to the gardener yet tonight if I want him to get the front hedge done before the party." She turned toward the car. "I’ll meet you back home." "Oh no you don’t!" Before she could take another step, Mrs. Charming found herself grasped around the waist
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and tucked beneath her husband’s left arm. Her feet dangled and the blood rushed to her head as she stared at the back of his left thigh. "If I gave you the impression that I was requesting a tour of the house, sweetheart," she heard him growl, "then I must ask your forgiveness. If, however, you’re intentionally defying me," he said as he rucked her T-shirt up and laid a broad palm against the seat of her spandex shorts, "then I’m sure that you’ll be doing some apologizing." He moved toward the door and, resting his left foot on the second step, dropped her over his knee. She could feel his hand on her bottom, kneading the flesh expectantly. "So, my dear wife … which is it?" "All right … all right!" No amount of lying could save her now, so she took a deep breath and let loose with the truth. "I wasn’t over here to water plants. I was here to -- ." "Use the tanning bed you had delivered here?" He pinched one round bottom cheek, followed that touch with a stinging slap that made her legs kick out in a most unladylike fashion. "You knew?" She arched back and tried to squirm out of his grasp. "You knew all this time?" "Since the very day you ordered it." He punctuated his words with a second spank to her tightly clad bottom. "You want to know how I found out?" "What does it matter?" She shook her head, infuriated. "You’re going to spank my butt anyway, so what’s the difference?" "The difference," he said as he grasped the waistband of her shorts and tugged them, along with her panties, to her knees, "might surprise you." His hand cracked against the bare flesh and she twisted in a vain attempt to escape the spanks. "Not bloody likely," she yelled over the sound of his palm against her backside. "Indeed?" He stopped, leaned over and snapped a long, green branch out of the nearby evergreen
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hedge. "So, if I were to tell you that, when they got your order, the Sky Shopper’s company called me to verify that we really wanted to put two tanning beds on our credit card -- that wouldn’t make a bit of difference to you?" "Two?" She stopped struggling despite the fact that she could feel him, even now, cleaning the small green buds off of the switch he intended to take to her bottom. "What do you mean, two?" "There was the one you ordered." He ran his thumb and forefinger along the length of the switch, checking for any remaining rough spots and, satisfied, swished it through the air a couple of times. The supple green rod whistled and he nodded with grim determination. "And the one I ordered." He set her a little farther out on his knee and measured the switch against the twin globes of her waiting bottom. "I intended to surprise you." "Oh Chris -- ." Her apology was cut short by the hum of the rod through the air, and the thwacking sound as it landed, hard, across her bare bottom. A line of fire seared her senses, followed by a second and a third, before she managed to cry out. "Oh honey," she cried, "I’m sorry! I had no idea." "You weren’t supposed to," he said over the steady whistle-thwack of the switching. "You were supposed to obey me." Snow wriggled and clawed at her husband’s leg as lines of itching, stinging fire bloomed across her bottom and down both thighs. "I’m sorry! Chris, I’m sorry! Please stop!!" Much to her surprise, he did stop -- but only long enough to push her shorts and panties down and off. Then, tucking her snugly against his hip, he carried her around to the back of the house, switching her furiously churning legs all the way. By the time he set her down by a large tree, she was already in tears. Her blue eyes swam as, clutching her bottom, she looked up at him. The grim set of
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his jaw told her that the spanking was far from over. "Why didn’t you … say something right away?" she asked. "Why did you let me buy the thing?" He reached out, brushed hair away from her eyes. "I thought you would change your mind … that you’d realize what you were doing was wrong." Tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. "And when I didn’t? You obviously knew it was here. Why didn’t you say something then?" "I wanted to give you the chance to own up to it yourself." Comprehension lit her eyes. "So when you came out here today … you were hoping -- ?" "That you’d tell me the truth." He fingered the end of the switch, his eyes full of pain. "I didn’t want to have to do this, you know. I knew I’d have to spank you, but I thought if I gave you a chance, you’d ‘fess up and I’d be able to go easier on you." A little sob bubbling up in her throat, the princess stepped up to her husband and wrapped her arms around his waist. "I’m sorry." Her tears soaked into his shirtfront. "I’m so sorry I lied to you, honey. Please forgive me." Sighing, the prince wrapped his arms around his wife in a comforting embrace. His lips touched the top of her head. "You know you’re always forgiven, sweetheart," he murmured. She nodded once, then stepped back. Without saying a word, she lifted her long shirt up to her waist, then bent over and grasped the backs of her knees. Swallowing hard, she spread her legs as far apart as possible without losing her balance, and then glanced at her husband. "I deserve to be spanked," she said in a clear, albeit shaking, voice. "Please punish me." Her husband sighed and laid a hand in the small of the back. "I’m not going to punish you, honey … because a punishment is given to make you sorry for what you’ve done, and you’re obviously already sorry. But I will discipline you, so hopefully you will
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learn from this mistake and make better choices next time." He tapped the slender rod across the highest part of her tightened nates. "Do you understand the difference?" Snow nodded and braced herself. "Yes, sir. I understand." What followed was, without a doubt, the worst spanking Mrs. Charming had ever received. The switch hummed to life and hot, red lines flared everywhere, from the crest of each exposed cheek to the backs of both knees. She held her position for as long as she could, then danced about, her husband’s hand closed firmly around her left arm as the wicked little rod found purchase against her bottom and legs. The pain was nearly unbearable, but just when she was certain that it would never end, she twisted around and saw her tears mirrored in his eyes. It was then that he cast down the switch and swinging her up into strong, sure arms, carried her to a nearby bench. He cradled her there for a long time, whispering words of forgiveness and love, while she cried out all the guilt that had been building over the last two weeks. And as twilight enveloped them, Snow White looked up into the eyes of her husband and knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was the prince she’d always dreamed of. ____________________ Four days later, the marks of her session under the trees having sufficiently faded, Princess Charming donned her bathing suit and played the gracious hostess to one and all. The party went off without a hitch and, curled up in her husband’s arms late that night, she basked in his praise. Oh, and about Rapunzel? She and her husband attended the party, but instead of the itsy-bitsy bikini she’d picked out at the shop, Snow noticed that her golden-haired rival wore a modest skirted one-piece. She also noticed that the Princess from
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two counties over stood for most of the party … but that’s a story for another time.
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Pete and Wendy Peter Pan, former lost boy turned college student, stood outside Wendy Darling’s dorm room, a black look in his eyes. Three times tonight he’d climbed the stairs to her fourth-floor room. Three times, he’d knocked at the door, only to be greeted by silence. Three times now, he’d glanced at his watch with impatient eyes. Their study date had been set for 7:00. It was now ten minutes ‘til 8:00 and she had yet to return to her room. Meanwhile, the deadline for turning in their history project loomed ever nearer, and he had yet to see her part of the research -- vital information without which the project simply could not be assembled. With an angry shake of his head, he stalked back down the hall. His feet fairly flew on the stairs as he jogged downward, and he nearly flattened a maintenance worker as he burst out the door and began the trek across campus to the library. If he didn’t get started with the final draft soon, they’d both be receiving an incomplete … and even if a failing grade was of no consequence to Wendy, it was most certainly unacceptable by his standards. Peter had never been one to do anything half way, and he wasn’t about to start now. He simply would not allow her to drag his grade point average down along with hers. At that very moment, Miss Wendy Darling was hurrying home from the pub, where she’d spent a good portion of her afternoon sipping strawberry daiquiris and moaning about the research that she had no desire to do. "It’s not fair," she’d told her friend Margie. "Peter gave me the hardest part of all, you know. Obviously, he couldn’t be bothered to dig through those musty old books, so he dumped it all on my shoulders. Can you believe that?" Margie, whose only claim to fame was her reputation as the campus party girl, had responded with a sympathetic nod and a conspiratorial whisper. "You really ought to tell the weasel where
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to get off. He’s far too serious about all this history rot, you know. It’d be good for the nerdy old man to see an F on his desk once in a while. Might take him down a peg or two." Wendy had agreed at first, recklessly consigning her part of the project to hell, but as the evening wore on; she’d begun to feel a bit ashamed of herself. Peter wasn’t really a ‘nerdy old man.’ He was, in fact, quite adventurous under the right circumstances. He’d saved her from pirates and taught her how to fly, once upon a time; and even after he’d given up NeverLand in order to grow up with her, his presence had added life and laughter to the formerly dull Darling home. Michael and John idolized him to this very day, and even their stern father had come to love Peter as one of his own. By the time 7:30 had rolled around, she was feeling decidedly remorseful and, excusing herself from the bar, had determined to head for home. She only hoped that Peter wouldn’t be too cross with her when he found out she’d not done her part of the research. She arrived back at the dorm at ten ‘til eight and, unlocking her door, stepped upon a hastily folded sheet of paper. She picked up the note with a sense of dread, and tears filled her eyes when she read Peter’s angry words. Wendy, I’ve gone to the library to do the research you promised you’d have done by 7:00, and don’t think for one moment that I’ll be putting your name on this project! As far as I’m concerned, you can just explain the failing grade to your father, because I’m done trying to help you get through this class. Peter Explain the grade to Father? Wendy felt something knot in her stomach. Peter couldn’t do
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this to her -- he just couldn’t. If her father learned that she’d failed yet another class, he’d absolutely blow a gasket! Good lord, she could hear his stern voice already, ordering her to fetch the razor strop and bring it -- and her ‘naughty little bottom’ -- into his study for a ‘discussion.’ In the throes of a panic, she gathered up her history notes and hurried from the room. She’d find Peter and make it up to him -even if it meant she had to spend the whole bloody night reading through the pages of a dozen moldy books. Anything was preferable to a discussion with that strap -- anything at all. ____________________ Peter rubbed his eyes and tried to bring the words in front of him back into focus. He’d spent the afternoon in the Historical Society’s basement, and now he was doomed to spend the night tracking down Wendy’s share of the research before he could actually write the final draft of their paper. How could she have put him in such an unbearable spot - and after everything they’d shared? He’d thought her a friend. Hell, he was in love with her -- had been since that first night he’d peered in the nursery window -- but she obviously didn’t return his feelings. After all, if she felt even a fraction of the love he had for her, she’d never have been able to leave him in the lurch like this. She’d understand that he was working to provide a future for her, and the children they would one day raise. She’d want to help him reach that goal, so they could be together sooner rather than later. But no … obviously Wendy didn’t feel anything of the sort for him. Frustrated, he slammed a book shut, then glanced apologetically at the librarian. At times like these, he sincerely wished he’d stayed put in NeverLand. Life certainly had been easier in that place. Every day had been a grand adventure, filled with laughter and the good-natured crowing of a dozen boys who refused to grow up. Nights were spent
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swinging in hammocks under the most brilliant stars in the galaxy. In NeverLand, Peter had been free to fly. Here, he lived chained to a desk and weighed down by textbooks, his only encouragement the fact that it was all for a purpose. He’d given up NeverLand for Wendy Darling. He’d made the adjustment from cheerful, unruly boy to responsible young man -- a change that had been far from easy for him -- because he’d loved her. He ran a hand through his thick, neatly cut, brown hair and admitted for the first time what he’d long been afraid to face. Perhaps Wendy no longer cared for him. In fact, it was beginning to look like her interest had been nothing more than a schoolgirl’s infatuation, in which case he’d given up a carefree boyhood for a lifetime of heartache. The thought was enough to push any man over the edge. "Peter! Here you are." Wendy’s hand on his shoulder startled him, and then she was pulling out a chair and talking a mile a minute. "I’m so sorry I didn’t get here sooner. I went across town to do some shopping -- I thought we’d need some diskettes -- and then traffic was a real bear, and I had a terrible time getting home. You really ought to get a cell phone, you know. I would have called you if.... ." Seething, Peter held up his hand to stem the flow of lies. His brown eyes turned dark with anger, his entire being fairly crackled with barely contained fury. "That’s enough! You smell too strongly of strawberries and rum to pull off this little performance, so why don’t you just go home and sleep it off." He glowered at her. "Or maybe you’d like to go back to the pub to hang out with your friends?" Wendy sat back, shocked and more than a little hurt. Peter’s whispered words had sounded loud in her ears, filled with accusation and anger, along with a certain note of raw pain. Tears filled her eyes and she looked away, embarrassed and ashamed.
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Peter barely heard her whispered, "I’m sorry," as she rose and pushed in her chair. "Oh, damn it all, don’t go." He reached out and grabbed her wrist, kicked the chair out again and pulled her down to sit beside him. When he had her knees trapped between his, and both her small hands held fast in his large ones, he said, "Let’s start from the beginning -- and I want the truth this time, Wendy. No more lies." "I’m sorry. I … I was mad at you for dumping the boring part of the research on me, but I didn’t really intend to blow it off … at least not at first. I only went to the Pub for lunch, but then Margie came in and we got to talking and...." Wendy swiped at the tears that had made tracks through her carefully applied makeup and went fishing in the dark recesses of her over-large purse, finally retrieving one crumpled tissue. She blotted at the tears, then blew her nose, and finally gave Peter a hopeful smile. "I’m so sorry, Peter. I know I’ve been absolutely wretched lately, but I’m here now and ready to work. Just point me in the right direction, boss, and I’ll have at it." Peter frowned and gave a deep sigh. "I’m afraid it’s not that easy," he replied. "You’ve done nothing on this project -- absolutely nothing -- and it hardly seems fair for you to glide in here at nine o’clock the night before it’s due, look up a few dates, and then sign your name to the thing." He shook his head resolutely. "I’ve let you take advantage of me one too many times already. You’re just going to have to handle this one on your own." The tears started again, scalding drops of anger and resentment pouring from Wendy’s light blue eyes. "Peter, I cannot believe you’re doing this to me! You know I can’t get an entire project together by tomorrow, and if I don’t get an A on this, I’ll likely fail the class." Her voice rose, despite their quiet surroundings, and several pairs of eyes glanced their way. "How can you be so cruel?"
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"For heavens sake, quiet down," the irritated young man hissed. "You’re disturbing the people around us!" "Like I care?" She shoved away from him, her chair clattering to the floor when she leapt up. Grabbing her purse, she glared at the man before her and said, quite loudly, "You can shove that project right up your ass, Mr. High and Mighty!" With that, she turned on her heel and stormed from the room. Peter was momentarily stunned, and then his face flushed a dark, furious red. How dare she speak to him like that? Rising quickly, he muttered, "My apologies," to the librarian and a handful of students, then stalked to the door. Little Miss Wendy Darling had gone too far this time, and he was damn well going to make sure she knew it. He caught up to her on the sidewalk, and when she muttered, "Bugger off," found himself automatically counting to ten. "What on earth," he asked as he grabbed her upper arm and hauled her around to face him, "is the matter with you? Have you lost your mind?" As furious as a hellcat, she clawed at his hands and cursed him roundly. "Let go of me, you bastard! Let go!" "I will not!" Tall and athletic, Peter had no trouble capturing her free hand and soon held her, neatly trapped, by both elbows. "I don’t care who you are, Wendy Darling. I will not allow you to talk to me like that!" There was a bench under a nearby tree, and before he even realized he’d made the decision, he dragged her into the shadowed area and pulled her, writhing madly, over his lap. He was obliged to pin her kicking legs between his own, but he managed it well enough, and immediately brought his hand down across her shorts-covered bottom with a sharp smack.
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Enraged, Wendy sank long nails into Peter’s calf. "Let me up!" she demanded. "Damn you, let me up this instant." "No." He jerked his leg away from her clawing hands. "And just for that -- ." He aimed further down, landing two stinging blows to the backs of her thighs. She jerked and, with a cry of dismay, struggled to get both hands behind her for protection. Smiling grimly, Peter captured her wrists in his left hand and pinned them to the small of her back. "Looks like I’ve actually got your attention now," he said as he rained down hard, unyielding spanks upon her upturned bottom. "But you let me know for sure when you’re ready to talk. Until then," he added, giving her a particularly hard swat on the lower part of her left bottom cheek, "I’ll just continue with the task at hand." Wendy could not believe what was happening to her. She’d never seen Peter like this -- not angry, exactly, but definitely determined -- and she wasn’t at all sure how to react. Part of her wanted to scream bloody murder until the police showed up and hauled him off to jail, but embarrassment and a certain sense of fair play had her holding her tongue instead. It wasn’t the first time she’d been spanked and, despite the sting he was imparting to her backside, she knew for a fact that it could be worse. Had either of her parents heard her string of expletives, she’d have been over a knee, barebottomed and with a bar of soap in her mouth, to boot. She blushed at that thought and, taking a deep breath, said, "Oh! I’m sorry … truly. Please … ouch! … let’s talk." Peter heard Wendy, but he couldn’t resist giving her firm, round bottom a few more well-delivered spanks. Then, with his hand resting possessively on the low curve of one bottom cheek, he said, "You want to tell me what this is all about? Because something tells me it’s not just the project that’s got you upset."
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"Yes … yes, I will," she pleaded. "Only please let me up first." He had only to consider that request for a moment before he decided against it. "I don’t think so, young lady. We’ll talk like this first. I’ll let you up when I’m convinced you’re ready to behave." Swallowing her pride, Wendy squeaked out, "Okay. But could you please let go of my arms. My shoulders hurt." "Fair enough -- but I’m warning you, no clawing." "I won’t. I promise." He let go of her hands, then watched in amazement as her shoulders began to shake with sobs. "Oh, Peter … I’m so sorry," she cried as she tried to dash away the insistent tears. "Can you ever forgive me?" This was all quite new to Peter, and he wasn’t certain how to proceed. He’d been on the receiving end of enough spankings to sympathize, but he’d never been the one doing the spanking. "Of course I forgive you," he said as he rubbed her back in soothing circles. "But Wendy, I need to know what’s going on inside that head of yours. You’ve changed so much since we started university together. I feel like I hardly know you any more." That made her cry all the harder, but he lifted her up and held her until she was able to speak. "I don’t know what’s wrong with me," she whispered. "I guess … oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’m just scared." Wendy? Scared? That took him by surprise and he pulled her fiercely into his embrace. "Of what, sweetheart? Of me?" "Oh no!" She moved away and looked at him, her eyes wide in the darkness. "Not of you -- never of you! But maybe of all this." She gestured to indicate the campus. "It means we’re growing up, you know? And I don’t know if I can bear that." Her voice quavered with emotion. "I don’t think I can stand to say good-bye to you, Peter."
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"Say good-bye to me? Why would you do that? I’m not going anywhere." Wendy shrugged and hunkered down against his broad shoulder. "You will someday. You’re smart and you’re working so hard. You’ll find a good job … and a woman to love … and then what? I’ll be all alone again, just like I was the night you brought me home from NeverLand." She sniffled pathetically. "You broke my heart that night, and I don’t think I can stand it if you break it again." Wendy felt Peter inhale sharply; and then, much to her amazement, he began to laugh. Heat suffused her face and she shoved up off of his lap. "Well, I’m glad you think it’s funny," she said in a trembling voice. "No … no," he said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "Not really. It’s just that.... ." "Just what?" she asked, stepping back to evade the hand that reached for her. "Just stupid and silly and childish of me to still be in love with you after all these years, I suppose?" "No, of course not." She sounded hurt and, sobering at once, he got up and put his hands on her shoulders. "I’m just so happy, Wendy." He pulled her around to face him, slid a finger under her chin and forced her to meet his gaze. "Don’t you see, sweetheart? I was afraid you were going to leave me alone." Just then, the clouds shifted and moonlight lit Peter’s features. Looking up at him, Wendy saw the old sparkle of joy in those brown depths and suddenly everything was perfectly clear. "You love me," she whispered wonderingly. "You love me, too, don’t you?" He nodded and bent down to touch his lips to hers. "I always have, Wendy. From the first time I laid eyes on you … through all the years growing up together … to this very moment and beyond." He drew both her hands up and held them against his chest. "This heart beats for you, Wendy Darling --
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for you, and you alone. I would be lost without you." With a ragged breath, she stepped into the circle of his embrace. "I’m so glad. I couldn’t live without you, either." Standing on tiptoe, she drew Peter’s mouth down to hers. Everything in his body tightened in immediate reaction, and he claimed his prize with fierce abandon. She loved him. Life could not possibly be any sweeter. They lost track of time for a bit, but Peter was jarred into awareness when a group of students poured out of the library. Startled, he looked at his watch and groaned. "I left my books in there," he said as pulled Wendy hurriedly toward the doors. The librarian was just about to turn the lock, but she let them in with an exasperated sigh. They hurried to pick up their things, then let themselves out with an apologetic smile at the tight-lipped woman. "Do you have enough information?" Wendy asked once they were outside. "To finish your project, I mean?" Peter took her hand and led her in the direction of his apartment building. "Yes, but I could use some help writing the report. Do you think you could manage that?" "Yes." She nodded, but there was uncertainty in her eyes. "I realize I don’t deserve to put my name on it, but I’ll be glad to help anyway. I know that grades are important to you." He grunted his agreement and they walked back to his place in silence, both occupied by private thoughts. Once he’d dropped his backpack on the floor and turned on the computer, Peter turned to the woman he loved with a speculative expression. "Wendy, are you really going to fail the class?" She looked up from her notes and nodded glumly. "Yeah. I blew off a couple of tests, and didn’t turn some of the homework in. I’m pretty much screwed."
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"And if you were to get an A on this project? That would help?" "Yeah," she said, not daring to look at him. "If I deserved an A, that would be great. But we both know I don’t." He sat down at the computer, stared at the screen for a long moment, then turned back to her. "Your father will be pretty upset if you fail, huh?" "Uh-huh." The thought made her squirm in her chair. The sting she was feeling now was nothing compared to the way her bottom would throb after a discussion with Papa and his strap. "It’ll be okay, though. It’s not like he’s going to kill me or anything." Peter put his fingers to the keys, but his mind refused to focus. He’d rented an apartment his first year at university, and had maintained that as his permanent residence, rather than packing up every summer to move back into his old room in the Darling home. He doubted, however, that Mr. Darling’s views had changed much over the course of the last three years. If Wendy went home with a failing grade, she would likely be punished -- and quite soundly. He glanced at the blonde head bent industriously over a heavy text, and knew that this would be a turning point for them. Blowing out a nervous breath, he swiveled in the chair. "Wendy?" "Hmmm?" She didn’t look up from the book. "Wendy, come here, please." There was something in his tone that sent a shiver of apprehension up her spine. She looked up warily and saw something altogether unexpected in his deep brown eyes. "What is it?" she asked as, leaving the book open on the coffee table, she joined him at the computer desk. "What’s the matter?" He reached out and took her hands, drew her gently forward to stand in between his knees. "You’ve been letting your studies slide this semester, haven’t you?"
