Sunday, 28 August 2016

Sunday, August 28, 2016 -

Going Back to Her Teens

an age regression novella
by Rose St. Andrews
Published: Aug 8, 2016
Words: 25,279
Category: ageplay
Orientation: F/F
Click HERE for further details and purchase options.
OPENING EXTRACT
Chapter One

Ginny stood at the controls of the little choo-choo train, an ear to ear grin on her face. She hadn't had fun like this since she was about twelve, which was a full decade ago. It made her giggle to think how she had to stand to see out the front. Ginny had never been a big girl, or a very highly-developed one at that. No, she was petite, very petite, and with the most minimal figure of any in her little social group. When they used to go out clubbing, it was literally impossible for her to get an alcoholic drink. It didn't matter that she had four different kinds of ID, the bartenders refused to believe she was of age, and her friends only compounded the matter by calling her 'Kiddo' or saying she was their little sister tagging along with the big kids. If it weren't for the full bar at her Daddy's place in Newport, she wouldn't have gotten a drink ever!

Well, that was all behind her now. She was out on her own, she had her own place and was supporting herself with a job, and she was making her way in the world. Actually, her father paid a reasonable allowance into her account every month, and that's what she really lived on. Given time, she was sure she'd find a way to earn a living. For the moment, she was going to live in the moment. She was working at 'The Playful Bruins Fun Camp' in (ironically) Newport, Florida (right on the Gulf Coast), and she loved it. The little train was about half scale, brightly colored, and full of happy chattering kids. Ginny felt like quite the engineer.

The train followed the serpentine tracks around the low manmade main 'hill' of the park, through the long tunnel (the kids all squealing in delight at racing through the dark), and into the dense woods that ringed the lake. She rang the bell. Nat (short for Natalie), her new friend and oldest daughter of the owners, had told her to ring it as a signal that they were coming into a station (there were four throughout the park). Leaning out the side window, the wind whipping her long brown hair about, she saw the station ahead. She turned the power level down, the engine stopped, and the train essentially coasted into the station. While the train was electric, the sound effects made it sound like it was a real steam engine. She pulled back on the brake. It squealed and the train kind of lurched to a stop.

Huh, I'm going to need to work on that. Mr. Parmenter was very clear on that point: 'Don't shake the guests up too much. One little injury and we'll get sued.'

She whipped her head around and smiled. Everyone was okay.

Saturday, 27 August 2016

Saturday, August 27, 2016 -

The Spanking Digest: Issue 8

a journal of spanking fiction
by LSF Publications
Published: Aug 3, 2016
Words: 25,211