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She nodded, her gaze skittering away from his. "Yes. I’ve really messed up." He squeezed her hands encouragingly. "And when your father finds out? What will he do?" She felt her cheeks coloring. "He … he’ll spank me, I suppose." Peter sighed. "Is that what you need, do you think? To get motivated to do better?" That was a far more difficult question to answer. "I don’t know," she said slowly. "I mean, at my age, I shouldn’t need it … but I guess maybe I do." The corners of his mouth turned up, just slightly, at that admission. Lord, but she was adorable at this moment, looking as young and uncertain as that first night, when he’d taught her to fly. He’d wanted to kiss her then, and he still did; but this was not the time for impulsive behavior. "Alright," he said at last, "We agree that you both deserve and are in need of a sound spanking. Is that right?" Her stomach was roiling with nerves as she watched him take on a stern expression. "Yes." "So.... ." He sat up a bit straighter in his chair. "I’m going to give you a choice, Wendy. You can either take the failing grade and answer to your father during the break … or you can take a spanking from me, tonight, and turn this in as my partner tomorrow." He searched her blue eyes. "What will it be?" Wendy swallowed hard and shuffled from one foot to the other while her face went from pink to an uncomfortably warm shade of red. She’d been embarrassed when he’d spanked her outside the library, but this was much worse. If she agreed to submit to his discipline, he would doubtless expect her to bare her bottom and lay compliantly over his lap. He would have full view of her, in a well-lit room, and there would be no more secrets between them. She would be unable to hide the strange way in which her body had reacted to the mere suggestion - a warm, delicious, very personal way
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that she’d never before associated with spanking. She couldn’t possibly - or could she? "I … I think I’d rather have the spanking now," she whispered. "Okay." Now it was Peter’s turn to swallow the lump in his throat. She was about to entrust him with a huge responsibility. He had to be absolutely certain that she knew what she was committing to. "But I want you to understand something, Wendy. I intend to take down your shorts and panties and spank your bare bottom, every bit as hard as your father would if he was here. You will have no control over how long you are spanked, or what I spank you with. Do I make myself clear?" "Y-yes." Her entire body seemed to be humming with nervous energy. "I understand." "You will not be able to cry or beg your way out of this. You know that, right?" She was burning everywhere, yet his words made her shiver. "Right." "Once we start, I’m in charge. Okay?" Dreadful anticipation and a current of electric awareness shot straight up through her. "Yes, Peter … I understand, okay? You’re going to spank me and it’s going to hurt a lot. I’ll probably be sobbing my eyes out before it’s over." She glanced at him nervously. "Could we please just get it over with?" "Alright." He stood abruptly and, taking her by the hand, led her into the kitchen, where he pulled a straight-backed chair away from the table. "There’s a jar by the stove," he said as he sat down. "Bring me the largest of the wooden spoons in it." The unyielding nature of the command made Wendy gasp, but she stifled the sound and followed his instructions. "This one?" she asked as she handed him a large wooden spoon with a nickelsized hole in the center. "That’s the one," he said as he grimly accepted the makeshift implement. "Now then, I want no nonsense, young lady. Take those shorts and panties down, and get right over my lap. You’ve
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been very naughty and you’ll soon have the sore bottom that goes along with such bad behavior." Wendy was so stunned by the change that had come over Peter that, for several moments, she simply stared at him in open-mouthed dismay. The crack of the spoon to the back of one thigh spurred her into motion, however, and she got the shorts and panties down in record time. Then he took her arm, and she was guided down and over muscular thighs. She barely had time to steady herself on outstretched arms before the spoon was brought down, hard and fast, against her upturned posterior. "Oh!" She cried out in surprise at the sudden, burning pain. "Oh Peter, that’s too hard!" Peter brought the spoon down again. "I hardly think so," he said as he watched an oval of red bloom around a white center. "You do the crime, you do the time, young lady … over my knee." "Ouch!" she complained as he tattooed her bottom with firm, fiery smacks. "Please … you’re going too fast." "Excuse me?" He tightened his arm around her narrow waist and brought the spoon down, rapid fire, all over her bottom. "Who’s in charge of this spanking, young lady? Certainly not you!" Wendy gasped and squirmed, rocked her hips from side to side and tried everything to avoid the punishing blows to her naked bottom. "I’m sorry! I’m sorry!" "And you’ll be a good deal sorrier before I’m through with you! How dare you slack off on your studies, Wendy Angela Moira Darling? How dare you?!" "I … I don’t know," she cried out. "I’m sorry!" "Not to mention blowing off this project, which could possibly have affected my grade, as well as your own!" He was concentrating on one perfectly round cheek at a time now, working his way up and down the flesh until there was not a white spot left. "That was unbearably rude!"
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"I know…I know!" All traces of sexual excitement had fled and Wendy hung over Peter’s lap, jerking and crying out in time to the relentless smacks. "I’m so sorry!" "This behavior stops tonight," he said as he worked at bringing the other cheek up to the same fiery shade of red. "Am I making myself clear to you, young lady?" "Yes! Yes!" She was sobbing now and quickly losing her ability to form coherent words. "I’ll be good … promise!" "You had better." He tipped her farther forward on his left knee and applied a final volley of blistering spanks to the sensitive skin between bottom and thighs. "Because this is exactly what any more such naughtiness will earn you in the future. Understand?" He cracked the spoon off the back of each thigh several times. "No wife of mine is going to throw away her extraordinary talents and intelligence for a few daiquiris and a night on the town. Do you hear me?" Wendy was sobbing and gasping, but yes, she’d heard him. She’d heard it all, and she managed to ask, "Your wife?" "Of course." Peter tossed the spoon down onto the table and hauled her up and into his lap. She’d kicked the shorts and panties halfway across the room, and her bottom was hot and, he surmised, probably throbbing as he helped her into a comfortable position on his bare thigh. "What did you think was going to happen, darling? I love you. I’m going to marry you. That’s all there is to it." Despite the raw state of her well-punished bottom, Wendy smiled through her tears. She threw his arms around his neck and, with joyous abandon, said, "I love you, Peter! Let’s be married soon, shall we?" Peter groaned - half in pleasure and half in pain - as he discreetly adjusted her position in his lap. "Oh yes," he said as, breathing harshly, he put his
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forehead against hers. "Definitely soon. But in the meantime, you need to get dressed." "I do?" She looked at him, a little hurt, then her eyes widened in understanding. "Oh yes…I do." She hurried to gather up her clothes and slipped into the bathroom to change as he put the kitchen to rights. ____________________ The next day, Peter and Wendy turned in a successful history project. A month later, in the company of family and a few close friends, they repeated the vows that would forever bind them together. And on their wedding night, Peter Pan once again taught Wendy how to soar.
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Grandpa Jack’s Magic Beans Once upon a time -- too many years ago to count, really -- this was a land of magic, ruled by kings and queens, princes and princesses. There were witches and fairies, giants and dragons, and mere mortals -- like you and I -- had to make their way in this world, ever careful to befriend the right sorts of magical beings and avoid irritating the wrong ones. This was not an easy task for the mortals, and oft times their mistakes cost them dearly. One set of royal parents insulted a powerful witch, and their daughter wound up sleeping for a hundred years before a prince came along and kissed her, waking her from her forever nap. That must have been some kiss, don’t you think? There was also a beautiful young girl, who sang a bit too shrilly, but other than that, was considered the fairest in all the land. Of course, this pronouncement did come from a talking mirror, which I would be wont to doubt, but the girl’s ohso-wicked stepmother took the mirror’s word for it and did all kinds of evil things to try to rid the kingdom of her teenaged competition. Fortunately, Snow White -- yes, that was her name, though I agree it’s a rather odd one -- met some circus folk who taught her the trick of the glass coffin and she, too, lived happily ever after with a prince. By now, I suppose you -- my dear readers, whom I know to be vastly intelligent and perceptive individuals -- have likely identified an old and timehonored tradition of this world that was, at one time, quite magical. Yes, if the stories are to be taken as truth, it would seem that the royals were the only ones having any fun, and the women of the land were absolute dolts. Sure, there were one or two stories of princes in trouble, like the one that got himself turned into a frog and had to get a princess to kiss him. However, while the men in the stories always used their wits to bring about rescue, the princesses got themselves into all kinds of
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predicaments and had then to rely on the wit and strength of the princes -- always strong, handsome and quite wealthy -- who inevitably galloped in on white steeds to rescue their defenseless female counterparts. Then they rode off to castles with sparkling white turrets, drawbridges and silk flags a-flutter in the breeze, and lived blissfully happy lives. And what’s not to be happy about? They were, after all, rich, fair of face, and surrounded by servants who catered to their smallest whims. Who wouldn’t be happy living like that? Ah, but I digress. My point is not to regale you with tales of royal adventures but, instead, to share a simple story of one rather ordinary young woman dubbed Jacqueline of the Beanstalk -- whom we shall hereafter refer to as Jacqui, because "Jacqueline of the Beanstalk" is cumbersome to write, and I continue to misspell the "Jacqueline" part. Now Jacqui was raised on tales of frightened princesses and heroic princes, not to mention magic and the mayhem that ensued the moment it was put into use. Unlike other girls her age, however, she was not overly fond of the stories and did not dream of becoming another Cinderella, the servant girl who became a queen. She did not, in fact, daydream -- as her friends did -- of being swept off her feet by any man, be he commoner or prince. Rather, our Jacqui pictured herself as an adventurer of the first order and, though her parents tried desperately to discourage such thoughts, she was determined to follow in the footsteps of her grandfather, Jack of the Beanstalk. Grandpa Jack, you see, was quite the storyteller, not to mention a man of amazing courage and fortitude-- at least that’s how he appeared in the pictures painted by his tall tales -- and his granddaughter practically worshipped the ground he walked on. It was only natural then that she, who’d inherited her grandfather’s adventurous temperament, should hope to one day scale the grand heights of her own beanstalk and take on the
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fierce giants that lived beyond the clouds. Her grandfather encouraged her dreams, often assuring her that her "destiny" waited at the end of the beanstalk she would one day climb. Granted, he was rather vague about what that destiny was, but Jacqui was young and impressionable and she loved her grandfather with all her heart. She would have followed him anywhere and, indeed, intended to follow his shining example and pursue that destiny beyond the clouds above. Therefore, from a very young age, she forsook her embroidery -- the hobby that all proper young ladies were forced to practice, nearly from the cradle -- and spent her time in the woods, brandishing sticks for swords and practicing her axe-handling skills by chopping up fallen trees. This greatly displeased her parents -- Matilda and Ralph -- who wished for a normal daughter; and poor Jacqui was switched or paddled at least twice a week -- which was about as often as one or the other of her parents managed to catch her coming back from the woods. However, no amount of standing at attention throughout supper, her skirt pinned up to display her well-punished bottom, could convince her to behave "properly." In fact, not even the sorry state of her bum -- quite frequently sore and bruised -- could deter her from her ultimate goal of growing a beanstalk that would transport her to the land above hers. So it came to pass that, upon the occasion of her 19th birthday, when she was officially accounted an old maid who would never contract a proper marriage, her parents threw up their hands in despair and gave up all attempts to distract her from her dreams. "Go on and plant your silly old beanstalk," her mother said as she plunked a less than attractive attempt at a birthday cake down in front of her daughter. "If you’ve no interest in attracting the attention of a nobleman or prince, I suppose you might just as well travel to the land of the giants. But hear me now, you disobedient girl; if some
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smelly old giant decides to grind your bones into flour, don’t come crying to me!" "Yes ma’am," Jacqui answered somberly, though she could not help but flash her grandfather a private grin. "That’s right," her father added. "Your mother and I have tried for years to protect you from your wild ways, but now we wash our hands of the entire affair. If you’re bent on stirring up trouble, just don’t expect rescue from this quarter." "I won’t, sir," she answered, rolling her eyes heavenward. "I’ve never yet asked for rescue, and I don’t intend to start now." "Don’t you roll your eyes at me, lass," her father hissed. "I can still take a switch to your naughty backside; and by golly, I will, even if it is your birthday." "That’s enough!" For the first time that evening, Grandpa Jack’s voice silenced his daughter and sonin-law. "I’ve listened to the two of you harangue my granddaughter for nineteen years now, but it stops tonight." Jacqui’s father, a man with both the build and the brains of a bull, leapt to his feet in outrage. "You stay out of this, old man," he said, planting his hands on the table and leaning down to glare in his father-in-law’s face. "I’ll thank you to remember your place. This is my roof you’re living under." "It was your roof when my daughter was my heir," Grandpa Jack said, his gaze as fearless and direct as ever. "However, that’s changed as of today." "What?" Jacqui’s mother turned from the stove, a stricken expression on her pinched face. "Father, whatever are you talking about?" "I’m talking about the goose that’s kept you supplied with gold. It’s her eggs that paid for this roof and the food on the table, her eggs that kept you in coal and cloth and put shoes on your feet." The old man’s voice rose slightly in outrage. "And after all these years, and the way you’ve treated
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both your father and your daughter, Matilda, I’ve decided to make some changes to my will. As of this day, Jacqueline is my sole heir. All I own, including that goose, is hers to do with as she chooses." Jacqueline’s eyes grew round with shock, then worry, as her parents took up a cry of injustice. Her father’s face grew red with fury and her mother dropped down into a chair where she sat, sobbing into her apron. "You can’t do this," Matilda cried. "It’s not fair! I’ve taken care of you all these years, and this is how you repay me?" "I can and I have," Jack assured her. "The barrister filed the papers two weeks ago. It’s already official." "Why you ungrateful old cur!" Matilda’s husband roared as he strode around the table. "I’ll not have you in my house a moment longer!" He reached for Jack’s collar, clearly intending to jerk the old man up out of his chair, but Jacqui stood and placed herself between them. "Leave him alone," she said, her soft tone a contrast to the flash of steel in her eyes. She was a tall girl -- strong of both body and spirit -- and although the fact that her physical strength was nothing compared to her father’s, the courage that flowed through her veins refused to be squelched. Her chin came up and she met the man’s eyes with an unflinching gaze. "You will not lay so much as a finger on my grandfather because, if you do, you shall never see another golden egg again as long as you live." It may have been the raw courage in his daughter’s eyes, or perhaps simply the prompting of his own greed, but either way, Jacqui’s father stepped back. "Furthermore," the girl continued, "if Grandpa Jack is not welcome in this home, then neither am I. If you would have him leave, say so now, and we’ll be gone yet tonight. I’m sure any one of the inns from here to Staffordshire would gladly
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surrender their best rooms and finest food to the owner of the golden goose." "No, no," Matilda piped up, making a show of drying her eyes and casting a benevolent smile upon her daughter. "You mustn’t think such a thing. Of course your grandfather is welcome here, my darling. Isn’t he, Ralph?" Ralph, his face still red with fury but smart enough to know that his daughter had him neatly trapped, nodded in agreement. "Of course we don’t want Grandpa Jack to leave," he said quietly. "We wouldn’t think of sending him -- or you -- out into the cold, cruel world." He attempted a smile, which was wholly pathetic, and vowed, "This has all been a vast misunderstanding. Please, dear daughter, sit down here at the head of the table and blow out your candles. It is your birthday, after all, and we have much to celebrate." For the rest of the evening, Matilda and Ralph played at celebrating their daughter’s 19th year. They even managed, after a lengthy disappearance from the kitchen, to return with "gifts" that were, in fact, merely pieces of old, chipped china recovered from the bottom of Matilda’s hope chest. These they presented to Jacqui and she thanked them politely, although she truly had no interest in such things. She did, however, "ooh" and "ahh" over her grandfather’s gift, for the small packet of colorful beans represented her dream come true. "Oh, Grandpa," she said, flinging her arms about his neck. "How can I ever thank you for saving them? I’ve never been so happy in all my life." Grandpa Jack winked a blue eye and gave her smooth cheek a loving pat. "Just mind your safety, my girl, and remember that it’s your destiny that awaits you beyond those clouds." "You’ve said that many times," the young woman murmured, "but I’m not sure I understand. Just what is my destiny, grandpa?"
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"Ah child, one’s destiny cannot be predicted with any surety. But I guarantee that you will find the answer in your heart when the time is right." "Very well." Jacqui’s eyes filled with tenderhearted tears. "I wish you could come with me." "Aye? Well, I’m too old for that," Grandpa Jack said with a smile, "though I’ll be eager to hear of your trip when you come back." "Don’t worry," the eager young woman answered. "I vow I will commit every moment to memory and share it with you upon my return." Taking a deep breath, she straightened and held a hand out to the family patriarch. "Would you like to help me plant them?" "I’d be pleased to," the old man said as he rose on bowed legs. "And then I’ll help you gather up the things you’re going to need for your adventure." "Thank you." Jacqui looped her arm through her grandfather’s and, together, they went outside to search out the best site for a giant beanstalk. ____________________ The magic beans, of course, sprouted over night -- just as they had in Grandpa Jack’s story -- and Jacqui awoke to the sight of a beanstalk that shot straight out of the ground and was, by the time breakfast was over, as tall as the two story house where she’d grown up. And oh, the racket it made as it grew -- pushing out of the ground and spiraling upward -- was nothing short of deafening. Our intrepid heroine, however, was not about to be deterred from her course. She strapped on a pack filled with clothes, food and a jug of water, pulled on a pair of her grandfather’s old overalls -- no impractical skirts for this girl -- and kissed Grandpa Jack goodbye. Then, hitching a ride on one of the sturdy lower vines that extended outward from the massive beanstalk, she held on for dear life and watched as her home and everything familiar to her
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grew small, and smaller still, and eventually disappeared altogether. Shortly after that, she found herself enveloped in a white mist that she could only surmise was the view of a cloud, from the inside out. She drew a ratty old sweater about her shoulders for warmth, pulled a worn cap down over the blonde hair that she’d piled atop her head, and clung to her vine, more nervous now than she’d ever been in her life. Then the beanstalk broke through the clouds and she found herself drenched in sunlight and, disturbingly enough, surrounded by curious onlookers who drew back in fear even as they pointed trembling fingers in her direction. "What’s this now?" a gruff voice sounded from the back of the crowd, and she spied the dark head of the speaker as he pushed through the throng. "What’s got the lot of ya in such an uproar? If I’ve told ya once, I’ve told ya a dozen times, there’s no such thing as magic beanstalks." "Ya think not?" This comment came from an old woman that had ventured quite close to the beanstalk. "Then what would ye call this, ya great oaf?" The "great oaf", Jacqui noticed from her high vantage point, had knelt down beside a frightened boy and was occupied with drying the lad’s tears. This show of concern pleased her immensely -- as it was the sort of thing her grandfather had done for her many times over -- and she decided at once to climb down and introduce herself to the man. Securing her pack a bit higher on her shoulders, she swung nimbly down over leaves and vines and -after a careful test of the fluffy white surface that everyone else trod upon -- stepped down from her perch and smiled at the stricken and gasping men and woman. "Good heavens," she heard the so-called oaf exclaim as the crowd surged backward on him and the children. "Watch what ye’re doing, ye fools. Are
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ye such cowards that ye’d trample on yer own children at sight of an overly large houseplant?" Jacqui giggled a bit at that, though she did not move any closer to the ring of onlookers for fear that someone really might be harmed. "Please," she said, pitching her voice loud enough to be heard over the hum of frightened conversation. "I do not mean you harm, my friends. I’ve only just come up the beanstalk to visit and -- ." The rumble of the oaf’s voice interrupted her pretty speech. "Will you stop with that bloody beanstalk nonsense?" he demanded. There was movement amidst the throng -- a parting of the masses, so to speak -- and Jacqui found herself glaring up into a pair of the blackest eyes she’d ever encountered. "I’ll not have you upsetting my people." "Your people?" she returned in a tart tone. " Oh please don’t tell me your some kind of a prince out looking for fair maidens to rescue. Because I assure you sir, I am neither fair of face, nor in need of rescuing." "Pray do not insult me, stranger. Do I look like some pompously fashionable flop to ye?" At this, Jacqui took a moment to truly examine the man. His hair and eyes were black as night, his skin the color of one who spent his days at work in the fields. His nose was a bit too hawkish, his brow and cheekbones too severe to be considered handsome, though to her way of thinking, this was asset rather than liability. Overly handsome men -such as princes and some members of the nobility - expected women to fall at their feet and worship them. However, while the man before her was clearly a leader of both men and women, she suspected the villagers’ deference to him was due to hard won respect, not right of birth, for he appeared to be one of them. Even his clothing was simple: a red dyed shirt made of simple homespun, black breeches that clung to well-muscled thighs and worn black boots that had clearly seen too many
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seasons of planting and harvesting. Taken as a whole, his appearance was not at all regal, and she gladly told him so. "No, you’re not a prince." Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Unless you’re in disguise for some noble and altogether boring reason." At this, the crowd tittered with barely suppressed laughter. Their leader folded his arms across his chest and glared at her. "Alright, we’ve established I’m not a prince. But, pray tell, who are you?" "’Tis the boy told of in stories old," suggested one of the villagers. "The one what come up the beanstalk, and took the golden goose. And now he’s come back again, to rob us of all we have left!" "Hide the silver," someone else called out. "And may the Lord have mercy on us all!" With a disgusted look, the dark-eyed man turned to the crowd and roared, "Silence!" Then, turning back to focus his attention on Jacqui, he said, "I hope you’re happy with yourself, young man." His perceptive gaze raked over her and he mused, "Or would you be a young lady? I vow, your voice is that of a woman, but your dress is that of a farmhand. Speak up now. Be ye male or female?" "I am a woman," Jacqui said, pulling off her cap to reveal the golden blonde hair that, tumbling loose from its pins, fell in waves about her shoulders. "As any oaf can see." The black eyes sparkled with a wholly unexpected light, but he only replied, "I’d say you’re more a rude child than anything." Then he called over his shoulder, "Whoever has fathered this wicked gel had best come forward and speak for her now, or I’ll give her a good hiding myself, for playing such a silly prank on our village." "My father," Jacqui said, her temper getting the best of her, "lives far below these clouds, and I am not playing silly pranks. As I said before, I’ve come up here by way of beanstalk and, as I mean no
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harm to any of you, I would kindly ask that you let me pass." At this declaration, the dark-eyed man studied first Jacqui, then the great plant behind her with an intensity that made her shiver with a sense of foreboding. Was this what Grandpa Jack had meant about destiny -- about knowing it in her heart? "That is not a beanstalk," the man declared. "It is a … a tree of some sort." He nodded, pleased with himself. "Yes, a tree that’s been growing beneath the ground for many years now and has finally sprouted above the surface." Now our intrepid explorer, not particularly happy that her word had so quickly been called into question and dismissed, felt it necessary to argue the point. "It’s not a tree, sir. It’s a beanstalk." "It’s a tree," he countered as he took one slightly threatening step toward her. "I am the sheriff of this town, and I say it’s a tree." This he said loud enough for all to hear; then, lowering his voice to a whisper meant only for her ears, he added, "A beanstalk is cause for vast worry, but a tree is a mundane plant that no one will question. It is a tree," he reiterated, his words both plea and command. "Is it not?" For some reason she could not explain, she found his desire to shield the villagers from anxiety a vastly attractive feature. She nodded her head in acquiescence and said, loud enough to be heard by one and all, "My apologies, sir. You have guessed correctly. ‘Tis a tree." A rumble of something between relief and disappointment rippled through the crowd, and the onlookers began immediately to disperse. "Naughty child," someone grumbled. "If she were my daughter, I’d take a strap to her ‘til she could not sit," added a disgruntled man. "She’s a lot of nerve, interrupting a hard days work for the sake of a foolish joke." "Ever heard of the boy who cried wolf?" asked a woman with two children clinging to her skirts and a
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babe in her arms. "That’ll be your fate as well, if ye don’t change your ways." Jacqui, no stranger to being scolded or spanked, let the comments pass without reaction until one gap-toothed old man ambled over to ask, "What ye going to do with her, Sheriff? She’ll have to face some penalty, for inciting the town to panic." The sheriff nodded thoughtfully and rubbed his jaw. "Aye, Seamus. I suppose she will. But seeing as it’s her first time, I think the stocks’d be too much. And the other … well, that’s simply out of the question." "The stocks?" Although she’d always considered herself made of strong stuff, Jacqui shrank back a bit in fear. "But you cannot! I did not mean to cause a stir … truly!" The old man ignored her altogether, continuing his conversation with the sheriff as if she’d not uttered a word. "I don’t favor the stocks for women myself, but the council will want to see that some action has been taken … and you know Mistress Pendleton will undoubtedly call for an emergency meeting to address the subject. She’s been trying to get you ousted for years, my boy." He laid a concerned hand on the younger man’s shoulder. "If ye let this go, it’ll likely cost ye your job." A muscle ticked along the sheriff’s jaw line. "Aye. So tell me something I don’t already know." Seamus shrugged and, lighting up a roughly carved pipe, stared at Jacqui for a long time. "Ye’ve no father or husband to appeal to, lass? That would make things simpler for one and all." Jacqui, having grown quite weary of being talked about or down to, gave the man a sharp glare. "My father is -- ." She saw the warning look in the sheriff’s eyes and, remembering their uneasy truce, promptly finished, "He’s dead … sir." Perhaps a show of respect would aid her in her predicament. "And no, I have no husband." "Pity." The old man said. "I’m afraid ye’ve not much choice then, Rory," he said to the sheriff. "It’s
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the stocks or a lashing -- neither of which seems a just punishment for a woman -- but if ye don’t do it, the council will only turn the responsibility, and your post, over to someone who will. And ye know how the town will suffer if Mistress Pendleton gets that dull-witted nephew of hers assigned to your position." Shaking his head, old Seamus meandered away. As soon as the wizened old man was out of earshot, the sheriff -- Rory, by his first name -turned to a stunned Jacqueline. "You must go, and quickly. Climb back down your beanstalk and chop it down, as your grandfather did all those years ago." "My grandfather? How did you know?" "Because it was my grandfather whose goose went down with Jack of the beanstalk and, while I cannot have the village panicked, I’m not so stupid as to mistake a beanstalk for a tree." Perhaps it was crazy, but Jacqueline was impressed with this man who cared enough to comfort children and preserve the villagers’ peace of mind. She had, however, only just arrived and had no intention of scurrying away before she had a chance to explore the place -- and to become better acquainted with the intriguing man before her. After all, the last of the magic beans were gone. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity. She could not let it slip away. "I really meant no harm," she said. "Please, can’t we just overlook this mistake? If you let me go, I promise to cause you no more worry." "Ah, but you will," he replied. "If I were to set you loose here, I would worry that you were in danger. You’ve seen how the villagers fear the tale of the beanstalk. What do you suppose would happen if one of them caught you?" His eyes conveyed his concern. "It would be a witch hunt, and you the witch. I cannot let that happen." "But I do not wish to leave." The young woman hardened her tone of voice and stood up a bit
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straighter. "I will not leave, sir, and you cannot make me." "Then you’re a bloody fool," the sheriff exclaimed and, grasping her arm, began to haul her in the direction of what could only be described as a small town. "If ye wish to stay, ye’ll have to submit to the laws of our land." His jaw was rigid with tension. "So, what will it be? The stocks or the lash?" At that, Jacqui tried desperately to pry his fingers from her arm. "Neither! I’ve done nothing wrong." "And ye think I don’t know that?" he hissed in her ear. "I’d not have offered ye the chance to leave, if I thought ye truly intended to incite panic." "If you know I’m not guilty, why then do you threaten to punish me?" "Because ye admitted to the crime in front of half the town, and because ‘tis my duty as sheriff to uphold the laws of this village." He turned a corner and stalked down the main street of the small town, groaning when he noticed that several people -eight men and one well-dressed woman -- were waiting for them outside of the building marked Courthouse. "You’ll be punished because of them," he added. "Whether it is by my hand, or another’s, I’m afraid ‘tis too late to save you now." In moments, the men and woman of the town council were upon them, demanding justice for the "wicked girl" who’d frightened the town. The once intrepid Jacqui sat, bewildered, in a jail cell while ten strangers argued her fate. The sheriff had mentioned "saving" her, but said it was too late now. For the first time in her life, she felt real fear. "If ye’ll not do your duty, Rory Clark," she heard the woman say, "then we’ll get a sheriff who will. Why, my nephew here is more than willing to step in and fill the position." There was a barely suppressed groan amidst the male members of the town council, hushed immediately when a hulk of a man stepped forward.
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The gleam in his eyes as he looked Jacqui up and down made her feel slightly ill. "I’ll be glad to see to it that the gel is made to understand the laws of this village. A sound lashing and a day in the stocks will show her the error of her ways." This can’t be my destiny, she thought. It can’t be. "There will be no lashing or stocks," she heard Rory say in his steady, authoritative voice. He rose from behind his desk and, although he was several inches and at least fifty pounds smaller than the over-eager volunteer, she watched in amazement as he stepped up to the bigger man. "This woman is my betrothed, and no one will lay a finger on her, save me." "Your betrothed?" the woman Jacqui assumed to be Mistress Pendleton cried. "Do not dare try to deceive us, sir! Everyone knows you are a confirmed bachelor. You only seek to protect the gel!" "Really?" At this, the dark-haired sheriff turned to Jacqui and commanded, "Give the council members your grandfather’s name. And I bid you, tell the truth, my dear. You’ve nothing to hide here." Jacqui nodded her understanding. "My grandfather’s name is John Allen Bender, but everyone calls him Jack." "So?" the angry woman seethed. "What does that prove?" "A great deal," the sheriff answered as he opened his desk drawer and handed a dusty envelope -- sealed with red candle wax -- to one of the men. "Open it and see for yourself." With a hopeful expression, the nervous-looking man broke the seal and pulled out a carefully folded sheet of paper. He read it over quickly, breathed a sigh of relief, and then passed it on to the man standing beside him. "The sheriff’s telling the truth, and this proves it."
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"Give me that!" Mistress Pendleton cried as she ripped the paper from the second man’s hands. "Just what is this so-called proof?" "It’s a betrothal contract," the sheriff replied coolly, "signed by my grandfather and hers, before either of us was born. It was their wish that their grandchildren one day marry, and now we shall." Jacqui blinked surprise. This man did not even know her name, yet he claimed to have a marriage contract that would link the two of them forever. She wanted to leap up and down and cry foul, but there were still the council members to deal with, and the dangerous man who spoke of lashing her as if the thought gave him great pleasure. She bit down on her tongue and tried to appear as calm as if she’d known this all along. "Well, you’re not married yet," Mistress Pendleton said as she straightened the widebrimmed hat on her head, "and there’s still a matter of justice to be carried out. Will you carry out the punishment, sheriff, or do we need to replace you with someone who will take the duties of this office seriously. "I believe," Rory stated calmly, "that I have until sundown to see that justice is done. Since my betrothed and I plan to marry yet today, it will be up to me -- as her husband -- to see to her correction." "You … you coward!" The nasty woman flushed a dark red. "You’re bending the system to suit yourself, and I will not allow it." She rounded on the men of the council. "I move that we dismiss the sheriff immediately, due to his abuse of power. Who will second this motion?" No one moved or spoke. "Don’t tell me you’re going to let him get away with this," she said as she advanced on her peers. "Why, yer all cowards … the lot of ya!" "We are upholders of the law," a man dressed in black replied. "Both the laws of this village and the laws of God. It is a man’s right to correct his wife in
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the case of wrongdoings and, if Rory plans to marry this girl before sundown, then he has the right to deal with her privately. Now then," he said, turning his attention toward Jacqueline. "Young lady, do you agree to be bound by this marriage contract? Is it your intent to be wed to Sheriff Rory Clark on this day?" Jacqui sat with her hands in her lap, hoping that no one would notice that she shook. Grandpa Jack had talked of her destiny, but she’d never imagined that it included marriage -- and most certainly not a sudden marriage to a man she barely knew. Yet, something was stirring in her heart, something altogether new and different. Her grandfather was the only man she’d ever respected, but there was something in the sheriff’s demeanor that she recognized as familiar. He could command the attention of a crowd, yet stop to comfort a crying child. He stood up to a woman that clearly intimidated others, and refused to cave in to her demands. He was every bit as brave as her grandfather. She knew, too, that she’d put him in a difficult position. The old man who’d spoken to him earlier had warned of dire consequences for the town, should the nephew of the lone councilwoman be appointed the position of sheriff. One look at that man’s hulking frame and the way his eyes danced with delight when he spoke of punishing her, and she understood Seamus’s concerns. She looked from the face of the man in black, to the sheriff’s pleading dark eyes, and her mind was made up. Yes, it meant he was rescuing her -- but given the circumstances, agreeing to marry him also gave her the opportunity to rescue the villagers of this town from the potentially unjust rule by a new and overeager sheriff. All her life she’d wished to rescue someone, to prove that women could be brave and strong and just as capable as men. Now was her chance. It was also, quite possibly, her destiny.
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"Yes," she said in a strong, clear voice. "Yes, I intend to marry this man today." "Very well, then." The man in black stepped forward and withdrew a small book from his long overcoat. "I am Vicar Snapdragon, miss. I’m afraid I don’t know your name?" "Jacqueline," she said, rising and awkwardly shaking hands with the vicar through the narrow space between two iron bars. The vicar smiled, then shot Rory a glance. "I believe it’s safe for you to let your betrothed out of this cell, sheriff. She does not appear to be going anywhere." Flustered, the sheriff stepped forward and unlocked the cell. "Are you sure," he whispered to Jacqui as he offered her his arm. She nodded, smiling. "Yes. My grandfather told me I would find my destiny here. I believe I have." "Let’s get started," the vicar announced as he opened his prayer book. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today -- ." ____________________ It was all over with in a matter of minutes. Before she knew it, Jacqueline was turning her face up to receive her new husband’s kiss. Then there was much clapping and celebrating as the newlyweds were seen to the front door of a small, but tidy, house on the next street. Rory bent down and scooped her up, carrying her across the threshold, to the sound of cheers and whistles and one easily recognizable and unkind voice. "Don’t forget your duty, Sheriff Clark. You and your wife will be expected to appear before the council before sundown. If she has not been adequately corrected -- ." "That will not be a problem," Rory growled at the woman who stood just outside the door. "Now if you’ll excuse us, Mrs. Pendleton, I’d like some time alone with my wife." With that, he kicked the door shut in her face.
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"You spoke before of destiny," he said to Jacqui as the hum of the crowd died away. "I too, was told my destiny was linked to a magic beanstalk and the person who would climb up it." "So you believe me, then?" He eased her to her feet and she clutched his arm until she felt steady enough to stand on her own. "Aye. I believe ya, though it probably would have been best if ye’d gone back where ye came from." Other women might have been insulted, but not our heroine. She looked beyond the gruff words to acknowledge the troubled heart of the man before her. "Because you must correct me?" "Aye." He stood quite close to her -- close enough that she could hear his heart pounding. "And I cannot go easy on ye, for the council has the right to order further correction, if they feel I’ve not done a proper job of it." The pounding of her heart tripped up a notch, but she fought to keep her voice under control. "That’s what she meant then … about the meeting tonight? I suppose they are going to view your … um…handiwork? A deep red suffused his sun-darkened face. "Yes, damn their eyes! And much as I hate that part of the agreement, it is something I have enforced amongst the villagers many times over. I cannot refuse to follow the same rules as they do." "Of course you can’t," she empathized, though her bottom was already tingling with dread. "Shall we have it over with, then?" Rory reached for her hands and carefully, silently, studied her face. "You are a brave woman, Jacqueline of the Beanstalk, but I do not understand why you are doing this. Perhaps you have never been so corrected and, therefore, do not understand what it is you’ve committed yourself to?" She laughed at that. "Oh, believe me, I’ve been corrected by both mother and father often enough
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to understand what will happen. Will you use switch or strap? Or perhaps you have a paddle about?" "I hate this," he said, by way of answer. "I would choose none, but know I cannot do so." "I know." She reached up and touched his face, thrilling at the strength of his jaw and the rasp of stubble beneath her palm. "Shall I choose for you, then?" "No." He shook off his regret, stood up a bit straighter and began to unbuckle his belt. "Please forgive me, but I must use this on you. Have you a dress to put on so that you can lift your skirts without forsaking your modesty." The tender way in which he worded the question brought tears to her eyes. "Yes. There is one in my pack." He drew his wide belt off and doubled it over. "Please go into the bedroom and change. Open the door when you are finished, and I will join you there." She swallowed hard and nodded her understanding. Then, too nervous to say anything further, she gathered up her pack and hurried to the room he’d indicated. She stripped out of her rugged wear, carefully laying everything over the back of a nearby chair, and pulled her more feminine clothing from the pack. First she donned a white cotton chemise, then pulled a simple pale blue dress over her head. She made quick work of the buttons, covering herself from waist to throat, but left both shoes and stockings off. Then, despite the nervous energy that had her stomach in knots, she opened the door so her husband would know she was ready. He came into the room, his face set in grim lines, the belt held loosely at his side. "If there was any other way," he said, "I would take it." "I know." She touched his face. "Do not concern yourself over much. We are married now and, while I hope to make you a good wife, I’m quite certain I shall never be perfect. Perhaps we could consider
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this a credit to my account? Then, some day when I’ve got a good hiding coming to me, you’ll let me off and we’ll be even?" Rory shook his head, smiling. "I’d always heard your grandfather was fearless. It appears that you have inherited that trait." Jacqui smiled nervously and, lifting her skirts, bent over the foot of the bed. "Will this do?" "Aye," he said as he doubled the heavy leather belt. "That’ll do." His hand was warm in the small of her back as he added, "Ye understand I must mark ya?" "Yes." She fisted her hands in the coverlet. "Please do it well. I do not want to be placed in the hands of the man who would be your replacement, should you fail in your duty." "You may trust me to perform my duties adequately, madam wife," he said as he drew back his arm. "I would die before I would see his filthy hands on a woman so brave and beautiful as you." The kindness of his words -- no one had ever paid her such a pretty compliment -- was balm enough to soothe the first dozen or so blows. After that, however, she had to fight to swallow the shrieks she feared would deter him from continuing. She’d recognized the regret in his eyes, knew this was not a man who took such duty lightly, and determined he would most likely stop if he realized just how excruciating the licks of his belt were against her tender skin. She could not, however, prevent her tears from soaking into the coverlet as she endured stroke after fiery stroke; and when her resolve broke on a sob, she felt him lay a cooling hand against her heated flesh. "I’m sorry," he said in a voice hoarse with emotion. "But I know what they will judge as enough, and we are not there yet. I must continue." Jacqueline nodded and drew the back of her hand across her eyes. "I know, and I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to cry."
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"You needn’t apologize," he said as, leaning down, he kissed her temple. "We both know you are in pain. There is no need to hide that from me. Besides, it will help our cause if the neighbors believe you soundly spanked." Jacqueline took a ragged breath. "I was afraid to cry out, for fear you would stop too soon." He placed a restraining hand in the small of her back. "As much as I despise this, I know I must do it. I act now to protect you -- my wife. Your cries will not deter me from that task." This time, when the belt lashed down upon her already blazing skin, Jacqui allowed herself to vocalize the pain. Before long, she was sobbing and shrieking loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear. And then it was over, and Rory was pulling her up into his strong, capable arms. "I’m sorry, love. I’m sorry," he soothed, over and over again. "But you were a brave girl and I am proud of you … so very proud to call you wife." Jacqui sobbed into his shirt as he carried her to the rocker, where he pulled her down onto his lap. "That’s right, sweetling. Let it all out. I’m so sorry this was necessary." "I know." She took a deep breath and glimpsed up to find tears running down his cheeks as well. "But why are you crying?" "I -- ." He seemed at a loss to explain himself. "I do not care to cause you pain. Surely you understand that." No, she didn’t understand that -- not at all -- but uncertain how to explain her feelings, she only brushed away her tears and said, "Shouldn’t we go now? The council must see that I’ve been punished." "The council can wait." He kissed her forehead and each tear-swollen eyelid. "Every man is permitted time to comfort his wife following correction." "Comfort?" Jacqui looked up at him, curiosity overruling pain. "Why would you do that? Why
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would any man do that, when his wife has earned a punishment." "Goodness," Rory said as he gently sat her out a bit on his knee. "You said you’d been spanked before, but have you never been comforted afterward?" "No." It was a completely new concept to her. "I was paddled and switched quite often growing up. And always afterward, I was required to display my sore bottom while my parents took their supper, then sent to bed immediately thereafter, with an empty stomach as an added punishment." "Good grief!" It took Jacqueline completely by surprise when he wrapped her in a warm, sympathetic embrace. For long moments, they rocked together, the rocking chair uttering soft moans of aged protest. Then, having found his voice, Rory vowed, "I am your husband now, and it will always be my duty to correct you when you are disobedient or put yourself in danger. However, I promise you that I will never spank you in anger and I will always forgive and comfort you afterward. And on this day, I would ask you to forgive me for what was, essentially, an unjust punishment." Jacqui, awed beyond measure by this loving, unpretentious man, wrapped her arms around his neck and drew his lips down to hers. "Thank you, Mr. Clark. And I promise, I will do everything in my power to be a good wife to you." His smile was as dazzling as destiny fulfilled. "I’m glad you came up that beanstalk, Jacqueline. You are the woman I was meant to love." ____________________ Now then, my friends, I will not bore you with further details of this incident. Suffice it to say that the town council believed Jacqueline sufficiently punished and, soon after, the Clark’s neighbors presented a petition and Mistress Pendleton was, much to everyone’s relief, forced off the town council. Jacqueline loved her husband as no
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princess ever loved a prince, for the events that took place in their first few hours together proved his nature to be one of unmatched strength and unfailing kindness. And yes, folks, they lived… Happily ever after.
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The Twelve Dancing Princesses Once upon a time, in a far away land, a wealthy king lived with his twelve daughters in a tremendous old castle by the sea. Now the king was ever a doting father but, having spoiled the girls shamelessly, discovered one morning that he was in quite a pickle. You see, the princesses all loved to dance, but their father had forbidden them to hold a ball, because they’d been quite naughty at the last one and he felt wholly unable to curb their rambunctious ways. "There shall be no ball." King Darius’s voice echoed throughout the throne room. "And that is final. Do I make myself clear, daughters?" A chorus of arguments assailed him, as twelve feminine voices took up the cry. "You can’t do this, Papa! You must let us have a ball, for we are all quite sorry about what happened the last time." The king looked wearily at his daughters and shook his poor gray head. He did so hate to disappoint them, but they’d been running roughshod over the entire household for far too long, and it was time he put his foot down. "That will be quite enough," he said, loudly enough so that their voices grew hushed. "I have made my decision. You may take yourselves off to bed and think about how you may improve your future behavior." And so it was that the girls -- Anita, Belinda, Cassandra, Daniella, Edwina, Francesca, Giana, Helena, Isabella, Johanna, Katrina and Leanna -- all went to bed feeling quite put out with their father. They were rather stubborn girls, you see, and would not abide being told what to do; and so they sat up together, late into the night, and conspired to show their father that they were not mere children to be trifled with. Once they were satisfied with their plan, they crawled into their beds and fell fast asleep. For several days afterward, all went well in the castle. The princesses said no more about the ball,
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and King Darius was both pleased and quite certain that he had made the right decision. In fact, he privately bragged to his man servant -- Thomas was his name -- about how he’d taken his girls "in hand," that he was lord and ruler of his household, and that his daughters respected him more for his stand. Thomas, who was really no older than the king’s youngest daughter, smiled and nodded as any good servant should; but he thought to himself that the naughty princesses were most likely up to something, and within a week’s time, his instincts proved to be right. On Saturday, the night they had wished to throw a royal ball, the princesses all went to bed early. The king, certain that his girls were merely indulging in a bit of harmless pouting, wished them goodnight and thought nothing more of the situation. But in the morning, when he swept into the royal breakfast room, he was stunned to find his twelve precious daughters practically falling asleep in their porridges. He looked at the dark circles beneath twelve pairs of eyes and, immediately suspicious, asked sharply, "Anita, Belinda, Cassandra … what is the meaning of this?" The three eldest girls glanced up at their father and said nothing. "Daniella, Edwina, Francesca … I would have an answer of you." Three more girls turned bleary eyes upon their father, but did not open their mouths. "Gianna, Helena, Isabella … I demand to know what you’ve been up to!" Three great yawns were their only answers. "Johanna, Katrina," the king said, exasperated, "and my own little Leanna. Surely one of you will tell me why you are so very tired." The youngest three looked up shyly, and nineteen-year-old Leanna’s eyes misted with tears, but seeing the censorious looks of their sisters, they shook their heads and said not a word.
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"If I may, my lord?" One of the maids came timidly forward and thrust a worn pair of dancing slippers into the king’s hands. "It would seem that your daughters have been out dancing." At this, the king’s face flushed a deep scarlet and he glared at the girls. "Is this true?" When they gave no answers, he turned to the maid. "Whose slippers are these?" "I do not know," the maid replied with a curtsey. "But if it please my lord, there are eleven other pairs upstairs, all just as worn." "No, it does not please me," the old man bellowed. Then to his daughters, he said, "Go to your room at once, and do not come out again until you are ready to tell me where it is you danced last night." Now the girls did not answer the king’s question that day, and so at bedtime, he ordered that they be locked in their room for the night. In addition, guards were posted outside every door to the chamber, and beneath every window, and the king - satisfied that his daughter’s would not defy him again -- took himself off to his bed and slept. The next morning, however, the scene was repeated. King Darius found his daughters nearly asleep at the breakfast table, twelve pairs of slippers had been danced clear through, and the naughty girls refused to answer their father’s questions. Frustrated, the old man had his daughter’s locked in their room once again, stationed two guards at every door and window, and fell into a troubled sleep. By the third day, the king was quite beside himself with anger and worry. Twelve more heads bobbed at the breakfast table. Twelve more pairs of slippers lay in tatters on the floor. Twelve daughters refused to divulge where it was they danced. In utter despair, the king sent out a proclamation.
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Hear Ye, Hear Ye! By the order of His Royal Majesty, King Darius… All gentlemen of the land, be they noblemen or commoners, are hereby invited to aid the King in his quest to determine where the Princesses Anita, Belinda, Cassandra, Daniella, Edwina, Francesca, Giana, Helena, Isabella, Johanna, Katrina and Leanna dance every night. Each man will be given three days time to answer this riddle. The man who uncovers the secret will choose which Princess shall be his bride, and will be named His Majesty’s heir. P.S. All those who fail shall be beheaded at the royal executioner’s earliest convenience. Now, as you can imagine, this proclamation caused quite a stir amongst the male population of the kingdom. What man did not wish to become the King’s heir? The line of would-be sleuths circled the castle several times over and the King ordered that the first eligible man be let in without delay. Three days later, a rich man’s son stood quaking in his boots as the king inquired of him, "What news do you bring me?" "Your majesty," the fearful young man replied, "I do not know how to answer you, but if you will grant me just one more night -- ." "To the dungeon with him," the king roared. "And bring in the next man!" On the other side of the door, Princess Anita turned to her sisters and smiled. "I told you we wouldn’t have any problem with him," she whispered. And though one of the girls, Edwina, looked rather distressed at the prospect of the first man’s handsome head being removed from his
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broad shoulders, they all slipped silently up the stairs and began their preparations for another night of dancing. When word got around that the first man had failed to discover the secret of the dancing princesses and was even now awaiting execution, the line around the castle thinned out a bit. Still, many waited outside the gates, and soon enough, a second man was invited in to try to solve the mystery. Now Thomas, the king’s personal servant, was a wise young man and for a month he watched the goings on in the castle. Every night the princesses were locked in their room, and every morning they were exhausted from dancing holes in their slippers. Ten more men were given the chamber next to the one the girl’s occupied and, after three nights, tossed into the dungeon to be dealt with at the executioner’s convenience. Thirty-three days after the proclamation went out, eleven disgruntled men told Thomas what they had seen and heard -- which basically amounted to nothing past the bottom of a cup of wine -- and thanked him profusely for convincing the axe-wielder to take an extended vacation in a far-away land. On the morning of the thirty-fourth day, Thomas went to visit his grandmother, who lived deep in the woods. Some called her a hag, others a witch, but he loved her with all his heart and trusted her for wise guidance. "Grandmother," he said as he stooped to enter her humble cottage, "I have come to ask for your assistance. I wish to learn the secret of the dancing princesses." The toothless old woman smiled and hugged her grandson to her. "Ah, yes. I knew you’d come around sooner or later. You’ve had your eye on fair Leanna for some time now, haven’t you?" Thomas shrugged his broad shoulders. "She is quite a beauty, and not so hard-hearted as her sisters. I believe, with the right husband to guide
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her, she would repent of her selfishness. She only needs a firm hand, and she’ll make a fine wife … and queen." "I knew it!" The old woman slapped her knee and laughed out loud. "You’ve set your sights on his majesty’s youngest daughter, and you shall have her! Now, tell me all about the men who’ve gone before you, my fine grandson … and then I shall show you something that I’ve been saving for many years. I believe it will help you in your quest." Thomas sat down and obediently filled his grandmother in on all the details he’d been able to glean from the men in the dungeon. Together, they determined that the princesses had doubtless added a sleeping draught to the wine they offered the men, and Thomas promised his grandmother that he would drink or eat nothing that the girls gave him. Then, with a smile and a flourish, the old woman withdrew a rich black cloak from the bottom of her wooden chest and handed it to her grandson. "Try this on," she said, and the moment he’d wrapped it about his shoulders, she broke into a gleeful grin. "It still works, after all these years!" "Works?" Thomas stared at his grandmother, not comprehending her meaning. "What is it supposed to do, Granny? I don’t feel any different." "Oh, of course not!" She jumped up from her seat and pulled a mirror out from behind the pantry door. "Now then…look in the mirror, my boy, and tell me what you see." The young man turned and stared, open mouthed, at the sight before him. He saw his own face, but it looked as though his head floated in mid-air, for his body had completely disappeared. "An invisibility cloak?" he whispered. "How did you come by this?" "Ah, don’t go asking an old fool questions she doesn’t wish to answer, lad," the old woman cackled. "Just you be careful to cover yourself completely with that cloak, and you’ll be able to follow the princesses wherever they go."
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Thomas removed the cloak and draped it, inside out, over his arm. "How can I ever thank you, Granny?" "Come back in one piece," she said as she kissed his cheek. "And see to it that the king’s daughters learn their lessons. That’s all you need do for me." "Never fear," he replied as he kissed his grandmother good-bye. "I will see you in three days time … at my wedding." When Thomas arrived back at the castle that afternoon, he went straight to the throne room and found the king lounging in his great golden chair, looking most dejected. "Your majesty." He bowed low before his master. "You do not look well this day. Does something trouble you?" "Yes indeed," the king said as he reached for his half-empty wine goblet. "Did you not just return to the castle? Surely you saw that there are no more men willing to seek out the Princesses secret." "Yes, my lord. I noticed that the potential suitors fled after the announcement that yet another man had failed in the quest." "I suppose I shouldn’t have declared they be executed," King Darius said as his crown slipped down over one eye. "Damn foolish notion, I’m afraid … but there’s nothing to be done about it now. I cannot very well reverse my ruling. My subjects will believe me weak." "Ah yes. That is a problem." "How many have we executed, Thomas? I’ve lost track." "There have been eleven suitors, your majesty," Thomas said smoothly. "However, the executioner has been away … and since you did say they would be beheaded at his earliest convenience -- ." "They’re still alive then?" The king’s eyes lit up and he sat up a bit straighter. "Can’t say that I’m sorry about that. Perhaps I should give the executioner an extended vacation … keep him away
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from that dungeon for a while, you know? Then, if the men agree to go quietly -- ." Thomas smiled and bowed low before the man he served. "You are, my lord, a most gracious and benevolent ruler. And now, may I ask a great boon of you?" "Of course," King Darius said, waving his hand in a dismissive motion. "Do you wish for a week off? It’s quite all right, you know. You’re a good man, Thomas, and I’d not begrudge you a vacation." "Actually, my lord, I wish to try my hand at discovering your daughters’ secret. Will you permit me to take up the task?" "You?" The king blinked owlishly at the young man before him. "Nonsense, my boy. I’m much too fond of you to let you risk your neck over this affair. Put the idea out of your head, son." Thomas approached the king and bowed even lower. "Your majesty, I am equally fond of you, and for this reason I petition you for the privilege of solving this mystery. This entire episode has taken a great toll on you and I believe I can help." He looked up, met the king’s eyes without flinching. "If you truly are fond of me, please grant me the same opportunity you have offered to the others." The king sat quietly for some time, studying the young man before him. He’d watched Thomas grow up, from the son of the head groom to a royal page, to his personal servant. He did not want to have to order his execution, but there was a certainty in the boy’s eyes that was very convincing. "You believe you know the answer, do you not?" "Part of it, at least. And I believe I can find out the rest. Please, Your Majesty … allow me to serve you in this way.” Darius contemplated the question for a moment longer, then nodded his agreement. "Which of my daughters would you have then?" The young man blushed. "Leanna, if it please you, sir. And if I succeed, there are two more things I would ask of you."
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The king nodded. "Very well, then. Ask away." "First of all, I would ask that you release the men in the dungeon, and grant them the hands of your other eleven daughters. I have visited with them, my lord, and they are all fine men. They would make good husbands to your girls." Darius smiled. He quite liked that idea, for it would provide the answer to twelve problems, all in one fell swoop. "Granted," he said. "And what else?" This one would be a bit trickier. Thomas took a deep breath and prepared to present his argument to the King. "If I succeed, I would ask that I be allowed to discipline your daughters as I see fit." At this, the king’s face took on a pinched look. "Discipline? By what method?" "Nothing so terrible as to do permanent damage, my lord. I only think that your daughters could use a firm hand," he said, taking a deep breath, "applied to their backsides." Much to his surprise, relief crossed the king’s face. "I hate to admit it, Thomas," the old man said, "but I fear you’re right. I should have taken to spanking those girls years ago, and now I don’t know quite how to begin. However, if I were to give their hands to honorable, strong men -- ." "And the men in the dungeon all fit that description." "Yes, yes … then my daughter’s would have to accept the consequences of their actions." The king’s eyes actually gleamed at the thought. "I love them all dearly, you know, but they have been quite horrid as of late. And I know I should take each and every one of them across my knee, but I don’t know that I could manage it now." Thomas nodded his understanding. "So, your majesty … will you allow me to accept this challenge?" The king rose and offered his hand to his servant. "I will, my son. And luck be with you." That night, the king ordered that a great feast be prepared in honor of the newest suitor. The
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princesses, having seen the last of the men leave this morning, were quite curious as to the identity of the one who’d taken up the challenge. They hurried down to supper and sat, dumbfounded, as their father ushered in his trusted servant. "Him?" Anita scoffed loudly. "Father, you don’t really expect any of us to marry a servant, do you?" The king answered with a quiet strength that took one and all by surprise. "You will marry whomever I command you to marry, Anita, or you will find yourself without a home." Several pairs of feminine eyes widened in dismay at their father’s words. It was impossible to think that the man who’d spoiled and petted them would now make such a threat. The youngest of the girls, however, remained quiet throughout the dinner and followed her sister’s reluctantly up the stairs when they were dismissed. "I don’t think we should go tonight," Leanna said once the girls had been locked in for the night. "Really, Anita … this is Thomas we’re talking about. Father’s very fond of him. I don’t want to be responsible for him losing his head." "Don’t be ridiculous," Anita snapped. "The other men are all tucked nicely in the dungeon with no executioner in sight. Besides, if it comes to taking off his servant’s head, you know he’ll back down. And then we’ll no longer have to worry about being watched by these men. Now where is that sleeping potion?" Edwina removed a vial from her night table drawer and Isabella poured the wine. When the contents of the goblet were mixed, Francesca shoved the goblet into Leanna’s hands. "You take it to him," she ordered. "I’m quite sure he fancies you." "No." Leanna backed away, shaking her head. "I won’t. I tell you, it’s not right." Anita snatched the goblet away and went resolutely to the door of the adjoining chamber. "I’ll take it to him," she said, black eyes flashing. "I
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don’t mind making sure that Daddy’s precious Thomas sleeps through the night." The eldest of the princesses knocked on the door to Thomas’s room and, when he bade her enter, handed him the wine with a most becoming smile. "For you," she said, "with our best wishes." Thomas bowed low. "Thank you, Milady." The moment she had left the room, he poured the wine into the chamber pot and, lying down on the bed, pretended to fall fast asleep. Leanna looked at herself in the mirror one last time. Her long blonde hair shone from brushing, and the delicate blue color of her dress was a perfect compliment to her eyes. Helena had reddened her cheeks with a little rouge, and Belinda had insisted that she put on a bit of lipstick, but no amount of cosmetics could make her feel better about what they were about to do. "I’m not going," she declared when a clap of Anita’s hands caused a hidden passage to open in the floor. "You can all go on without me." "Don’t be ridiculous," Anita said as she grasped Leanna’s arm. "You must go! If you do not, none of us will be able to dance tonight. You know that." Leanna peered into the chamber where the handsome, dark-haired Thomas slept. "But I cannot. If Thomas were to lose his head -- ." "He won’t lose his head," Anita said as she started down a long flight of stone steps. "Now come along. You’ll not ruin this for all of us." Leanna cast one more glance backward; then, picking up her skirts, she hurried to catch up with her sisters. The moment she turned away, Thomas wrapped the cloak around himself and started down the stairs after her. When he descended from the bottom step and looked around, the lowly servant could hardly believe his eyes. The princesses were hurrying through a forest of silver and, thinking quickly, he broke off a small silver branch from a nearby tree.
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The noise startled Leanna, who whirled about and cried out, "Who’s there?" Katrina turned and looked at her sister. "What on earth are you talking about? There’s no one here but us." "I thought I heard someone," Leanna murmured. "I’m sorry." Soon the girls left the silver forest, and moved into a grove of golden trees. Once again, Thomas broke off a small branch -- for proof of what he would tell the king -- and once again, Leanna was startled by the noise. Her sister’s quickly hushed her protests though, and she hurried to catch up to them. As they neared the shore of a beautiful lake, Thomas stopped again -- this time gathering a handful of diamonds from a low-hanging branch -and Leanna turned and looked warily around. But before she could say anything further, a dashing young prince took her hand and helped her into a small rowboat. Seeing eleven other men help the eleven other princesses into identical boats, Thomas quickly climbed in behind Leanna and crossed over to the other side of the lake, unnoticed. That night, the king’s most trusted servant learned the secret of the dancing princesses. He followed them into a monstrous underground castle, and watched as they waltzed about a grand ballroom on the arms of 12 mysterious princes. To be quite honest, he was more than a little jealous of the familiar way with which Leanna’s dance partner held her, and he took quite a bit of pleasure in leaving little messages for her to find. He arranged a handful of peanuts to spell out "naughty girl," then scattered them on the floor the minute she called her sisters over to the buffet table to see the strange message. He carefully cut a piece of cake in the shape of a paddle and smiled when she looked up furtively from her plate. And while she was dancing, he whispered low in her ear, "You need a spanking, young lady," and could hardly contain his
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laughter when she looked up, shocked, at her dance partner. "What did you say?" she demanded of the youngest prince. "Nothing. What did you think I said?" Her cheeks flamed and she looked away. "Nothing. Sorry." When Thomas returned that night, taking the steps two at a time to beat the girls back to their room, he knew that he had plenty of evidence with which to convince the king of his claims. A thought had come to him, however, and he decided to make the best use of the next two nights. By day, he engaged Leanna in conversation and made constant references to the spanking of naughty young women. By night, he followed the girls into their underground fairyland and surreptitiously collected branches from the trees. On the third night, he cut twelve extra-long samples from the silver and gold forests, stripped them of their branches, and swished them through the air to make them sing. Satisfied, he tucked the limber rods inside his cloak. They would make nice -- and rather useful -- gifts for the men who waited in the dungeon. On the morning of the fourth day, Thomas bade the princesses good-bye and walked solemnly down to the throne room. Leanna watched him go and burst into tears. "We must do something," she said to her sisters. "If father executes Thomas, I shall never forgive myself." "Don’t be silly," Cassandra said, grabbing her sister’s arm and pulling her back into the room. "There’s nothing we can do, save tell Papa the truth. And I’m not about to let you do that!" The other girls all gathered around Leanna, and the youngest of the sisters fell into great despair. She had grown quite fond of her father’s servant -had fallen in love with him, in fact -- and she was truly afraid for his life. So great was her fear and remorse, in fact, that an intense surge of strength
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rushed through her limbs and, overcoming her sisters, she rushed from the room. A headlong flight down the wide staircase brought her to the door of her father’s throne room and, throwing open the doors, she ran to the king and fell at his knees. "Papa, you mustn’t execute Thomas," she cried. "It was not his fault that he did not discover our secret, for we drugged his wine. We drugged every man’s wine, in fact, so that they would not see us leave our room. And then we went down through a trap door and danced all night at a castle under the ground, and I’m ever so sorry! But please, please do not punish Thomas for our deception." Sobbing, she looked up into the king’s eyes. "I love him, father." King Darius patted his daughter’s head and smiled at her. "And he loves you too, my dear. In fact, I’ve just now granted him your hand in marriage." "What?" Leanna’s blue eyes opened wide in surprise, and she turned to find Thomas smiling down at her. Overcome with emotion, she leaped up and threw herself into his arms. "Oh my dear Thomas," she said as she covered his face with kisses. "I was so worried. How did you ever -- ?" Thomas kissed his bride to be on the forehead, then gently set her out at arm’s length. He held up a limber golden branch and asked her, very quietly, "Recognize this?" "You knew!" She stepped back, shocked, and realized that the eleven other suitors stood about the room, watching the scene -- and each one of them also held a branch of silver or gold. "How?" "With the help of a very special woman," Thomas said solemnly. "She’ll be here by the by, to attend our wedding." Leanna threw her arms around Thomas’s neck and, standing on tiptoe, kissed him on the lips. "I’m so glad you found out," she whispered. "I couldn’t bear the thought of you being executed."
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Thomas chuckled and, glancing over his beloved’s shoulder, raised a questioning eyebrow at the king. When Darius nodded, he murmured to Leanna, "I’m glad you decided to confess, my dear, even if it was a bit late. But that doesn’t mean you’re going to go unpunished." He felt her stiffen in his arms, and stepping back a pace, she looked up into his eyes. "What do you mean, sir? What do you intend to do with me?" The young man took a deep breath and led her to a nearby chair. Taking both her hands in his, he told her gently, "Leanna, you defied your father, you lied, and you put yourself in grave danger. Anything could have happened to you in those forests, and you went anyway, all for the temporary pleasure of a dance. This kind of recklessness and dishonesty is not something I can abide in a wife, so you have a choice to make. If you truly love me, and wish to be married, then you must submit to what I think best. Can you do that?" Leanna glanced warily at the flexible golden rod that Thomas held, then forced her eyes to his and swallowed hard. "You intend to spank me?" He nodded. "Yes. It will hurt, my love -- a great deal, in fact -- but I promise that I will not harm you." He seated himself in the straight-backed chair and held out his hand to her. "Do you trust me Leanna?" She felt half sick with dread, but the love in his eyes soothed her nerves. Wordlessly, Leanna took Thomas’s hand and allowed him to guide her over his lap. For a young woman who’d never been spanked, the youngest princess held up remarkably well. She did not fight as her husband-to-be lifted her skirts and bared her vulnerable bottom, and she made it through a good deal of the initial hand spanking without a great deal of noise. When Thomas picked up the narrow rod and went back to his task, she could not help but cry out against the burning stripes of pain that assailed her naked bottom and
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oh-so-tender thighs; but by that time, each of her sisters had also been taken across a strong knee, and her small cries were easily drowned out by a cacophony of angry wails and anguished pleas. A few short hours later, King Darius’s twelve repentant daughters pledged their troths to the twelve suitors that they’d sought to outwit. Leanna, youngest of them all, looked up into the eyes of the servant who would now be King and repeated her vows with a strong, clear voice. Her bottom would ache for a time, but her heart had never felt so free.
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Frogs are People, Too Princess Lilac, of the kingdom of Mum, was bored, nearly to tears. With her nineteenth birthday fast approaching, she should have been entertaining dozens of princes -- all from the finest families -who’d come to woo her. She was, after all, of a marriageable age, and considered a great beauty. In addition, as King Nightshade’s only child and heir, she stood to inherit a vast and much-coveted kingdom. Technically, the suitors should have been lined up around the castle walls, but she’d not had a gentleman caller for nearly a year. Worst of all, she would be nineteen in just four days time, and if she’d not accepted a marriage proposal by then, it would be up to her father to make the decision. Frankly, given the scolding she’d received after her eighteenth birthday ball, she was not at all fond of that idea. "Lilac, when did you become so ungovernable?" King Nightshade demanded the moment the fiasco of a party was over. "I’ve never seen any young lady of your station behave as rudely as you did tonight. You were most ungracious in the acceptance of several gifts, and your refusal to dance with many of your guests was beyond the pale." "I’m sorry, father," Lilac replied, her demeanor one of a youth experiencing a great deal of ennui. "But really -- the menu was not at all what I had in mind. And the music? Who on earth chose that dull string quartet." "I did." The king grew flustered. "They are accounted the finest musicians in the land." "Perhaps in the opinion of the older guests, father; but I assure you, no one my age would choose to listen to screeching violins and dull violas as wielded by that collection of moldering so-called musicians." The king -- appearing quite stunned -- rose uncertainly out of his throne. "I can see I’ve been
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far too indulgent," he said. "I should have taken you over my knee long ago, Lilac, but perhaps it’s not too late." Queen Rosebud, a haughty woman whose beauty had not been dimmed by the years, placed a perfectly manicured hand on her husband’s arm. "You will do no such thing, My Lord. You know how I feel about such arcane methods of discipline. No one shall lay a hand on my daughter!" From there, the conversation had disintegrated into another shouting match between her parents. Even now, sitting on the edge of the wishing well that was the centerpiece of the garden, Lilac could remember the angry words that had passed between her parents. I should be used to it by now, she admonished herself. It’s not as if they haven’t fought from the first moment I can remember. Still, the memories bothered her, for she often felt to blame for her parents’ unhappiness. It seemed they often fought over her. Whether they disagreed on what courses she should study, or how low the neckline of a particular dress dipped, the simple truth was that she often found herself placed firmly in the middle of their conflicts; and to be honest, the discord in her home made her uncomfortable. She wanted to be married -- to be carried off to a place where there was peace and contentment -and soon. She did not, however, wish to leave the decision of a husband in the hands of her parents. Not only would such a situation guarantee dissention, but she could not stand the thought of wedding a man chosen by either her mother or her father. King Nightshade had made several references to pairing her off with one of the older, more "responsible" suitors who’d attended the ball. He seemed to believe that his daughter needed a "steadying" influence -- "steadying" meaning ancient, so far as Lilac was concerned. Queen Rosebud, on the other hand, insisted that she would not allow her daughter to be married off to any man who would
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attempt to "control" her. Having spent almost nineteen years in a chaotic household, Lilac took this to mean that her mother meant to marry her off to a milquetoast whom she would be expected to control, as the Queen of Mum controlled the King. Unlike her mother, however, the princess did not wish to be the one who truly ruled the kingdom. The thought of such unwavering authority -- and the awesome responsibilities that would come with it -frightened her. No, she wanted neither an old man, nor someone who would defer to her in all things. In truth, she longed for a husband who could earn both her love and her respect. With a sigh, Princess Lilac leaned over the edge of the wishing well and gazed at her reflection. She’d been told many times that she was beautiful, but she was no longer certain that it was true. She studied her reflection carefully, alert to even the tiniest of flaws. Long blonde hair fell about her shoulders and down her back in artful waves, the color a perfect accent to her deep blue eyes. Her complexion was fair and without blemish, her features evenly spaced and of the perfect shape and size. Frowning at herself, she sat up and placed her hands on her narrow waist. She was as slim as ever -- a characteristic that her mother oft stated was essential for attracting a man; and she was tall enough without being over tall -- a trait that the Queen assured her left shorter men feeling intimidated. "So why have I had no suitors?" she asked of no one in particular as she sank back down onto the edge of the well. "If I am beautiful enough -- as mother insists -- why has no one come to call?" "If I may be so bold, your highness," a rough voice said from somewhere near her feet, "perhaps there is more to choosing a queen than simply finding the most beautiful princess." Lilac started and whirled around, doubly shocked when she saw that no one stood nearby. "Who said that?" she demanded. "Who spoke?"
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"I did." The voice drew her attention downward and she blinked her eyes at the unexpected sight of a rather large and unattractive bullfrog. "Oh my!" she exclaimed as she leapt to her feet and took several steps back. "What a vile, dreadful creature. Be gone!" She watched, shocked, as the ugly frog hopped up onto the edge of the well; and though she could hardly credit it as possible, she was most certain that she heard him emit a deeply masculine chuckle. "Wh-what are you? Who are you?" she demanded, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Is this some kind of a prank?" "I assure you, Princess," the frog seemed to reply, "this is no joke." Lilac shook off her surprise and dashed around to the other side of the well, as if in search of someone. "Rupert, you little hellion! Where are you?" she hissed, her confused mind finally settling on an answer to the impossible situation. Her father’s sister, widowed by a conflict in her husband’s homeland, had lived with them for several years -- and her son, Lilac’s only cousin, was often a thorn in the Princess’s side. Surely he was behind this nonsense, as everyone knew that frogs could not talk. "I’m sorry to disappoint you, your highness," the gravelly voice said again, "but there is no Rupert here. It’s only me, a lowly frog, but one who has observed your plight and is willing to advise you." "My plight?" Lilac’s delicate mouth dropped open. "What would you know of my plight?" The frog leapt across the mouth of the well and settled in as though to chat. "You must choose a husband within four days time, else the decision will fall to your parents. And you do not particularly care for that idea, do you, Princess?" "What would you know of my affairs?" the princess sputtered. "You are -- why, you’re nothing but a frog!" As impossible as it seemed, the frog stood on his back legs and bent at the waist in perfect
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imitation of a courtly bow. "Ah, but I am at your service, My Lady. Perhaps, if you look beyond my appearance, you will find me to be more intelligent than one might suspect." Lilac took a deep breath and smoothed out the skirts of her pale blue gown. "Very well then, let us say for a moment that you are not a frog. My first question is how you came to know so much about me?" If it was possible for a frog to smile, the fat one perched upon the edge of the well did just that. "Why, everyone knows that you come to this garden when you wish to think. And since you frequently talk to yourself -- ." "I do not!" "You do, too," the frog continued, smoothly. "And from everything that I’ve heard over the past year, I suspect you have no suitors because you, Princess Lilac of the kingdom of Mum, are accounted to be a spoiled brat." Lilac was incensed. In all her years, no one -not even her father -- had dared to speak to her in such a manner. She took an angry step forward, watched the frog puff up and emit a most threatening croak and, thinking better of getting too close to the creature, wrenched off one slipper and tossed it at him. He hopped nimbly aside, however, and the slipper plummeted into the well. "Oh no!" she wailed, her anger quickly turning into panic. "You horrid little beast, just look at what you’ve made me do! Mama had those slippers specially made for me, and the diamonds on the toes are quite valuable." A note of despair crept into her voice. "She’ll be furious with me!" Much to her surprise, the frog looked at her, almost sympathetically. "Your highness," he said, "I shall fetch the slipper for you." "You will?" The measure of kindness at first took her by surprise, then she became wary. "On what terms?"
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"It’s quite simple," he replied. "I will retrieve your slipper and, in return, you will invite me to dine with you tonight." "You cannot be serious." "I assure you, I am most serious." The frog peered over the edge of the well. "I suggest you come to a decision quickly, Your Highness. The slipper is sinking fast." Heedless of his presence, Lilac rushed to the well and leaned over the edge. It was true -- the slipper would soon be fully immersed in the water. "Alright," she said quickly. "Fetch me the slipper!" The frog blinked lazily. "Fetch me the slipper, what?" "Oh for heaven’s sake, fetch me the slipper, please." "And if I do?" the round, squat creature prompted. "If you do, you shall dine with me tonight." Two large eyes narrowed. "And do I have your word on this, my princess?" "Yes … yes, of course!" Lilac cried. "Only you must hurry, else it shall be lost forever." "As you wish, My Lady." With that, the frog leapt into the well and, swimming up under the slipper, managed to capture it like a hat on his head. "Give me that!" the princess demanded the moment both frog and slipper had safely returned to the wide edge of the well. "Not until we have arrived at the castle," the frog replied. "Don’t be ridiculous." She tried to snatch the slipper from the immense bullfrog, but he only hopped closer to the water. "Careful, Princess. You’ve given me your word, after all. Should you choose to go back on it now, I will return your slipper to the well." The princess stepped back, aware that she was defeated. "Very well, then. You may follow me." She started toward the castle at a brisk pace, but halted
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when her unwanted guest called out to her. "What is it?" she snapped. "I have no intention of hopping all that way," the frog replied. Lilac whirled around, her arms folded suspiciously over her chest. "And just what do you expect me to do about that?" she demanded. "You shall carry me." At that suggestion, the Princess of Mum drew herself up to her full height and looked down her royal nose at the ignoble creature before her. "I will do no such thing." "You will," the frog replied, in an almost lethally quiet tone, "if you want your precious slipper back." Lilac’s eyes widened. "But you’re wet and … and slimy!" "Wet, yes," he replied, "but not slimy. Now, do you want the slipper back, or not?" The Princess took a deep breath and held out both her hands. Turning her face away and scrunching both eyes closed, she bent down and said, "Alright, then. Come here, frog." Once again the frog chuckled, and this time he leaped into her hands. He sketched a courtly, and rather mocking, bow. "Your wish is my command, Princess." "Oh, do shut up," Lilac muttered as, hands stretched out and away from her, she hurried back to the castle. Once inside the royal palace, Lilac scurried up the back steps and rushed to her room. There, she roughly dropped the frog onto the nearest chair, then raced to the basin to wash her hands. "You are troubled, my princess?" the frog asked. "Shall I take this to mean you do not find me attractive?" "Attractive? You? You’re a frog," Lilac sputtered. "No, of course I don’t find you attractive!" "You wound me. After all, Madam, even frog’s have feelings."
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The princess dried her hands on a soft towel, then applied cream to her delicate fingers. "You sleep on lily pads and eat flies, for heaven’s sake! Never tell me that you are a frog with delicate sensibilities." "Ah, but I am. My sensibilities are all quite delicate, I assure you. After all, would an insensitive creature offer to help you with your present dilemma, Princess?" The frog hopped to the edge of his chair, and for a moment, Lilac was certain she glimpsed intelligence in his bulging eyes. "I … I suppose not," she said as she sank down into the chair opposite his. "But how can you possibly help me? I have but four days to snare a husband, and after that, the decision goes to my parents. If that happens, they will surely bring down the castle with their arguments, and heaven only knows what kind of a husband I’ll end up with -- or for that matter, if I’ll be married at all! Mother and Father have never agreed on anything, so it’s unlikely they will start now. I’ll be an old maid before they come to any decisions." The frog closed one eye and tilted his head in a considering manner. "For a princess who is, by all accounts, given everything her heart desires, you certainly seem unhappy." Lilac shrugged and sat back in her chair. "I may have fine things," she said, "but that’s all they are - things. My mother lavishes me with jewels and dresses, yes, but she argues with my father about every purchase. I have tried to tell her that I do not care about such possessions, but she insists that I must have them, and my father seems to believe the demands come from me." There was an almost unnoticeable hitch in her breath. "He seems so very unhappy with me." Despite the naturally rough quality of a frog’s voice, he spoke in a soft, gentle tone. "I do not believe that your father is unhappy with you, Princess. Not really."
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Lilac drew in a deep breath and attempted to shake off the sorrow that had gripped her. The change was almost visible, and most certainly obvious in the cold tone with which she answered the frog. "What would you know of it, frog? And what does it matter, anyway? None of this is helping me to find a husband, and it obviously won’t. I have no suitors, after all." "Why not?" the frog asked. "It seems to me that there were plenty of princes and their families here on the night of your eighteenth birthday. What happened to them?" Lilac felt her face grow red with shame. "The party did not go well." "Indeed? What happened?" For the first time, Lilac looked back on the night of her eighteenth birthday with a degree of embarrassment. "Father said that I did not accept my gifts graciously." "And was he correct?" Lilac closed her eyes and brought the scene to mind. "I was so eager to dance, to enjoy the party, but Mother and Father had been fighting all day long. I suppose I rushed through the opening of the gifts because I feared they might start in again, in front of the guests. Perhaps I did not show enough gratitude." "Hmmm." The frog considered that for a moment. "So, you’re saying it was your parents’ fault that you appeared ungracious to your guests?" Lilac nodded, finding this a comfortable and rather convenient answer. "Yes, that’s right … if only they’d not fought, everything would have been fine." "I see." The frog nodded, though his sympathy did not feel all that genuine to the princess. "And was that the only trouble that evening?" "No." Lilac, warming to her topic, launched into a full-blown accounting of the evening. "The music was boring -- not at all modern -- and Father expected me to dance with everyone who asked.
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And so many of those who asked were positively ancient! He gave absolutely no thought to what I wanted! And when that hideous Lord Elroy, my father’s friend from the kingdom of Gatschall, danced onto my dress and ripped the train -- ." "You could not help but give him the dressing down he deserved?" "Why, yes." Her companion’s insightful comment brought Lilac to a halt. "How did you know about that?" "Everyone knows about that," he replied softly. "It is, after all, what ended the party -- is it not?" "Yes." "And this man from Gatschall -- was he so very hideous, my princess?" "Well, no … not exactly." Lilac’s face turned quite red. "It was just that he was so old and I was nervous -- I’d promised the next dance to the Prince of Evergreen, you see -- and then Lord Elroy ruined my dress and I overreacted. And when I turned around, the prince that I’d most wanted to dance with was gone." "Ah, I see. You blamed Lord Elroy for chasing off someone you’d wished to get to know better." "Yes. I suppose that’s it." The frog was quiet for a long time. When he spoke, there was a firm, no-nonsense tone in his voice. "Would you like to know what I think, Princess?" Lilac laughed a little, shakily. "Do I have a choice?" "Whether or not to hear my words, no. Whether or not you heed them, though, is up to you." Lilac sat back in her chair. "Very well, then. Have out with it." The frog nodded. "I believe, my princess, that you are a young woman of incomparable beauty." Lilac smiled, quite pleased with the frog’s words. "You are, however, accustomed to being coddled and deferred to. And if I were to hazard a guess, I would say that you’ve had no suitors because,
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having seen your lack of decorum at your birthday ball, those princes who can lay claim to some measure of common sense have decided that they would rather not contract a marriage with a fractious and spoilt girl." Lilac sucked in a sharp breath. "How dare you?" she said, her voice rising. "I am a princess, and you are nothing but a disgusting little toad! You have no right to speak to me in such a manner!" "Everyone has the right to speak the truth, even a lowly frog. An adult hears the truth and profits, but a willful child hears it and proceeds to throw a temper tantrum." "A temper tantrum, eh?" Lilac bolted from her chair and stamped her dainty foot. "Is that what you think I’m doing?" "Indeed it is." "Well then, I shall have to throw something else." Lilac’s eyes narrowed and, quick as a flash, she bolted forward and scooped up the offensive frog. "In fact, I shall throw you right out the window, you horrid beast." With that, Lilac rushed to the window and tossed the frog out into the late morning sunshine. She heard a great croak as he fell two stories to the ground, and then there was silence. For a moment, she was quite satisfied with herself, but then she began to worry for the creature’s safety. She leaned out of the window and scanned the ground for signs of the frog, but he was nowhere to be seen. "Frog?" she called. "Frog, are you hurt?" There was no answer and, for several pensive moments, she perched in the windowsill, uncertain as to how to proceed. Then, overcome by guilt, she rushed outside and began to search for the victim of her temper. Some time later, when the sun had passed its zenith and her stomach was complaining loudly about the lack of luncheon, Lilac sat down on a garden bench and began to weep.
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"Oh, poor little frog," she said as tears bathed her face. "I am so very sorry for the way I acted. I suppose you’re right. I am a spoilt child, but I don’t seem to know how to control myself. I only hope you will forgive me." "Ah, my princess." For the second time that day, the gravelly frog voice took Lilac by surprise. "I could teach you, but you might not enjoy the lesson." Lilac’s deep blue eyes alighted on the frog and she eagerly scooped him up into her lap. "I’m so sorry," she said and she rubbed a finger along his back. "Are you hurt?" "I don’t seem to be," the creature chuckled, "though I must admit I was rather frightened when you tossed me out the window. It was a long jump, even for a frog of my size." Lilac’s cheeks turned quite red. " I’m so very sorry. Will you please accept my apology?" "That depends. Do you intend to keep your original promise to me, princess?" "Yes." Lilac nodded and rose from the bench, the frog held carefully against her body. "In fact, we shall have lunch right away, then you must lay down and rest. Agreed?" "Agreed." Lilac returned to the castle for the second time that day, this time stopping in the kitchen to request that luncheon be sent to her room. She was considerably more hospitable the second time around, and she and the frog talked of many things as they shared the meal. After they had eaten, the princess placed the frog on her very own pillow and bid him rest. He was snoring peacefully when the sounds of yet another parental argument assailed Lilac’s ears. "Where are you going, Rosebud?" King Nightshade’s voice floated up the stairs. "Why have you so many trunks?" "I am going to take care of the business of finding our daughter a proper husband," the queen
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replied. "Heaven knows, you’d marry her off to some demanding, controlling old man -- and I’ll not have that." "And who would you choose, My Lady? A young man whom you can hold under your thumb?" There was a bitter note in the king’s tone. "A young man as I once was?" "It is not my fault," Lilac heard her mother say, "that you hadn’t the sense of a simpleton. If not for me, this kingdom would have fallen apart years ago, My Lord. Now, out of my way! One of us must do our duty to our daughter." There was, after that, much noise as trunks were dragged out the door and loaded onto the royal carriage. Lilac sat, curled up in her chair like a small child, wishing that her parents would learn to get along. Worst of all, she hated that she had once again caused them to argue. Tears were dripping off the end of her nose when the frog leaped into her lap. "Poor little princess," he soothed. "You have everything you could possibly want, save peace." Overcome by emotion, Lilac reacted as she often did when hurt or embarrassed. She bristled and her tone became one of anger. "You needn’t make fun of me," she said as she shoved the frog from her lap. "I shall be quite happy." "Indeed?" The frog sat complacently at her feet, his bulging eyes locked on hers, until her anger melted back into sorrow. "I’m sorry." Lilac looked away, ashamed of her actions. "I am forever losing my temper." She took a deep breath and leaned down to pet the frog’s head. "You said you could teach me self-control. How would you do that?" "Ah princess," the frog replied, softly. "I would show you, but first you must do something for me." Lilac slid out of her chair and dropped to her knees in front of the frog. "If you are right, and my suitors disappeared because of my behavior, then I
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vow I would do anything to change my ways. Please tell me what I must do." "You must kiss me," the frog said solemnly. "Kiss you?" Lilac rocked back a bit and considered the ugly creature before her. "But what will that do?" "It will -- ." The frog paused, as though searching for the right words. "It will prove that you are sincere in your desire for change. If you kiss me, My Lady, I will teach you self control." The princess’s delicate brow furrowed in concentration. "A kiss will prove my sincerity? Are you certain?" "You have my word on it, princess," the frog replied. "Give me but one kiss and I shall teach you all that you need to know." "Very well." Hesitantly, Princess Lilac leaned forward and, with eyes tightly shut, placed a quick kiss to the top of the frog’s head. What happened next was such a shock that she nearly fainted dead away in surprise; for there, right before her eyes, the frog began to grow and shift, taking a new and different shape. Lilac rubbed her disbelieving eyes and looked up again, but there was no mistaking the identity of the man who now stood before her. Prince Foxglove of Evergreen, the man with whom she’d longed to dance on her eighteenth birthday, reached out a hand and helped her to her feet. "H-how can this be?" Lilac breathed in wonder. "What magic is this?" "It is the working of one who did not wish to see us wed, My Lady." The handsome, dark-eyed prince bowed over Lilac’s hand. "She hired a witch who -the very night of your birthday celebration -- turned me into a frog. The only way in which I could be freed from the spell was by your kiss, and it was assumed that you would never deign to kiss a lowly frog."
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"But … but who would do such a horrid thing? And why?" Lilac sank down into her chair. "I vow, I do not comprehend this, sir." The prince drew up a chair and sat, gazing thoughtfully at Lilac. "It was your mother," he said, at length. "She heard me declare my intentions to my royal assistant and apparently did not wish us to be married." Lilac blinked surprise. This entire episode was growing more bizarre by the moment. "But why would she do that? I don’t understand." Dark hair fell across the prince’s forehead and he brushed it back, then stopped to grin at his own hand. "It’s been a long time since I knew the simple pleasures of human form, My Lady. I would have you know that I am forever in your debt." Lilac impatiently nodded her head. "Please, My Lord, do not tarry over that fact. I wish to know why my mother did not want us to wed." One dark eyebrow arched upward, but the prince refrained from scolding Lilac. Instead, he answered, "She overheard me speaking to my assistant. I believe she took offense at something I said." "Well, are you going to tell me what that something was?" Lilac responded tartly. "I vow, I have no patience for this beating around the bush." Foxglove sat up straighter in his chair and fixed Lilac with an unyielding gaze. "It was just after the scene with Lord Elroy. My companion was attempting to talk me out of asking for your hand, and I told him that I felt confident I could tame your temper." "You thought to tame me?" Lilac glared at the man before her. "And just how did you propose to do that." "I intended to provide you with the discipline you so desperately needed. Your mother overheard the conversation and apparently took offense at that suggestion. The next thing I knew, I encountered a witch who turned me into a frog."
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Lilac did not know what to say or how to feel. On one hand, the prince that she’d pined after sat before her, talking of marriage. On the other hand, he seemed quite stern and something in his manner set her nerves on edge. "What did you mean by discipline?" she whispered. "I meant to take you over my knee and give you a proper spanking," Foxglove said smoothly. "Indeed, should we be married, I will do so whenever ‘tis necessary." "But … but that’s barbaric," Lilac cried as she shrank away from the prince. "Mother says no woman should be subjected to such abuse." The prince made no move toward the princess. Rather, he remained very still and spoke quite softly. "My dear lady," he said, "there is a vast difference between a properly applied spanking and abuse. The former is given in love, in order to correct poor behavior and provide guidance to the one who is disciplined." He studied her silently for a long moment, willing her to understand. "A spanking is painful, but it does not leave lasting harm. In fact, most people who’ve found themselves on the receiving end will admit that they feel better, more peaceful afterward. They are relieved of guilt and the incident is finished. The trouble between the giver and the receiver of such discipline is laid to rest, and both can move forward without fear that the subject will come up again. Do you understand?" "I … I’m not sure." Lilac twisted her fine silk overskirt in her hands. "If it hurts, how does it differ from abuse?" "When a man beats a woman, he lashes out in anger. There is no love in his actions, and he can hardly claim to be teaching self-control, as he is not in control of himself. It is not an act of love, my princess. It is a selfish act borne of a need to control another." His eyes were solemn and full of promise when Foxglove added, "I would never harm you like that, Lilac. Do you believe me?"
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"Yes." She said it without thinking, yet had absolute confidence in her words. "I believe you." The prince smiled. "I am glad, for there’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you for quite some time now." Lilac swallowed and shifted uneasily in her chair. "Do you mean to … to spank me for my behavior the night of the party?" "That depends." Prince Foxglove rested his elbows on his thighs and clasped his hands loosely between his legs. His nearly black gaze did not stray from Lilac’s face. "There is something I must know of you first. Will you have me for a husband?" Shock and absolute delight warred within Lilac’s heart, but it was not long before delight won. "Yes, my prince," she said, eyes lowered demurely. "I will marry you." Foxglove’s gaze remained serious. "You understand, then, that I will expect proper behavior from you? And that, should you choose to exhibit anything other than said behavior, you will be taken over my knee and soundly spanked?" Lilac’s voice trembled, but she answered once again, "Yes, my prince." "Very well," Prince Foxglove announced. "Since you have never received a spanking, I believe it would be best for you to understand now exactly what that entails." He looked into her worried eyes. "Are you willing to accept the discipline I believe you need?" Lilac took a shaky breath. A few short hours ago, she had despaired of finding a man who would love her, cherish her, care for her. Now that man sat before her, asking her to make the most difficult choice of her young life. She had pined for Prince Foxglove since long before her eighteenth birthday, but in order to accept this marriage proposal, she had to accept the discipline he intended to give her. Her stomach was a riot of butterflies and her bottom tingled beneath her dress. She’d seen plenty of the pageboys and younger maids spanked by the
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housekeeper or steward, and vividly remembered the bright red of their nether cheeks and the cries of pain that both hand and, often, paddle elicited. She was fearful of that pain, uncertain that she could bear it. She was not, however, afraid of the prince who, even now, held out his hand to her. "Well, My Lady?" Lilac placed her hand in Foxglove’s and, with a fortifying breath, allowed him to guide her into place over his thighs. The position itself was an embarrassment, and her mortification only increased when the man hoisted her skirts up and pinned them in the small of her back. He’d kindly left her thin cotton chemise in place, but she knew that the material did not shield her quivering bottom cheeks from his gaze. Then his hand rested lightly on one rounded globe and she gave a little moan of despair. "This will hurt," the prince said, quite tenderly, "but I will do you no harm. Do you trust me, my sweet Lilac?" A small sob escaped her lips but she nodded, just the same. "Yes, My Lord. I trust you." No sooner had Lilac spoken, but the first sharp slap assailed her thinly covered bottom. She stiffened, surprised by the sting, but did not resist. Slap! Spank! Again, the prince’s firm hand assaulted her upturned cheeks and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. "You were quite rude to Lord Elroy," Foxglove lectured as he peppered Lilac’s perfectly formed bottom cheeks with resounding slaps. "Such behavior is unbecoming of a lady. Do you understand?" "Yes … yes!" Lilac arched back, the sting in her bottom beginning to overcome her self-control. "Oh please, My Lord … cease to spank me! I’ve learned my lesson!" "I’m sorry, Lilac," the prince replied, "but you must learn that I am in charge of all discipline. It is
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not for you to decide when the spanking is over. Do I make myself clear?" "Yes!" Tears formed in the princess’s eyes and she rocked from side to side in a vain attempt to escape the prince’s broad palm. "I’m sorry!" "I’m certain that you are, just now." Foxglove redoubled his efforts to effect a true change in his bride-to-be’s attitude. "It is my job, however, to make sure that we do not have to repeat this again any time soon." "We won’t!" Lilac’s voice broke on a sob. Never before had she known such pain. She was desperate to escape the sting, yet she wanted even more to please the prince. "I promise! I’ll be good from now on." Just then, the door of Lilac’s room was flung open. Turning her head, she saw her mother in the doorway, her father standing slightly behind the queen. "What in the name of all that is holy is going on here?" Queen Rosebud demanded. "Who are you, sir, and what are you doing to my daughter?" Lilac felt herself quickly righted and somehow she managed to stand without clutching her bottom. She held her breath when the prince rose to face the queen. "I, My Lady," the prince said with a courtly bow, "am the man you contrived to turn into a frog almost a year ago. I am surprised you don’t remember me." "What?" The queen, looking quite stricken, clasped her throat and stepped back. "But it’s not possible. You couldn’t be!" "Ah, but I am." "A frog?" King Nightshade stared first at the prince, then at his wife. "What on earth is this all about?" It seemed that it took forever for Prince Foxglove to explain the current situation to the king; and Queen Rosebud’s protestations and angrily hurled accusations only made matters
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worse. Finally, however, Lilac’s father turned toward her, his eyes full of concern. "Is all this true, my dear?" he asked. "Did your kiss turn a frog into this man? And have you agreed to marry him?" Lilac blushed and, sliding her small hand inside that of her prince, turned an adoring gaze on her future husband. "It is true, Papa. I love Prince Foxglove and wish to marry him." "You shall not!" Queen Rosebud exclaimed. "I will not permit it." For the first time in her life, Lilac watched her father take control of the situation. He grasped his wife’s arm and pulled her backwards, out into the hallway. "Actually," he announced, "you have no say in the matter. Our daughter is satisfied with her choice and you will not interfere. The wedding will take place on Lilac’s nineteenth birthday. Queen Rosebud glared at her husband, but for once, King Nightshade refused to be intimidated. Holding her firmly with one hand, he gestured to the young people so that they would follow him. "Come, let us celebrate this joyous day!" ____________________ Three days later, on her nineteenth birthday, Princess Lilac was wed to Prince Foxglove of the kingdom of Evergreen. Both of their families were in attendance; but on this evening, she had no fear of another argument between her parents. Her mother had, in fact, been quite docile since the morning after her engagement and, judging by the careful way in which Queen Rosebud sat upon her throne, Lilac felt certain she knew what had affected the change in her parents’ relationship. Though she felt a measure of sympathy for her mother’s discomfort, it did her heart good to see her parents smiling at one another. It was a change that had been a long time in coming. Later that night, when they’d managed to escape to their honeymoon cottage, Lilac was taken
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once again over Foxglove’s knee. He did not scold her this time, but spoke to her gently of his undying love and his desire to care for her. His hand descended upon her naked bottom cheeks with enough force to engender quite a bit of heat; but the timing of the spanks, along with a great deal of rubbing, brought her to a state she’d never before experienced. When the prince finally laid her down, moving over and then in her, Lilac was more than ready for the consummation of their union. She clung to her husband, found release in his arms, and knew in that moment that they would, indeed, live happily ever after.
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Old Lady Shue Virginia Shue had always wanted children -- lots of children. At four, she’d had scads of dolls, of all shapes and sizes, which she gladly mothered. At six, she spent a good portion of her school hours helping her fellow students grasp the concepts presented, shared her lunches with anyone who was hungry, and ran for Band-Aids the minute a knee was scraped or a finger cut. At twelve, she was the neighborhood babysitter and unofficial big sister to half a dozen pre-schoolers; and at 18, she entered college in the hopes of becoming a grade-school teacher. Six years later, while teaching a class of 2nd graders, she met the love of her life and settled down to married life and the glorious prospect of a home filled with the love and laughter of her own children. Motherhood, she was certain, was her true calling. Two sons and two daughters later, on a day much like any other, she wasn’t certain about anything … least of all her skills as a mother. ____________________ "Timothy, Adam!" she called from the living room of the shoebox-sized home she shared with her husband Brad and their four children. "Get your little fannies back here. You’re not going outside until this mess is cleaned up!" "Aww, Mom," two young voices chimed in unison. Timothy turned away from the patio door dejectedly and slapped his baseball glove against his pants leg. "The game’s already started," he pleaded. "We’ll clean it up later. Promise!" "Oh no you don’t," Virginia replied as, marching across the room, she laid a firm hand on each of the boy’s shoulders. "You know better than to think you can leave your Lego’s all over the floor. Becca will be waking up any moment, and she can’t be trusted not to put the little pieces in her mouth yet." "So?" Adam, younger than his brother by all of seventeen minutes, kicked his toe against the
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carpet. "It’s not our fault she’s too dumb not to swallow stuff." Virginia took a deep breath and tried to rein in her irritation. "That’s enough, young man. You get busy right now, and I’ll hear no more back talk, or you’ll spend the rest of the afternoon in your room. Do I make myself clear?" "Yes, ma’am," murmured the twins. Two pairs of shoulders slumped, two mouths turned down at the corners, and two nine-year-olds set about the task in as slow and as irritating a fashion as possible. Virginia shook her head at the sight. "The slower you move, the more of that ballgame you’re going to miss. You’re only hurting yourselves, you know." Not waiting for an answer, she went back to the kitchen and resumed working with the sticky cookie dough she’d been about to roll out. "Mom, haven’t you got those cookies done yet?" Nicole, the Shue’s pre-teen daughter, asked. "I have to be at show choir practice at 7:00, you know. At this rate -- ." "At this rate," Virginia said, her blood pressure quickly rising, "You’ll be visiting your mother at the funny farm -- and patients there aren’t allowed to play with dangerous things like rolling pins and hot ovens. Is that what you want?" Nicole huffed out a disgusted breath and rolled her eyes. "Geeze, Mom. You don’t have to get all huffy about it." "Huffy?" Virginia banged the rolling pin down with jerky, aggravated movements. "Young lady, I’ll thank you not to speak to me like that! Your cookies would have been done last night, if you’d bothered to give me the note when you got it. If you’re late for practice, it’ll be your own fault. And," she added, turning to glare at her daughter, "Don’t think I’ve forgotten your promise. I agreed to bake and you agreed to clean the bathrooms. Now, go get busy!" Nicole, backed by twelve years of childhood experience, put on her most convincing pout. "But
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Mom … I just got dressed for tonight. I can’t scrub the toilets in this outfit." Through clenched teeth, the harried mother said, "First change your clothes, and then clean the bathrooms. Go." Just then the television burst into sound, blaring out the all too familiar Pokemon theme song. Brad would be home any minute, the house was in chaos, and she hadn’t even started supper. "Boys!" Virginia called as she stalked across the kitchen and poked her head around the corner to the living room. "Turn that TV down this instant! You’re going to wake your -- ." An all too familiar cry announced that the warning had come too late. Seething with irritation, she went looking for the remote control and winced when a small plastic building block poked into the sole of one bare foot. "Turn that thing off!" she yelled. "There will be no TV, no supper … nothing … until you two have cleaned up this mess!" Righteous indignation turned to guilt the moment two pairs of brown eyes clouded with tears. "I’m sorry, Mommy," Timothy whispered. "Me, too," Adam mumbled as he rubbed at his eyes. "What is wrong with you?" Nicole said as she hurried from the kitchen and hugged each of her little brothers in turn. "Why are you being so mean?" "Damn it, Nicole, you get your butt in that bathroom,” Virginia said, pointing down the hallway, "and get busy!" Nicole’s eyes grew moist and red, and Virginia was overwhelmed by a surge of guilt. She felt even worse when she heard the quiet voice behind her. "Boys, turn off the television," Brad said as, carrying two-year-old Becca in his arms, he entered the room. "Nicole, you take Becca in the kitchen and get her some crackers to tide her over ‘til supper, okay?"
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He passed the wide-eyed Becca to her older sister and turned to Virginia with an icily polite smile. His hand was firm on her upper arm as he turned her in the direction of their bedroom. "Honey, why don’t you come talk to me while I change into some jeans?" She wanted to scream -- to throw an absolute temper tantrum then and there -- but she knew better. Silently, she preceded her husband down the hall to their bedroom. Without a word, he followed her into the room, shut and locked the door. "Now then," he said as the noisy chaos subsided into silence. "You want to tell me what this is all about?" She took one look at her husband’s disappointed face and dissolved into tears. Guilt, frustration and anger washed over her in wave after wave and, dropping down onto the edge of the bed, she covered her face with her hands and wept. She felt, rather than saw, Brad join her on the bed; and then his strong, loving arms wound around her and she turned to cry into his shirt front. "I can’t take it any more," she sobbed. "The kids are driving me nuts. All I do, all day long, is move from one crisis to the next, one mess to the next. I don’t get anything accomplished and if Nicole’s feelings are any indication, I’m obviously the worst mother in the world." "No, you’re not," Brad soothed as he pulled his wife into his lap. "You’re a good mom, honey. You’re just having a bad day." For some reason, his tender understanding only served to irritate her further. "Bad day? Brad, I’m having a bad year. Hell, make that a bad lifetime. Shit! If you had to be licensed to have kids, there’s no way I’d have gotten past my learner’s permit." She felt him take a deep breath, as though steadying himself. "Ginny, I realize you’re upset right now, but we’ve agreed not to use that kind of language in our home. No more," he said, his voice taking on stern note. "Got it?"
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"Oh, sure." She shrugged and pulled away from him a little. "I’m losing my mind here, and you’re worried about a few four letter words?" Disentangling herself, she went to the bedroom door. "Well, in that case, I’m guessing you’re not going to like it at all when I tell you to fuck off." She turned away quickly, intent on getting back to her cookie baking and supper making, but he was off the bed in a flash. His large hand held the door shut even when she yanked on the knob. "Get out of my way, Brad! I’m got work to do." "Oh, no you don’t." His grip was firm around her upper arm, and he smacked her denim-clad bottom several times as he walked her back toward the bed. "You, young lady, have only one thing to do now … and that’s to get into your pajamas and get ready for bed. I will be back, once I have the kids in bed, to discuss that mouth of yours. In fact, you can expect to be sucking on a bar of soap before you go over my knee for the good, old-fashioned spanking that you’ve just earned." She was caught between woman and child, enraged that he intended to spank her, yet longing to follow his instructions and climb into bed. Still, there was far too much to be done and she could not stand the thought of so easily capitulating. Gathering her courage, she turned to her husband with an icy glare. "You can spank me later, but I’ve got to get those cookies baked for Nicole. Her practice is at 7:00, and she’s going to have a fit if she’s late." "If Nicole throws a fit, I’ll deal with it." Brad walked calmly to his wife’s bureau and, opening the top drawer, pulled out a faded pink nightshirt. It was her punishment nightie, the one he’d given her several years ago, with the word "naughty" emblazoned on the front. "Put this on," he said, holding the soft cotton shirt out to her. "And no panties. I’m going to take the kids out for supper, and we‘ll bring you back something. Is there anything in particular that you’d like?"
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Virginia stood with her fists clenched at her sides, her chest heaving angrily. "No." "Take the shirt, Virginia Anne," Brad said in a tightly controlled tone. "You really do not want to go any farther with this foolishness." "Foolishness?" She knew her actions to be precisely that -- foolish in the extreme -- but she couldn’t seem to stop the words that tumbled from her mouth. "I’ve been running this household for fifteen years, and now you’re calling me a fool? How dare you! Why, I’m nothing more to you than cheap labor -- housekeeper, nanny and whore all rolled into one!" He’d had enough -- she saw it the moment the venomous words were out of her mouth. By the time she took an instinctive step back, however, it was too late. Grabbing her by the wrist, he dragged her into the master bathroom and shut the door. A moment later, he was seated on the edge of the garden tub, and she was yanked, face down, over his knee. Even with jeans and panties to cushion the first hard swat, she jumped and kicked reflexively at the sting his hand imparted. "I don’t know what’s gotten into you, young lady," Brad said as he rained down hard spanks all over her bottom and upper thighs," but I intend to get rid of it! You will not curse at our children, or at me, and you most certainly will not defy me again." He stopped for a brief moment, but only to locate the wooden bath brush, which lay on the edge of the tub. Virginia, already struggling, began to whimper the moment she understood his intention. "No … please," she said, instantly contrite. Her hand slipped back, palm up, in an attempt to ward off the punishing blows. "Please, not the bath brush," she begged. Her pleas fell on inattentive ears. Brad only wrestled her hand into the small of her back and brought the brush cracking down with several brisk, bottom-sizzling spanks. "Yes, the bath brush," he said through clenched teeth. "And this is just a taste
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of what you’ll be feeling tonight, young lady. This is meant to convince you to put that nightie on and get your tush into bed. How sore said tush is when we start with the real spanking tonight is entirely up to you." Tears welled up in Virginia’s eyes and she willed herself to quit struggling. Brad only used the wicked, long-handled brush when she’d been very naughty. The fact that he would use it again tonight was enough to make her stomach flip-flop with nauseating nerves. "Okay … okay," she moaned as he started in on her sensitive upper thighs. "I’ll be good now, I promise! I’ll get ready for bed." Crack! The brush bounced off her left thigh. "Are you sure?" "Yes … I promise!" Crack! Her right thigh suffered the same fate. "Are you absolutely certain you’re ready to cooperate?" Tears coursed down her cheeks and she nodded. "Please let me get ready for bed, sir. Please." "Alright then." Brad put the brush down and helped his wife to her feet. "Go change." True to her word, Virginia hurriedly stripped out of her clothes and pulled the nightshirt down over her head. She caught sight of her already red bottom in the full-length mirror, but wisely made no complaint. There was certainly no call to further irritate the man who would, in a few short hours, be royally blistering her hind end. Brad stood in the bathroom doorway, watching as his wife pulled back the covers and eased herself down onto the mattress. With a somber shake of his head, he went to her side, pulled sheets and comforter up around her shoulders and bent down to kiss her lightly on the temple. "Rest, Mrs. Shue," he said. "You’re going to need it." With that, he switched off the light and let himself out of the room. ____________________
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A little while later, after ordering a couple of pizzas and settling Becca in with some goldfish crackers, Brad turned a speculative gaze on his three older children. "So, gang. Want to tell me what was going on today that got your mom so upset?" "We just wanted to go outside to play," Timothy started. "And she got mad ‘cuz of the Legos," Adam added. "And she made like a federal case over the cookies, Dad. She was yelling and -- ." "Okay, that’s enough." The father of four held up his hand to shush the chorus of accusations. "I asked what was going on, not for a tattling session. Mom doesn’t usually get that upset, so I suspect that there’s more to this than any of you are admitting. Now, boys … you said Mom was mad about Lego’s. I take it that means she wanted you to pick up your toys before you went outside?" Timothy, acting as spokesman, kicked at the table leg dejectedly. "Yeah. But the game had already started!" "And how long had you known about the game?" "Uh … well, we talked about it yesterday … all of us guys in the neighborhood agreed on 3:30." "So, you knew what time the game started and you tried to get out of the house without cleaning up, which is never allowed. Have I got that right?" Both boys looked down at their as yet empty plates. "Mmm-hmm." "Sounds to me like your mom had every right to be irritated with you, especially considering the way you had the TV blaring when I walked in. You will apologize to your mother first thing tomorrow morning. Understand?" "Yes, sir," both boys mumbled in unison. "And as for you, Nicole? How long have you known you needed to take cookies to tonight’s practice?"
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Nicole let her blonde hair fall around her face. "Since last week. Everybody has to take a turn at bringing snacks. I signed up for this week." "I see." Brad rested his elbows on the table and regarded his daughter over steepled fingers. "And did you okay it with your mom first?" The expression on her face was answer enough. "I see. So, when did you tell her?" "I just forgot, Dad. I didn’t mean to." He nodded brusquely. "This morning or this afternoon?" "Mom took us all to the grocery at 11:00," Adam said cheerfully. "She offered to buy cookies at the store, but Nicki only wanted Mom’s homemade sugar cookies. That’s what made her grouchy." "Did not," Nicole erupted. "Did too," Timothy chirped, delighted at his sister’s response. "It was all your fault Mom got mad at us!" "Hush." Brad spoke softly, but the children recognized the tone and abruptly closed their mouths. When he had their attention once again, he continued, "Nicole, you will be taking store bought cookies to practice tonight and you will also apologize to your mother for your behavior." He looked at her with a stern expression. "In addition, you will consult your mother before volunteering her to do anything. These last minute demands are rude, and from now on, they will be flatly refused. Understand?" "Okay, Dad." She sat back in her chair with a sullen look. "Sorry." The pizza arrived soon after that, and Brad busied himself doling out slices, cutting Becca’s food into manageable bites, and keeping too-full glasses of pop away from the edge of the table. By the time the check arrived, he was sorely missing his wife. He’d not taken all four of the kids anywhere by himself for a long time, and he was beginning to realize that he’d probably taken his wife’s child management skills for granted. Between Nicki’s
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aggrieved sighs, the boys’ love of potty humor and Becca’s uncanny ability to get whatever it was you thought you’d set out of her reach, he was getting irritable himself. The grocery was no better and he ended up taking home way more than he’d intended to. When a $10 cookie run turned into a $50 grocery bill, he decided he’d best find out Ginny’s secret to staying within the budget, a skill she seemed to excel at. Then there was Becca’s car seat tantrum, the boys managed to squirt the contents of a nearly full juice box all over one of the back windows, and Nicole’s disgusted expression as she held the packages of Keebler at a disgusted distance nearly had him about to blow his own stack. By the time he let her off at the school, he was adamant that she find a ride home, as he had no intention of repeating the trip in two hours time. She did, with great reluctance, and he returned home, no longer certain how to handle his wife. If the couple of hours he’d just spent with the kids was any indication of what a normal day around here felt like, he had a nagging suspicion that he owed her an apology instead of a spanking. ____________________ Virginia heard the car pull into the garage and the nervous anticipation she’d been feeling kicked into high gear. A glance at the clock had her groaning; it was only 7:30, and she had at least another two to three hours to think about the punishment she had coming. Waiting was absolutely the pits, and the fact that her stomach was empty only made her more susceptible to the nausea that accompanied the worrying. "Hey honey," Brad said as he poked his head in at the bedroom door. "You sleeping?" "No." She was past the attitude now, and desperately needed some cuddling, but then the smell of a Gianni’s Italian sub hit her, and her mouth started to water. "Oh, is that for me?"
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"Yep." He flipped on the light and brought in a tray with the sub and a can of decaf diet Coke. "Hungry?" She sat up and nodded, as hungry as she was nervous. "Yeah. I think I’d better try to eat something." "Good thinking," he said as he placed the tray over her outstretched legs. "It’s pretty late. Sorry everything took so long." "No problem. It’s impossible to do anything fast when you’re hauling four kids around. I should know." "Yeah." Brad jammed his hands in his pockets and glanced at his wife, "I was just thinking about that and -- ." "Dad! Becca has my Pokemon cards!" The complaint, which interrupted his thoughts, was followed by a shrill toddler’s cry. Virginia automatically put aside her supper tray with the intention of intervening before someone got hurt, but Brad shook his head in a not unkind manner. "I’ll take care of it, babe. You eat." ____________________ Virginia was left alone to finish her supper, the closed door filtering out the sounds of another childhood tug-of-war. If there was one thing she truly valued about their humble little house, it was the fact that the master bed and bath were at one end of the house, and the children’s rooms at the other. The set-up afforded the two adults a measure of privacy that came in handy, especially at times like these. Although they’d agreed to implement domestic discipline years ago, both Brad and Ginny had vowed that their arrangement would remain private knowledge between the two of them. The last thing either of them wanted was for one of the kids to hear Mommy being spanked. Ginny actually did manage to sleep a bit after supper, and she was surprised to learn it was nearly ten when Brad came in to wake her. "Honey," he
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said, rubbing her shoulder gently. "The kids are getting settled in for the night. I’m going to give them another fifteen minutes or so before I come to bed." She pushed herself up to a sitting position and, looking forlornly at her husband, asked, "Do I need to go to the corner now?" "No. Actually, I’ve run you a hot bath. I want you to go on in and soak for a while. I’ll let you know when you’re allowed to get out of the tub." Biting her lip, Ginny climbed out of bed and padded into the bathroom. The site of a dozen candles shimmering around the room caught her breath. She turned, meaning to question Brad, but he’d already closed the bedroom door behind him. The water was warm, and the bubbles came up to her chin as she sank down into the extra-deep tub. He’d turned on the CD player in the bedroom, she noticed, and the soft strains of a laid-back jazz band made her feel more relaxed than she had in days. She could, in fact, almost believe that her husband had planned a romantic interlude, rather than a serious spanking; but then she caught site of the kitchen timer he’d placed beside a new bar of soap, and knew that she wouldn’t be getting out of her punishment after all. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and allowed the silent tears to fall. "Hey now." Brad’s voice startled her some time later, and she opened her eyes to find him standing in the bathroom doorway. "Why the tears, sweetheart?" "I’m just sorry," she said, her eyes on the bubbles that covered her breasts and tummy. "I really screwed up today. You have every right to be mad at me." Tilting his head, he considered her for a moment. "I’m not mad, honey. Just worried … and a little disappointed. You know I can’t allow you to curse at our kids. That’s not the kind of example either of us wants them to emulate."
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Virginia felt her face grow hot with shame. "I know. I’m sorry." He came to sit on the edge of the tub and, leaning in, kissed her on the forehead. "I believe someone was promised a mouth soaping." He nodded toward the new bar of Ivory. "Lather it up, please." "Brad, please -- ." She choked back a sob. "I hate it when you wash my mouth out." "Mmm-hmm." He nodded in agreement. "Which is exactly why it works as a deterrent. Please do as you’ve been told, Virginia Anne. This will all go much easier for you if you cooperate." Swallowing hard, Ginny unwrapped the bar of soap and held it under the water, then rubbed it back and forth between her hands. Brad went to the sink, ran cold water into a Dixie cup, and brought it back so it was within his reach. "Alright, tell me why we’re doing this," he said, tipping her chin up so that she was forced to meet his eyes. "I used several four letter words, one in front of the kids." Tears swam in her eyes. "I knew better. I’m sorry." "Okay." He nodded and let her chin drop, then held his hand out for the soap. Making certain it was well lathered, he ordered, "Open up." She gave a small sob, but obediently opened her mouth wide enough for him to insert the bar of soap. "Okay, close your mouth on it," he said. When she obeyed, he nodded and praised, "That’s a good girl. Keep it there for two minutes," he added as he turned the knob on the timer, "and it’ll be all over with." For Virginia, it seemed like the longest two minutes of her life. The bitter taste of the soap made her eyes water, and she wanted nothing more than to spit it out. She’d tried that once, however, and it had only resulted in a blazing hot bottom and double the soap time. She was not so foolish as to try it again.
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"I hope this little reminder serves to clean up your mouth, Virginia Anne," Brad lectured as the seconds ticked by. "If I have to do this again, it’ll be five minutes. Understand?" She nodded, helpless to do anything but cry. "I don’t care how rotten the kids have been," he continued, "you will not speak to any of them in that manner. Am I making myself clear?" Tears streamed down her cheeks as she tried not to swallow any of the horrible-tasting lather. Just when she was feeling quite desperate, however, the timer rang and her husband swiftly reached for the soap. "Okay, let me have it," he said and she obediently opened her mouth. He took the offensive cake and put it in the soap dish, then reached for the small cup of water. "Do you have something to say for yourself, young lady?" he asked as he held the desired water out of her reach. "I -- I’m sorry, sir," she whispered around a mouthful of bubbles "And I won’t do it again." "See that you don’t," he said and handed her the water, which she gratefully gargled and then spit into a second paper cup he provided. "Could I have more water, please?" Once she’s had sufficient opportunity to rinse her mouth, Virginia sat back in the tub and took quiet, deep breaths. "I am really sorry, honey," she said at length. "I know you are." Brad sighed grimly and reached for the long-handled bath brush. "And now we’ve got just one matter left to attend to. Stand up, young lady." She looked up, surprised, but didn’t dare argue. She could not, however, tear her eyes away from the wicked brush. He watched her rise up out of the water, and the sight took his breath away. Stray bubbles clung to her full breasts and covered the triangle of dark blonde hair between her legs. He felt his body tighten in response, but he ignored the feeling and
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gave her his left hand. "Okay, over my knee with you," he said. "I want to get this over with." Her eyes grew wide and she shook her head in dismay. "But I can’t -- I’m wet! I’ll get you all wet." "It doesn’t matter," he said as he drew her down and over his lap. Her long legs lifted part way out of the water as he positioned her over his knee, and then he tapped the hard wood against her waterwarmed skin. "Take these like my big girl and you’ll only get fifteen. Fight me, and it’ll be worse. Got it?" "Yes," she whispered, her bottom cheeks clenching and flexing in time to the tapping of the brush. "Good." He drew back the brush and took aim. "Count them, please." Crack! The first sharp blow made her suck in her breath. "One." Smack! The second forced tears from her eyes. "Two." "Three," "four" and "five" landed fast and hard, and with a violent shudder, she began to sob. "Six" and "seven" were delivered to the back of one thigh and her head snapped back at the pain. "Eight" and "nine" reddened the other thigh and it was all she could do to not let loose with a string of expletives that would have singed a sailor’s ears. She managed to hold her tongue, though, and was glad of it. The remaining six were delivered with quick precision, three to each nether cheek, and her ability to count dissolved into heart wrenching sobs. Brad said nothing, however; just lifted her up and held her against his chest until she’d quieted. Then, lowering her gently back into the tub, he made quick work of stripping off his own clothes. "Mind if I join you?" he asked, towering over her. Virginia glanced up at her husband and smiled through her tears. "Please," she murmured as she made room for him.
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She watched as he stepped into the tub, then boldly took hold of his engorged manhood and drew him down, trembling, to face her. "Thank you." "For what?" he asked carefully. "For going easy on me." She got up onto her knees and, settling in between his outstretched legs, began to move her hands up and down his straining member. "Oh baby." Brad let his head fall back over the edge of the tub. Never before had he known such sweet torture. "Are you sure? You’re not too sore from the spanking?" She smiled seductively and leaned forward to flick her tongue against one of the hard, pink pebbles buried in his chest hair. "What do you think?" He groaned and, circling her waist with his hands, turned her away from him. "How about something new?" he asked, drawing her back until her recently seared bottom nestled snug against his pelvis. Virginia moaned when the tip of her husband’s shaft fitted itself to her waiting womanhood. When he surged upward into her, it took her breath away. Bracing her hands on either side of the tub, she rocked forward and back, up and down, until she felt the end of his hardened member make contact with that special place just inside her body. Then she began to glide up and down, shivering every time his powerful erection came into contact with the ultra sensitive spot just inside her snug passage. "That’s it, sweetheart," he ground out as she bounced up and down in his lap. Water lapped at the sides of the tub in a steady, relentless rhythm. He sucked in air through tightly clenched teeth and willed himself to hold off just a little longer. "Show me you want me," he murmured against the back of her neck. "Let yourself go." Virginia threw back her head, closed her eyes, and concentrated on the almost unbearable tension
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that thrummed through her veins. She was close -so very close. Brad set his back teeth against the powerful combination of tension and pleasure, and wound his arms around his wife. One hand found and pinched a taut nipple, and the other cupped her aching sex. His fingers delved into her intoxicating warmth, located the pearl of her desire and stroked once, gently. It was his touch that finally drove her over the edge. "Oh," she gasped and moved against him. "Oh yes. Please … right there." He felt her muscles clench around his shaft, watched her shiver as intense waves of pleasure washed over her and, gasping, let go of his own iron control. "I love you," he rasped as he thrust into her and, at last, found relief. They came to reality slowly, Virginia giggling when Brad nipped at her shoulder. "The water’s getting cold," he complained. "How about we take this party on into the bedroom." Weak from the after-effects of passion, she stood compliantly still as he dried her off. When he went down on one knee and, clasping her sore bottom, pulled her forward towards his waiting mouth, she gave a surprised squeak but twined her hands in his dark brown hair and urged him on. Moments later, he swept her up and carried her to the bed. There, he stretched out beside her and continued his gentle ministrations even as he handed her a carefully folded sheet of printer paper. "What’s this?" she asked as she arched up for his touch. "Just a little gift for the mother of my children." He took her mouth, kissed her thoroughly, and then smiled down at her dazed expression. "Well, aren’t you going to read it?’ She unfolded the sheet of paper and her eyes widened in disbelief. "A weekend at the spa?" She read the certificate a second time and then looked at him with tear-filled eyes. "But why?"
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He grinned and continued his manipulations of her sweet, warm folds, driving her once again towards release. "I spent the evening with the kids … alone." He took the certificate from her, laid it on the nightstand and got back to the business of giving her pleasure. "Something tells me this is long overdue."
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The Princess, the Peas, and the Innkeeper’s Son Once upon a time, in a far away kingdom known as Yucawhozits, there lived an incredibly wealthy king. This monarch—King Daron was his name—was so wealthy, in fact, that he was the envy of not only peasants and gentle folk, but of fellow rulers everywhere. Every day, King Daron sat upon his solid gold throne (cushioned with pillows sewn with golden thread), put on his heavy, gem-encrusted crown, took up his shining solid gold scepter with the single largest ruby in the world gleaming from the tip, and attended to all kingly matters, large and small, that were brought before him. He was a good king, a benevolent ruler, and he enjoyed the respect and loyalty of his people for many long and happy years. The day came, however, when the people began to resent the king, and this is why. He had a daughter, you see—a child called by the name of Angelina—whom he loved with such unadulterated indulgence that she became quite the spoiled, illtempered brat. Now Angelina’s mother had died in childbirth, so perhaps one can understand why the good King Daron was apt to give the child anything she wanted. When she was an infant, he saw to it that she was literally cuddled and rocked all through the night, for the king could not bear the thought of the poor, motherless babe sleeping without the constant reassurance of a maternal embrace. At the age of three, when little Angelina decided she was tired of foods such as eggs and meat and bread and cried for nothing but sweets for every meal, the king indulged her whim, allowing her to eat only what she wanted until she finally outgrew the phase and went back to a healthier diet of her own accord. When Angelina stomped and cried because the white horse she’d requested for her eighth birthday had a black spot the size of a six-pence on her right
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front fetlock, King Daron immediately dispatched riders to every kingdom, far and wide, in search of an animal that was of a pure white. And when Angelina, at the ripe old age of fourteen, complained that it tired her to move the chess pieces on her gold and silver playing board, the king hired a large company of traveling entertainers to play the parts of knights, bishops and queens on a garden-sized chess board below two speciallyconstructed balconies. It goes without saying, of course, that every one of the princess’s chess opponents was paid handsomely to allow the princess to win. After all, could such a brat be expected to act as anything other than a pitifully sore loser? As you, my dear reader, can likely imagine, years of coddling and indulgence do not a responsible, empathetic adult make—and Princess Angelina was proof of, rather than an exception to, this rule. By the time she turned sixteen, she was so thoroughly spoiled that the servants lived in constant fear of her wrath. A burnt pork chop was cause for a flogging; a misplaced hairpin elicited a cry of "Off with your head," and even though the king saw to it that none of his daughter’s threats were actually carried out, once-loyal servants fled their positions in droves. You’d flee too, I suspect, if it was your neck daily rescued from the executioner’s blade. Soon, even the peasants—the very backbone of the kingdom—began to talk of leaving for less prosperous, but likely safer, lands. King Daron, you see, had managed to retain his practically boundless wealth, but no amount of coin could assure safety to his people if his daughter came into power. Angelina, as fair of face as a princess ought to be, possessed a terrible disposition and a volcanic temper that—if ever backed up by the status of "official monarch" of the nation—would spell disaster for anyone who crossed her. Everyone from the king’s most trusted advisors to the lowest of
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paupers knew this to be true and, thus, King Daron’s subjects flowed across the borders like blood from an open wound. Now, lest you think the king a complete nincompoop, allow me to assure you that Daron eventually recognized his mistakes and set about to right them in the only way he knew how—by procuring for his daughter a husband who would, he hoped, tame her willful, selfish ways. After all, if he’d had the heart to curb her horrible behavior, he’d have done so long ago. Since he did not have it in him to discipline her, however, King Daron ordered a search conducted amongst his royal peers for a Prince of marriageable age. "Preferably someone of sound body and a hearty temperament," the King told his most trusted advisor. "And if he’s three or four kingdoms away, more’s the better." The search, however, did not go as smoothly as the king had hoped. Angelina’s eighteenth birthday, as well as her nineteenth, came and went without so much as one offer for her hand. King Daron threw balls and hosted feasts, but few attended and not one eligible bachelor returned for a second glimpse at the world’s wealthiest princess. On the contrary, Angelina’s reputation grew so bad that she became something of a bogeyman—or perhaps I should say a bogeywoman—with which monarchs the world over threatened their reluctant-to-marry sons. "Choose someone, or I’ll send for Princess Angelina," Prince Charming’s father told him, and the prince gladly took Cinderella—a servant girl—to wife. "Do you want me to contact King Daron?" a queen asked of her son, and the lad chose to brave a forest of thorns, a fire-breathing dragon and some serious sleep-induced halitosis in order to claim Sleeping Beauty as his bride. "We’re sending out the messenger right now," an exasperated couple told their swinging bachelor
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boy and he risked his very neck climbing up a rope made of hair to rescue Repunzel. He even lost his eyesight in the bargain, but anything had to be better than marriage to the dreaded Princess Angelina. Thus went the search for a husband for Angelina. Two years passed and the princess grew ever more the shrew. The King despaired of finding a husband for his daughter, employee turn-over at the castle hit a record high, and the royal cooks took to sending to the next town over for pizza and Chinese food, as there was no one left in the royal city to grow produce or provide meat for the royal dinners. As you can well imagine, the future was not looking so bright for King Daron and his daughter. Then something so miraculous, so absolutely unbelievable happened, that upon hearing the news, the king wept with joy. A missive arrived from a far-away land—a kingdom known as Upper Slambovia, or some such—requesting the presence of Daron, and his "lovely" daughter, so that a marriage contract could be drawn up between the heirs to the respective kingdoms. King Daron, by now quite desperate to have his petted and pampered daughter out of his hair, ordered a carriage brought around post haste, and he and a rather furious Angelina set out for Upper Whateverit’s-called without delay. "What if I don’t want to marry him," Angelina demanded of her father as the carriage bumped along. "What if he’s poor, father—or ugly, or boorish, or—or—?" "I’m sure he’ll be fine," King Daron soothed. "And besides, ‘tis past time—." "—I was married?" Angelina’s deep brown eyes flashed angrily. "That is what you were going to say, isn’t it, Father? You’ve made no secret of the fact that you want me married off. And by God, you’ll jump at any chance that comes along." The
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young woman drew in a shuddering breath. "You— you don’t love me any more, do you?" This display was, of course, intended to elicit sympathy from King Daron, but the poor old man had grown so weary of the his daughter’s demands and tantrums that he only shook his head and told her, sadly, "Angelina, I have always loved you, and I always will. I cannot, however, deny the mistakes I’ve made in raising you. You are spoiled and selfish and terribly unkind. We cannot keep servants at the Castle because they live in constant fear of your temper. The royal city is empty, thanks to your constant threats against the gentle folk and peasants who look to us for protection. "Furthermore, as I grow older, more of our subjects flee farther away—even across the borders to serve other kings. They fear the day when you will become Queen, as do I." King Daron reached out to touch his dear daughter’s hand, but she pulled away from him in sullen silence. "I understand that it must hurt you to hear the truth, my dear," he continued. "To be honest, it hurts me to speak of these things to you—but for these reasons, I must find you a husband. If you have not a king to guide you as queen, I fear you will soon have no kingdom to rule. And Angelina? No matter what else you may believe of me, know this. I would not leave you alone and unprotected. I love you far too much to act in such a cruel and thoughtless manner." Tears swam in the princess’s eyes—tears only she knew, for certain, were genuine. Her father’s admission, words that he’d never before said to her, cut deeply. Still, she was far too stubborn to admit to that pain, so she fell back into her old ways. "I’ll not marry this prince, or any man, for that matter," she hissed. "And to my dying day, I will hate you for trying to force marriage upon me, father."
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With that, the princess grasped the gilt handle on the carriage door and, in a fit of temper, leapt from the conveyance. By the time King Daron had called to his guards and the carriage was halted, Princess Angelina had disappeared into the dark night. Now, as one might well imagine, the princess was ill prepared for the reality of being a woman alone, on foot, in the dark of night. Truth be told, she regretted her rash actions almost immediately, but by the time she paused to get her bearings, she was too far from the road to have any hope of finding her way back. She was also quite chilled because, in her anger, she’d refused to don either a warm gown or a proper cloak before leaving the castle. She had, in fact, demanded that her maid provide her with one of the servant’s simplest gown, which she’d worn to spite her father. In addition, she’d refused to sup before taking to the road and was, therefore, rather hungry. All in all, it was turning out to be a horrid night indeed. Still, Princess Angelina was just stubborn enough to continue moving in a direction she hoped would take her away from her father’s carriage. His words had cut her deeply, and she intended to visit that pain back on her sire. "He’ll be sorry," she told herself, "when he realizes I’m really gone. And won’t he feel wretched then, when there’s no Angelina to marry off to the highest bidder?" "Don’t you mean the only bidder?" insisted a niggling little voice inside her head. "And I might take sick," she added aloud, in the hopes of drowning out that small whisper of conscience. "It’s cold out here and, with neither shelter nor food, I could very well die." Practically swooning with the thought, Angelina stopped to lean against a tree. "There will be a great funeral, with a team of black horses to pull the hearse and roses by the dozens laid upon my grave. And all those who spoke harshly of me -- why, my father
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will likely have their tongues cut out for such vicious lies!" "Or he might just throw them a party," the voice argued. "Besides, a thing is only a lie if ‘tis untrue." It was in this manner that Princess Angelina carried on for quite some time. Her self-centered diatribe continued, interrupted now and again by surprising bouts of conscience, until she looked up and realized she was thoroughly lost. The woods had closed about her, her feet hurt, she was shivering with cold, and her stomach was gnawing at her backbone. A few, self-pitying tears slid down the young woman’s cheeks. Where were her father and his men? Were the guards so incompetent that they couldn’t track her, or was it possible that her father did not want her back? Either way, Angelina was quite convinced she was doomed to die before morning. She might indeed have perished there in the forest, had it not been for the glimmer of light that led her out of the woods and up to the door of a small but tidy inn. Light spilled from two small, paper-covered windows—and while the rumble of male voices gave her a moment’s pause, Princess Angelina was ultimately too cold and hungry to worry over much about the presence of a few men, no matter how unsavory they might be. Besides, if anyone bothered her, her father would deal with him come the morning. She might be far from the palace, but she was still the Princess of Yucawhozits. Why, then, should she fear the simple-minded farmers and peasants bound to be present at a small, out of the way inn? Head held high, Angelina pushed open the door and stepped inside. The common room of the inn boasted two long tables with benches of the same length for sitting on, a high wooden counter behind which a woman of indeterminate years ladled out soup and poured ale into glasses, and a large stone fireplace. Before the blazing fire was another, smaller bench where two rather old men sat, warming the sodden wool
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socks they wore on their shoeless feet. Up and down the length of the tables, late night patrons munched on the days leftovers of bread, cheese, and something thick, steaming and green. Angelina sniffed delicately, put a hand to her stomach and picked her way around the diners and more than one drunkard. Much to her dismay, not one of the diners spared her more than a passing glance. At last, reaching the counter, she wrapped smartly on the wooden top in order to call attention to herself. "Here now, woman!" she said to the broad backside of the proprietress, who was just that moment reaching down for another heavy keg of ale to sit upon the counter. "Turn about here at once, and be sharp about it. I have need of food, warm clothing, and shelter for this night." "Eh? Who’s that?" A brown bun, threaded with gray, bobbed as the older woman peered over her shoulder. "Ye can hold yer horses, lassie, like the rest of me customers. Everyone what walks in yon door is cold and hungry, and all deserving of equal service for equal coin." With a deep breath, the woman hefted the keg up onto the counter and, tapping it, filled a mug to the brim with the soursmelling brew. "Let me get this to old Gregory there, and then I’ll see to yer supper." "To old who?" Angelina’s eyes came alive with fire, but the woman only brushed past her as she took the ale to one of the old-timers before the fire. "Why, of all the impertinence." The proprietress, returning to her station, asked cheerily, "Eh? What’s that ye said, lassie? Ye’ll ‘ave to speak into my right ear, as I canno’ hear a bloody thing with the left." "I said you are an impertinent old fool," Angelina shouted into the woman’s good ear. "How dare you wait upon another when your princess awaits your attention!" The woman stepped back, a mixture of suspicion and surprise written on her face. "Oh a princess, are ye?" She smiled, revealing crooked yellow teeth.
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"Look alive, boys—‘tis royalty come a’calling tonight. I hope ye gentlemen remembered to dress proper fer supper." "Royalty, you say?" A scruffy, bearded man banged his cup down on the table, laughing merrily. "Why, come and sit wi’ me, lassie. I’m the Duke of Westchester, ye know." Angelina spun around, fists clenched. "You most certainly are not. The Duke of Westchester is tall, and quite distinguished, sir—and his hair is gray, whereas yours is red." "She’s got ye there, Charlie," a sailor called out from the other table. "Why, even with my black locks, I look more like the Duke than ye do." The princess’s eyes opened even wider. "How dare you—both of you. Do you not know ‘tis illegal to impersonate a member of the peerage? Why I could have your heads for this!" "Och, lass," the proprietress scolded from behind the counter. "Do no’ take such a harsh tone wi’ the men. They’re only havin’ a bit o’ fun wi’ ye. Come now—what’ll ye have?" Chest still heaving with fury, the princess turned back to the counter and said, in her haughtiest tone, "I would speak with the owner of this establishment, if you please." At this, the woman grinned so that two fine dimples appeared in her cheeks. She wiped a calloused hand on her apron, then held it out to princess. "That’d be me, the Widow Hancock, though ye can call me Martha. Everyone else does." "Mrs. Hancock," Angelina intoned, holding out her hand to be kissed. The good-natured innkeeper tilted her head to one side and studied the offered hand, after which she grasped the fine-boned appendage and pumped the princess’s arm in a hearty handshake. "So, deary—what’s yer name? Really?" "My name is Angelina, Princess of Yucawhozits. What are you—simpleminded?"
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Martha stepped back, her lips pursed, her blue eyes saddened as she studied Angelina. "Ah, like that, is it? Ye poor thing." She shook her head and clucked sympathetically. "Have a sit down, deary, and I’ll fetch ye some soup. And since ye look so cold, I’m thinkin’ some nice, hot tea would do ye good. I’ll jest put the water on to boil, child, and be right back wi’ yer dinner." Stunned by the sudden change in the innkeeper’s behavior, and much too hungry to argue, Angelina hobbled on blistered feet to the uninhabited end of one table. Minutes later, a plate laden with bread, a heel of cheese and a bowl of thick, bubbling, split pea soup were put in front of her. "I do no’ suppose ye’ve coin to pay fer food and lodging?" Martha asked as she took a seat opposite Angelina. "No." Angelina sat up ramrod straight and reached for the tea that had accompanied her supper. "But my father will gladly—." Martha shook her head. "Och. There’s no need for that, lassie. A body needs food, e’en if the mind’s gone ill." "The mind’s gone ill?" Angelina looked at the woman, aghast. "I assure you, ma’am, that there’s nothing wrong with my mind. There must be something ill with yours, however, if ye think I’ll eat this slop!" With that, she shoved the food in the older woman’s direction. "Take this away at once, and bring me fresh bread and some meat!" Martha’s lips compressed into a thin, barely patient line. "Listen here, me fine little miss. Ye may no’ realize it yet, but I mean to help ye. I would no’ advise ye try my patience, though, unless ye’re hankerin’ to find yerself locked out fer the night." "Locked out!" Angelina’s voice rose to a shrill pitch. "Why, who do you think you are, woman? You would not dare leave your monarch out in the cold! Why, you’re lucky I don’t throw you in the dungeon
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just for feeding me such slop. Pea soup indeed! It’s disgusting." Martha stood, her green eyes flashing fire. "I’ll have ye know that there’s no finer soup to be had for miles around. Right boys?" Several men looked up from their plates to voice their agreement. "Best anywhere, Martha," the sailor declared. "And I’ve been places, so I knows whereof I speaks!" "Be silent!" a furious Princess Angelina demanded as she leapt to her feet. "You’re all nothing but a bunch of peasants and paupers, and you know nothing. And I, madam," she added, turning her attention back to the innkeeper, "do not eat pea soup." With that, she picked up the bowl and hurled it, narrowly missing the widow’s ear to land with a sickening splat against the wall. "Mother." The voice was the first thing to register with Angelina, and then she turned to find a tall, broad-shouldered young man leaning lazily against the inn door. "Allow me to handle this matter, please." "Now Grayson," Martha said, hurrying to block her son’s progress toward the rude guest. "Do no’ be too angry wi’ the lass." She leaned in and whispered, loudly enough that Angelina could hear, "The gel’s not quite right in the head. ‘Twould be a sin to deal harshly with one of God’s lesser creatures, ye know." Grayson nodded, though his green eyes never left Angelina’s face. "Ye needn’t worry, mother. I only mean to reason with our guest." "All right then." Martha glanced nervously at the young woman, then back to her son. "Do ye promise?" Grayson took a deep breath and, turning his full attention on his mother, pulled her nervous hands away from the apron she was twisting. Smiling gently, he told her, "Ye have my word, mother." This clearly eased the innkeeper’s mind and, patting her son’s face, she told him, "Ye always
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were a good lad, Gray, and now ye’ve grown into a fine, strong man. I thank ye for yer aid." With that, Martha returned to her duties behind the bar. While the word of Grayson Hancock was clearly a comfort to his mother, Angelina was hardly reassured as the man advanced on her. He was tall—much more so than her father or any of the castle servants—and the dark hair that fell across his forehead and shadowed his strong jaw only added to his sinister appearance. Swallowing hard, she stepped back a pace. "What are you about, sir?" she demanded in a less than confident tone of voice. "I warn you, lay a hand on me and you will regret it." "Oh?" His sardonic smile was maddening. "My dear princess, I dare say you will regret it far more than I." He took her arm in a firm, but not unkind, grasp. "Come. Ye have a mess to clean up." Angelina struggled as the innkeeper’s son hauled her toward the kitchen. "You want me to clean up that mess? Why, that’s just—well, ‘tis a ludicrous idea." She dug angry fingernails into the hand that held her arm. "Unhand me at once, sir, or know that you will pay for this with your life." "Stop struggling and come with me," Grayson returned, "or you’ll pay with your backside." "You would not dare strike me," Angelina gasped. "I am King Daron’s daughter and, therefore, the Princess of Yucawhozits!" "And I’m the King of England," Grayson replied in a conspiratorial whisper. "But tonight, whilst we’re disguised as plain folk, I’m afraid we must act the part, yer highness. And plain folk," he added, pointing to a mop and bucket, "clean up after themselves." Angelina turned horrified eyes on the bucket full of hot, soapy water. The scent of lye permeated the room. "I cannot possibly expose my hands to such harsh soap. It will surely give me a rash."
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"And my belt’ll give ye an aching bum. The only question to be answered, milady, is which ye would prefer." "I would prefer," the princess retorted, her chin set at a stubborn angle, "to see you burn in hell." "Alright, lass. If ye will no’ listen to reason, then I suppose there’s no help for it. ‘Tis time for the burnin’." Panicked, Angelina struggled to free herself from the big man’s grip. She clawed and screamed, she bit and kicked, but nothing fazed Grayson Hancock. Despite her best efforts, she found herself lying face down over his knee, her skirts tumbled over her head and her bottom as bare as the day she was born. "Stop it!" she demanded, kicking out wildly. "I command you to let me up this instant." A broad palm landed with a resounding smack upon her upturned bottom. "It seems to me, princess," the dark-haired man said, "that ye’re no’ in the best o’ positions for givin’ commands." Angelina kicked and squirmed even harder, but found the reward for such behavior was a volley of horrible, stinging blows and a change in position that left her legs pinned between his muscled thighs. "You are a bastard!" she screamed. "Oh I am, am I?" Grayson tipped the brownhaired hellcat farther forward and targeted the creamy white flesh of her thigh tops. "Well, since ye’ve already the belief, I may just as well prove ye right." Angelina shrieked and writhed when the man began his assault upon her sensitive legs. "How dare you," she screeched. "Just you wait until my father learns of this indignity. He’ll have your head on the chopping block, your neck in a noose. You’ll be drawn and quartered and—and—." "And what, princess?" Grayson, feeling the woman’s hands working up the leg of his breeches, pre-empted her attempted gouging of his calf by grasping and securing both of her slim wrists in the
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small of her back. "A man can only die once, ye know. But I can thrash yer behind well into morning, if need be." His strong hand once again returned to assault her once-white bottom cheeks. "And I will, too, if that’s what it takes to convince ye to clean up the mess ye’ve made and apologize to my mother." "Apologize? Never!" "Never’s a very long time," Grayson said as, reaching down, he divested the struggling woman of one of her fine, leather-soled slippers. "Especially if ye plan to spend it over my lap." With that, he returned to his task with renewed vigor. Angelina jerked and writhed in her attempt to get away from the bite of the leather sole, but to no avail. With her wrists captured and her legs pinned, she felt utterly helpless. Every stroke of her slipper—still soggy from her traipse through the forest—was agony, and every word out of her mouth seemed only to further anger the man who was, even now, covering her bottom with painful smacks. Worse yet, she was beginning to be afraid that her father might not come to her rescue. Oh, what a fool she’d been to leave the carriage! What if Papa didn’t want her back? What if she was truly on her own, with no hope of rescue? How long could this man possibly continue to thrash her bottom? Tears ran down her cheeks as he applied the slipper to the sensitive flesh between bottom and thigh. The answer was clear—he could continue dealing out the punishing blows far longer than she could stand to receive them. Finally, feeling truly frightened and absolutely desperate to bring an end to the pain, the princess broke down and cried. "Please stop," she sobbed. "Please sir, I implore you! I can bear it no longer." "Are ye ready to clean up yer mess then, lass?" "Yes—oh yes, sir! Please, allow me to rise so that I might mop the floor and—and—." She searched her mind for the right words to say. "And I
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must apologize to your mother, sir. I was terribly rude to her." "Aye. That ye were." Grayson tapped one hot, red bottom cheek with the slipper. "Ye’re lucky I do no’ take ye out to the woodshed for a proper thrashin’ with my belt for that! She’s a hardworking woman and does no’ deserve such blatant disrespect." Angelina’s sobs grew even more plaintive as her mind wrapped around the possibility of a "proper" thrashing. She wasn’t sure what that might entail, but she was almost certain it would be worse than any punishment that could be given in the kitchen by a man wielding a dainty slipper. "Please, sir. I am desperately sorry," she whispered. "Please do not thrash me any more. I promise, I will do whatever you command of me." "Very well." Letting out a sigh, the innkeeper’s son lifted the sobbing woman up and sat her in his lap. He’d not spanked her particularly hard, but something in her demeanor told him that her sobs were genuine. Snagging a towel from the edge of the dishpan, he handed it to her with awkward tenderness. "Here then—dry yer face, sweetling. ‘Tis over now and ye’re forgiven." For some unknown reason, that made Angelina cry all the harder. Burrowing her face against his shoulder, she sobbed, "Th-thank you, sir. For forgiving me, I mean. I know I was just horrid and I—I don’t deserve your kindness!" "Och, sweetheart," Grayson said, hugging the girl gently. "Everyone deserves to be treated kindly. Ye made a mistake, yes, but ye paid the price for it, and now ye’re ready to make amends. That’s all any o’ us can do, ye know." "I—I hope you’re right," Angelina murmured. "I’ve so much to make amends for." "’Twas just spilt soup." It seemed odd to the man that this woman would speak with such despair. "’Tis easily forgiven, lass."
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Now that the gel was curled up in his lap, tears replacing the angry expression she’d worn earlier, he could not help but notice her beauty. Her rich mahogany-colored hair, initially held back in a fine golden hair net, now spilled down her shoulders and curled in damp tendrils about her face. The small, springy curls that framed her face also served to accentuate her high cheekbones and brought out the gold flecks in her deep brown eyes. More important than her physical beauty, however, was the change in her very demeanor. Her earlier defiance had been replaced by a meek acceptance of his authority and, much to his shame, a hint of true fear—and while she’d deserved correction, Grayson did not wish for this woman to fear him. Something about her brought out the tenderness in him, and in response, he wrapped his arms more firmly about her and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "There there, pet—everything will be fine. Ye’ll say yer sorry to my mother, ye’ll clean up the mess ye made, and life’ll go on. Please do no’ fret so. Why, ye act as if ye’ve never been skelped before." Angelina sniffed and wiped away her tears, then got to her feet. The bucket was heavy, but she picked it up anyway and made for the common room of the inn. "That’s because I haven’t," she whispered. The innkeeper’s son followed a pace behind her, watching as she wrestled with the bucket. He was particularly surprised when she did not respond to any of the diners who, having witnessed her earlier tantrums, now saw her humiliation as an opportunity to have a bit of fun at her expense. Only a few of the men managed to voice their snide comments before Grayson silenced them with a near-ferocious look. Within moments, it was clear to one and all that the self-proclaimed princess was under the young man’s protection. Eyes dropped to bowls of soup and crusts of bread, and mouths returned to the business of eating or quiet
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conversation that clearly had nothing to do with the girl or her behavior. Angelina swished the mop in the bucket and, drawing upon her memories of the castle servants going about their tasks, bent down to wring the excess water from the rag strips attached to the wooden handle. If the soap bothered her hands, she did not voice a single complaint, but Grayson was at her side immediately when he heard a small exclamation of pain. She was gathering up the broken pottery and a sliver of the thick stuff had buried itself in the pad of one thumb. Crouching beside her, he examined the wound. "Come sit down," he said, carefully helping her to her feet. "Let me take that out for you." Angelina brushed away her tears with the back of her other hand. "It’s alright," she whispered. "I can manage." "Nonsense." Grayson steered her in the direction of the now empty bench in front of the fireplace. Seating himself beside her, he examined the injured thumb. "Hold still, love," he murmured. "This’ll only take a second." Angelina bit her lip hard to keep from crying as the innkeeper’s son worked the stubborn shard out of her thumb. She was terribly ashamed to be such a baby about a simple cut, when everyone present had certainly experienced far worse. For his part, Grayson was surprised that she didn’t cry, for the sliver of pottery was much bigger, and buried deeper, than he’d expected. When he’d at last worked it out, he bade her stay put while he found some clean cloth for a bandage. "But the mess—," she argued. "I have not finished with the cleaning." "I said stay put," he growled. "This needs bandaging, lass." His smile was gentle as he added, "I trust I do no’ have to give ye another lesson in obedience so soon?"
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"Oh no, sir. Please." The princess’s eyes were wide, but her voice dropped to a whisper as she confided, "I’m still quite sore from the first one." Grayson shook his head and, tipping Angelina’s chin up so that their eyes met, assured her, "I was only teasin’ ye, lass. Now just ye rest a minute. I’ll be right back." Angelina watched as Grayson disappeared up the stairs. Then, too embarrassed to meet the eyes of those around her, she turned to focus her attention on the fire that leapt and danced within the confines of the stone hearth. She only glanced around once, when the door opened, but she did not recognize the youth who’d entered, so she turned back to her silent musings. She did not look up again until she heard Grayson’s footsteps on the stairs. "Here we are," he said as, straddling the bench beside her, he held up a strip of white cloth. Carefully, he wound the strip around her thumb, taking care to cushion the cut with several layers of fabric before tying it in a knot. "All better." "Thank you." Angelina got to her feet quickly, meaning to return to her work, but Grayson’s big hand wrapped around her wrist and pulled her back down to the bench. "I’ll finish it up, lass. The lye’d hurt something fierce if ye got it in that cut." "But ‘tis my mess, sir. I should be the one to—." "Young lady." There was a distinct warning in his tone this time, and the princess quickly returned to her seat. "My apologies, sir. I do not wish to disobey you." She glanced up at him through long eyelashes. "You’re not going to—I mean, you certainly could if you wished, but—." "Och, lassie. Do no’ be silly." Grayson smiled at the woman whose hand he still held. "I’ll no’ thrash ye for wantin’ to finish yer task." Angelina let out a pent up breath. "Thank you, sir." She didn’t allow herself to think on his
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answering smile until he was busy sponging soup off the wall. "Ye’ve really got to eat something, child." The voice of the innkeeper took the princess by surprise. "I can understand yer no’ likin’ the soup—I’m no’ especially fond o’ peas, myself—but at least have some bread and cheese. I will no’ have ye wastin’ away when there’s food to be had from my kitchen." Angelina stood to face the woman who’d approached the bench by the fire. Tears of gratitude stung her eyes. "Mistress Hancock, I am dreadfully sorry for my behavior." Hot shame stained her cheeks red and she looked at the floor. "Please forgive me." "Well, o’ course, lass!" Much to the princess’s surprise, the ruddy-cheeked woman hurried round the bench to envelope her in a warm hug. "Now come on—say ye’ll eat somethin’ for me. ‘Twould be bad business for me patrons to see ye faint from hunger." When the woman released her, Angelina sniffed and wiped tears from her eyes. "Thank you, madam. I would be most grateful for anything ye have to spare tonight. But I can help prepare it, or perhaps wash the dishes in return." "Nonsense!" Martha steered her back to the bench and, with a sideways glance toward her son, whispered, "Ye’ll want to be obeyin’ that one, deary. He’s got a bossy streak, just like his father." "I heard that," Grayson called good-naturedly. "Sit down, princess, unless ye want to find out just how deep that bossy streak runs." "Now Gray," the mistress of the inn said as she bustled away, "do stop teasin’ the gel. She’s had a rough night." "It’s alright." Angelina surprised even herself by coming to Grayson’s defense. Gray shot her a surprised grin; then, picking up the bucket and mop, followed his mother into the kitchen. When he returned a few moments later, he carried a plate of bread and cheese and a cup of
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tea. He put the simple fare down on the bench beside the princess, telling her, "I’ve a thirst for a pint o’ ale, myself. You get busy eatin’, princess. I’ll be right back." "Thank you." Angelina tilted her face up, a blush staining her pretty cheeks. "And please, call me Angelina. It truly is my name." "Angelina it is, then," the handsome man answered. "I’ll be right back, sweet Angelina." Cheeks flaming even hotter, Angelina watched as the innkeeper’s son stepped behind the bar and drew himself a pint of ale. It was then that the newest diner spoke over the murmur of conversation and the roar of the fire. "Can anyone tell me how to get to King Daron’s castle from here?" the young man asked. "I’ve an important message to get to his majesty, but I’ve lost my way." "Aye," the red-bearded traveler spoke up. "I can give ye directions. But tell us first, what business do ye have wi’ the good king?" "Oh, ‘tis quite a tale," the lad mused as he ambled in Red Beard’s direction. "I hail from Upper Slambovia, ye see, and I’ve come to tell King Daron he needn’t bring his daughter to meet our prince. The very thought scared our king’s stubborn progeny into marryin’ the woman his da had picked out for him in the first place. And may I say, good people of Yucawhozits," he added, raising his cup, "I’m right thankful. The entire kingdom was livin’ in fear o’ havin’ your spoilt brat princess for our future queen!" Angelina, who’d turned away from the conversation at the first mention of her father’s name, now fought to control her reaction to the messenger’s declaration. Her father had been right—her reputation was a detriment to the kingdom of Yucawhozits, and a shame to his name. Sitting very still, she wished herself invisible. She could not bear for anyone, least of all the innkeeper’s son, to see the tears that streamed
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down her cheeks. Her wish was of no use, though, for the man quickly returned to take a seat beside her. For long moments, he simply studied her face. Only when the people around them were engaged in conversation concerning something else, did he at last turn to her. "Perhaps we should go somewhere else, Highness?" he whispered. "It would seem I have some apologizing to do." "No you don’t." Angelina glanced up at Grayson, then quickly away. "You were right about me, sir. They’re all right about me. I’ve behaved horribly for such a long time that I’m not sure the damage will ever be undone." She drew in a ragged breath. "I only ended up here because I was acting like a spoiled child. I jumped out of our carriage and ran away because I didn’t want to be forced into marriage." She twisted her soap-reddened hands in the rugged fabric of her maid’s uniform. "I wore these clothes because I refused to be dressed up pretty and—well—sold off to the one and only bidder. And now I know even that offer was nothing more than a ruse." "I’m sorry for that," Grayson replied, his voice low and filled with sympathy. "I would have spared ye that hurt, if only I’d known—if I’d believed—." Angelina reached out and laid her small hand over the larger one that had so recently assaulted her backside. "There’s no need for an apology, sir. And you needn’t worry about any of my silly threats, either." Raising her chin, she met Grayson’s shining green eyes. "I deserved that thrashing, and likely a thousand more, as well. Besides, I don’t intend to return to my father’s home." "Your majesty—," Gray began, alarmed. "Angelina," the princess reminded him. "Call me Angelina." Grayson shook his head grimly. "I cannot, Highness. ‘Tis no’ my place to address ye so. And ye must go back. In fact, I’ll take ye tonight. Yer father must be worried sick."
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"No." Angelina smiled, though she was sick at heart. "You can call me Angelina, because from now, that’s who I am. My reputation is a hindrance to my father, and harmful to this land. For everyone’s sake, ‘tis best if the Princess Angelina disappears altogether. From now on, I am just a simple girl who must find her way in this world." Grayson studied the princess’s features for a long time before, with a nod of his head, he answered, "If this is what ye wish, Your Majesty, then pray tell me how I may serve ye." Tears of frustration filled Angelina’s eyes and she gave Grayson’s hand a hard squeeze. "Treat me as ye did before, sir—when ye did no’ know who I was. I’d rather ye treat me like a mad woman than the spoiled princess that I have been." For the first time since he’d learned the truth, Grayson actually smiled. "Do ye know what I think, Angelina?" "What?" "I think behind the pretty gowns and the golden crown, ye’ve always been just Angelina—a gentle, loving woman who needed someone to believe in her enough to coax the inner beauty to the surface." Before she had time to think about it, Angelina reacted by giving Grayson a sweet, innocent kiss. "I think I found that someone, sir," she whispered quietly. Grayson wrapped his arms around the Princess’s waist and drew her into a deeper embrace. "I think you’re right," he whispered just before he covered her soft lips with his own. Now, lest you think me neglectful of important details, let me assure you that the King soon located his daughter and, finding her a changed woman, gladly gave her hand in marriage to the innkeeper’s son. After the wedding, Princess Angelina insisted upon continuing on at the inn, helping her mother-in-law and husband serve their guests, until the day when she delivered the King’s
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first grandchild. After that, both King Daron and Prince Grayson agreed that the royal family, including the Prince’s aging mother, should move to the Castle—and there they lived (you guessed it) happily ever after.
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The Doppelgang-up "Milady, I can hardly countenance such behavior!" Prince Ravenel Lancelot Winthrop paced the sitting room of his private chambers, intense fury thrumming in his veins. "Really, Sophia … what were you thinking?" Princess Sophia Francesca Winthrop -- formerly Her Royal Majesty, Sophia Escantando of Spain -continued to brush her long black hair, apparently unruffled. "The delegate from France," she said in heavily accented English, "tramped upon my toes in a most unpleasant fashion." She reached beneath the dressing table and pulled out a pair of sad looking dancing slippers. White at the beginning of the evening, the top of each shoe was now a dingy gray and marked with the imprint of a man’s shoe. "You see? They are ruined!" "They are slippers," Ravenel seethed. "They are of no consequence, and certainly not worth the fuss you made over them. Do you have any idea of the mess you’ve made of things tonight?" Sophia tossed the slippers away with a dismissive fling of her hand. "You are making too much of the matter, Señor. I assure you, should the French attack, my father will gladly send the armada to defend us." When her husband did not answer, she slammed her wooden hairbrush down on the dressing table and turned to glower at him. "Do stop pacing. You are giving me the headache." The prince pushed his black, longish hair away from his face and his dark eyes met hers. "You behaved like a spoilt child tonight, Sophia. I’ve half a mind to treat you like one." The princess, whose dark hair and eyes nearly matched her husband’s, sat up straighter in her chair. "You shall not touch me, Señor; for if you do, my father will surely see to it that you and your people are destroyed." Ravenel looked down his long, aristocratic nose at the bride he’d taken not more than six months
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ago. She was a beauty, but her haughty ways and her abominable temper had everyone in the castle cowed. She had, in fact, intimidated him -- him, the Raven of Wellington, no less -- and each time she opened her shrewish mouth, he became more and more frustrated. What was he to do with a wife who did not understand the necessity of compromise, who had not one diplomatic bone in her body? Tonight’s ball had been an unmitigated disaster, thanks to her fit of anger, and the entire French party had left immediately, promising to sail home at first light. What would happen next was anyone’s guess, and his heart was heavy with the thought of his loyal subjects and what they would suffer if war broke out. "I have grown tired of your threats," the prince said sharply, "and I have much to do to repair the harm caused by your behavior." He walked to the door that connected their bedchambers. "Go to bed, Sophia. And I would advise you to stay there, out of my way, for the next few days. Otherwise, I may well forget that I am a gentleman and give you the sound thrashing that you deserve." He heard her small gasp of dismay, but only strode into his own room and slammed the door. There were far more important matters to be seen to tonight. ___________________ It was still dark when Jerall, the blacksmith, left his mattress stuffed with straw and padded, barefoot, to the kitchen. His hair, black as the sky outside, slid into his eyes, but he ignored it in favor of wrapping his arms around his wife’s soft frame and hauling her upright, away from the pot that bubbled over the fire. "What smells so good, luv?" he murmured. "Are you fixing me a breakfast fit for a king this morning?" Matilda giggled and shied away from the hot breath that tickled her ear. "You know perfectly well
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that it’s only your porridge, cooked the same as it is every day. And if you don’t let me go, it’ll scorch." "Hmmm, scorched porridge, eh?" Jerall kept one arm snugly about his wife’s waist and brought the other hand around to cup her generously rounded bum. "I shouldn’t care for that, my dear." His voice dropped to a low, seductive whisper. "And you know what happens to wives who send their husband’s off to work with a burnt breakfast weighing heavy in their stomachs, do you not?" "Mmm-hmm." The blacksmith smiled as his wife arched against his touch. They both knew the game well by now. "Tell me." "They have," she said breathlessly, "their bare arses thrashed." "That’s right." Jerall let his lips linger on his wife’s shoulder. "And more to the point, if you have scorched my porridge, It will be your bare arse that is soundly thrashed." He kissed her once more, on the cheek, then gave her a firm swat on the behind. "Mayhap you had best check on my breakfast, you naughty wench." Minutes later, Matilda placed a bowl of slightly browned porridge in front of her husband, then took the seat beside him. Allowing her tawny brown hair to fall like a curtain between them, she said, "I apologize, husband. I fear I have, indeed, burnt your breakfast." "So I see." The blacksmith stifled a smile and, looking up, brushed hair away from his wife’s face. His porridge was just as he liked it -- a fact they were both well aware of -- but that wasn’t the point. Already, he was growing tight with anticipation of playing out this game, and when he gave Matilda a reproachful look, he saw her squirm as though trying to relieve her own arousal. "I suppose, then, that I shall have to thrash you tonight." He recognized her little girl pout immediately, and it was all he could do to maintain the ruse as
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her eyes danced with pleasure. "Oh dear. What shall you thrash me with, sir? Not your strap, I hope." He chuckled a little at that. "You do not care for the strap, luv?" "Oh no!" Her cheeks flushed and she rocked a bit in her chair, as if already nearing release. "It hurts so!" "Then the strap it shall be. In fact, I want you to fetch it right now and put it in the pocket of your skirt. You will carry it on your person today, so that you will not forget what happens to naughty, careless wives who burn breakfast." He watched her cheeks flame, and then gazed after her as she walked, hips swaying exaggeratedly, to fetch the strap down from the wall. She tucked it in her pocket and returned to the table, and already he could sense her arousal. It would take almost nothing to have her writhing and crying out in his arms, but there was no time this morning. He ate quickly, kissed her most thoroughly and, with a warning for her to "be ready for the strap tonight," exited the humble cottage. ___________________ "I do not care for this plan," the Prince’s advisor said as he helped Ravenel into a less than royallooking, cloak. "The streets are dangerous this time of night, Milord. Please allow me to carry a message to the French for you." Ravenel pulled a hat down over his brow and looked himself over in the mirror. The simple clothing of a royal servant had the desired effect. He looked quite ordinary and, with luck, would not be noticed as he boarded the French ship. They had refused the Prince entrance and had sent his apologies back unopened, so he had but one course of action left. He would sneak aboard the boat and speak personally with the diplomat his wife had offended. Several guards, similarly garbed, would follow him through the streets and half a dozen
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already waited, posing as sailors, in order to see to his safely while on the ship. "You have made your feelings quite clear," he told Simmons. "However, I will do what I must to protect my people. In the meantime, my wife is to be confined to her chambers. If she disobeys me at any time, I will expect a full report. Understood?" The elderly Simmons bowed low. "As you wish, Milord." ___________________ Hours later, having successfully concluded negotiations with the French, the prince moved swiftly through the now-bustling streets. Vendors hawked their wares, hammers pounded and crude shouts filled the streets. Several carts and a few riders on horseback splashed filthy water upon his clothing, but he held his tongue, for a small crowd had gathered in the streets to protest the most recent taxes that had been leveled at the peasant population. Ravenel listened carefully, certain that he had not given approval to any such taxes, but equally certain that it would be most dangerous for him to show himself here. He would look into the matter once he was safely back in the castle. "’Ere now, stranger," a surly man with the smell of ale on his breath stepped into his path. "Where ye hurryin’ off to this morn?" "To the home of my employer," the prince replied evenly. "And I must not be late." "Yer employer, eh?" The man reached out and fingered Ravenel’s fine cloak. "Well then, maybe ye should give me yer cloak and be off. I’d not want to cost ye yer position." "No," Ravenel replied firmly. "I cannot do that. Now, kindly remove yourself from my path." The drunken man swiped the back of a grubby hand across his running nose. "Well, now -- think ye’re somethin’ special, eh?" His eyes were hard and dangerous. "Jest ‘cause ye work for the prince does no’ mean ye’re any better than the rest of us."
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"The prince? Who said I work for the prince?" "It’s yer clothes what gave ye away." The old man glanced toward the crowd of protesters and then, taking hold of the desired cloak, began to drag Ravenel into the throng. "Look at what we have here," he announced to those who surrounded him, "It’s one of the servants from the castle. Mayhap we could use him to get bloody Prince Ravenel’s attention." The crowd parted as he pushed his way ever nearer the vegetable cart where the ringleader of the group stood, grinning with satisfaction. "I say we send his head to his employer! That should get some attention." The beefy man who stood atop the wagon nodded, his smile turning into one of beastly delight; but before he could speak, another fellow -armed with two heavy hammers -- moved to stand between the crowd and Ravenel. "Do not be fools," the dark haired man said in a loud, clear voice. "This man is no different from you and I, and well he knows it. Yes, the taxes are unfair, but killing an innocent will do nothing save bring the Prince’s wrath down on our heads." He looked from the rheumy eyes of Ravenel’s captor, to the faces of several members of the crowd. "John, ye’ve three daughters, left motherless this year. Would you put them in danger by involving yourself in this foolish plot? Leonard, would you watch your son struggle and die fighting His Majesty’s wellarmed soldiers?" His eyes swept the crowd. "Would all of you risk your homes, your lives in order to make this point? Would you truly kill one no better off than yourself in order to take revenge on your ruler? I tell you, it would be a foolhardy and useless action." Ravenel stood stunned, grateful at least that his identity had not yet been revealed. Members of the crowd grumbled to one another and the man armed with hammers leaned over to him and whispered,
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"My blacksmith shop is down the alley directly behind us. Climb into the hayloft and hide. I will hold them off, and come for you when I can. Go!" Ravenel was not one to take orders, but he had no problem obeying this one. The stranger slid out of the way and, rounding the cart, the prince broke away from the crowd and dashed down the alley. There was a commotion behind him, but he could only hope that all would be well as he headed for the blacksmith’s shop and concealed himself in the hayloft. It seemed to the prince that he hid for hours, but when the cheerful voice of the blacksmith came to him from below, he breathed a sigh of relief and climbed down the ladder. His rescuer went to the water barrel and immersed his bloodied knuckles into the cold water. "That was a near thing," he said, though he sounded more amused than overset. "Perhaps you should find another path to work for a while, my friend." Ravenel studied the man’s back for a moment, then slowly drew down the hood of his cloak. "I am indebted to you sir." He held out his hand in a gesture of friendship as the blacksmith turned to face him. "If there is anything I can do to aid you --." "Bloody hell." Jerall took the hand of the man he’d saved and, recognizing the ring that bore the royal seal, fell immediately to one knee. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. I did not realize -- ." Ravenel stared in astonishment at the man who knelt before him. He was, of course, quite accustomed to having people kneel before him, but he’d never before seen himself in that position. Watching the blacksmith, however, was like peering into a looking glass. The man was, in every way, his twin. "Who are you?" he asked as he held out a hand to the kneeling man. "I feel we should know one another."
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Jerall looked up and, he too, paled. "Indeed." His eyes grew wide with recognition. "Some of my friends told me I resembled you, but I had no idea - ." "--how much?" Ravenel threw back his head and laughed heartily. "And I never knew that I resembled a blacksmith. I feel as though we could be brothers, sir." Jerall nodded, and the prince could see that the man was thinking most seriously about something. "Your Majesty," he said at length. "I do not mean to be forward, but I must ask. How did you come to be here, alone? Surely you do not leave the castle without your guards on a regular basis." "No, of course not." Ravenel studied the blacksmith’s face, searching for the signs of a trustworthy man, and finally nodded. "I had urgent business with the French, and due to the circumstances, thought it best not to draw attention to myself. So, I approached their ship in disguise. I am most grateful that the matter has been resolved peacefully." "I see." Jerall went to the door, opened it a bit, and the roar of angry voices grew louder. "However, this does present something of a problem. I’m afraid you do not have many friends here. If you attempt to return to the palace, you could be recaptured." Ravenel gazed out the small opening in the doorway and shook his head. "I take your meaning. However, I must ask what this is about. I have levied no new taxes." "Indeed?" There was something dry, almost mocking, in the smithy’s voice. "Well, your men have done a fine job of collecting them, even without your order. The people of this land are being wrung dry by their tactics." Ravenel’s face flushed angrily. "I must see to this at once," he murmured. "I thank you again, sir, and vow to repay you." With a curt nod toward the peasant, he made for the door.
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"Hold there." Jerall reached out and touched his ruler’s arm, then immediately bowed low. "I must ask you to reconsider, Your Majesty. Your very safety is at issue here. Please allow me to go for help, instead." Ravenel turned back and quietly shut the door. "You are right. However, I do not know how you will arouse the attention of my guards. People see only what they expect. Looking at you, they will see a blacksmith making ridiculous claims regarding the prince’s whereabouts. I fear it would be a most dangerous situation for you, and you have already saved my life once today." "You left the palace dressed as a servant," Jerall reminded the prince. "Surely someone will be expecting you to return as such. We can exchange clothing and I will return to the palace in your stead. Once there, I will send help back for you." Ravenel considered that suggestion, then nodded grimly. "It may be the only way," he grudgingly acknowledged. Minutes later, Jerall crept out the back door of his shop, dressed in the Prince’s clothing. Ravenel bolted the main door, to keep out customers who might question his lack of blacksmithing abilities, and settled in to wait. ___________________ Jerall hurried through the side streets and alleys, his progress toward the palace greatly hampered by the need to remain unobserved. He could not shake the feeling that he was being followed and when several men materialized from the filthy alleys and out of the doorways to surround him, he pulled his hammer from inside the cloak and faced them down with a grim expression. "Stand aside," he said to a small and nervous looking man, who seemed to be in charge of the six larger brutes. "I am Jerall, the Blacksmith. You have no quarrel with me."
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"Your Majesty," the small man whispered as he neared. "It is I, Simmons. There is no need for subterfuge now. We are simply glad to have you back among us once again." Simmons? Jerall searched his memory and finally alighted on the fact that the royal advisor’s name was Simmons. "We are well met, sir," he said. "There is urgent business that must be seen to. Pray follow me." ___________________ Ravenel was seated on a bale of hay, his mind thoroughly engaged with the problem of the extra taxes that were being collected, when someone wrapped their arms around his neck from behind. "What the devil?" He roared as he leapt to his feet and overcame his assailant -- who turned out to be a smiling peasant woman with rich brown hair and sparkling green eyes. "What is the meaning of this, madam?" "Ah, madam is it now?" Matilda stepped back and winked good-naturedly. "I do hope you haven’t already tired of the game we started earlier." She set the basket of food down on the hay and smiled up at him in a most suggestive manner. "I doubt naughty wenches such as myself are referred to as madam." Ravenel took a deep breath and managed to get control of his expressions. The woman was obviously either lover or wife to the blacksmith. Since he did not know which, however, he did not feel comfortable informing her of his real identity. For now, he would simply have to play along. "You’re a naughty wench, are you?" He said as he began to dig through the basket. "Hard to believe, seeing as you’ve brought me such a wonderful lunch." Hungrily, he bit into a hot meat pie and smiled with contentment as rich gravy ran down his chin. "This is delicious." The self-proclaimed wench set her hands to her hips and tossed her hair over her shoulder. "You
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needn’t act so surprised, Jerall. It’s not as if I burn every meal." "No, of course not." The prince had not tasted anything half so good since his wife took over the running of the kitchens. He downed the food, enraptured. "You’re a fine cook, indeed." Much to his surprise, her lovely face fell. "Then you’re not … you’re not going to thrash me … for this morning?" "Thrash you … for this morning?" Ravenel made a concentrated effort to school his features, reminding himself that this fine creature belonged to another man. "Do you deserve to be thrashed, Milady?" He watched, amazed, as a slow smile spread across her face. "Yes, I’m afraid I do," she said as she withdrew a length of leather from her pocket. "And I’ve been carrying this dreadful strap around all morning, just waiting to feel it across my bum. Shall I lift my skirts for you now, luv?" The prince watched as the woman sashayed toward him, her hips rolling in a purposeful, exaggerated manner. Her voice, too, betrayed her true intentions. By heavens, she was enjoying this, asking for it even. He realized, as his body tightened in response, that he was enjoying it as well. Still, it would hardly be honorable to take advantage of another man’s wife. "I’m sorry, Milady," he began, "but there is something I must explain to you." "Your majesty!" The back door crashed open and Simmons, along with six beefy guards and an amused-looking blacksmith poured into the small workshop. "Praise be that you are well!" Matilda gave a shriek and flung herself at the prince, only to look from his face to that of the welldressed servant who’d accompanied the royal guards. For a moment she seemed uncertain, but when the servant growled, "What are you doing here, naughty wench?" she edged carefully around the kneeling guards and flung herself into Jerall’s
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arms. He took the razor strop that she yet held in her hand and tucked it quickly back into her pocket, then kissed her deeply. "I do hope you know what happens to saucy wenches who try to tempt their husbands away from work." The prince looked on, astounded, as his doppelganger’s wife all but melted on the spot. "Before I take my leave, sir," he said to the blacksmith, "I should like to have a word with you. Perhaps you are just the man to advise me on a problem I’ve been having with my own wife." ___________________ "I will not!" Princess Sophia was the one pacing this time, while her husband looked on with a determined expression. "You cannot think I will allow you to beat me. My father will -- ." "Your father," Prince Ravenel said in a grave tone, "should have done this long ago. Perhaps if he had, you’d have some notion of the proper way to behave and I’d not have to teach the lesson myself." He straightened in the chair he’d drawn to the middle of the room and tapped the wooden hairbrush against his thigh. "I mean to do this, Sophia, and every time you refuse my commands, you only earn yourself a harsher punishment. I suggest you be sensible and submit yourself to my guidance now -- before I grow truly angry." The striking woman stopped to stare at her husband for a moment and he watched, amazed, as tears filled her eyes. "Please do not speak of my father that way," she whispered. "What has happened between us is my fault, not his. He’d be quite ashamed if he knew of my behavior." "Indeed?" The prince studied his wife for a long moment, then tossed the brush down and held out his arms to her. "Come here, Milady, and tell me what it is that troubles you." ___________________
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On the other side of the city, the humble blacksmith guided his wife down across the table and lifted her skirts to the small of her back. "You were very naughty this morning," he said in a sensual tone. "You scorched my porridge, and you know what happens to naughty wives who burn breakfast." "Mmm-hmmm." He watched as she stretched out and grasped the other side of the table. Her breath was coming in short, labored gasps and already, the scent of her arousal was overpowering his senses. "Their naughty bums are soundly thrashed." She went up on tiptoes, arching against the weight of the strap that he held against her bottom. "Please thrash my bottom, sir." "How?" He was teasing now, fluttering the strap down one leg and back up the other, making sure that it grazed her inner thighs and touched upon the hot, wet core of her body. "Tell me what kind of a thrashing you require, wife." "Oh," she moaned. "A hard one, sir … a most severe thrashing. I’ve been quite naughty." "So you have." Jarell smiled to himself as he drew back the strap. "Make ready, wench, for you shall have a severe thrashing indeed." ___________________ "This will not be easy for you," Ravenel told Sophia as he settled her across his knee. "You need to understand the serious nature of your actions, Milady. War with the French would have been disastrous at this juncture. You must never again cause offense as you did last evening." "I understand." Sophia was already crying, and he felt like a brute, yet he was determined to follow through as the blacksmith had suggested. "Don’t stop until you feel her give in," Jarell had advised. The prince reached for the brush and took careful aim at his wife’s perfect bum. ___________________
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Matilda moaned and arched off the table, caught up in the tide of physical sensations that assailed her, and Jarell smiled as he caressed her pinkened flesh. "Are you ready to be my good little wench now?" he asked. "Do you wish me to put the strap away?" "Mmm…yes…no." She opened her legs wider, inviting him into her honeyed warmth. "Perhaps just a few more." She arched upward, then ground against the edge of the table. "To be sure I’ve learned my lesson." "Of course." Jarell drew back the strap and landed a calculated blow to his wife’s nether cheeks. It was designed to sting, but in a manner that aroused rather than upset her. "Naughty wenches must learn to behave, after all." ___________________ Sophia writhed and sobbed over her husband’s lap, but the Raven of Wellington was not about to be put off from his task. He brought the sturdy hairbrush snapping down across his wife’s decidedly red arse in a firm, no nonsense manner. "You will not exhibit such poor behavior again," he lectured above her cries. "Do you understand me?" "Si, Señor." The more distraught she became, the more the lovely princess slipped into her native tongue. She beat her hands upon the floor and scissored her legs wildly, but her husband had determined she would remain in place until he heard a genuine apology. "You will exhibit behavior befitting a woman of your station," he said as he went to work on her madly churning thighs. "You will never again embarrass me in front of the court. Am I making myself clear?" "Si! Si!!" Her cries were frantic, yet he could feel her tiring. When at last she sobbed out, "Estoy apesadumbrado … muy apesadumbrado!" he recognized the Spanish equivalent for "I’m sorry …
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very sorry," and gladly tossed down the strap. Then she was in his arms, sobbing out her apologies and, for the first time since their wedding, Ravenel felt certain that he and Sophia could find true happiness. ___________________ "Yes … yes," Matilda cried out as Jarell drove the length of his shaft into her warm, willing body. Hands on her waist, he lifted her completely off the floor, his manhood and the table beneath her belly her only supports. "I love you, even if you are a naughty wench," he said as she rocked against his engorged member. "You’re my naughty wench, and that’s all that matters." "And you’re my prince," she whispered, just before the first wave of joyous release washed over her. Jarell felt his wife quiver, stiffened as her passage closed even tighter around his straining length, and gave one last shout as he poured his seed inside her body. Epilogue The next morning, when the Prince’s representatives descended upon the peasants’ homes, there was at first fear -- and then great joy. Money was returned, and Jarell, the Blacksmith was labeled a hero by his neighbors and friends. And yes folks, they all -- Jarell, Matilda, Prince Ravenel, Princess Sophia and the rest of the kingdom -- lived happily ever after.
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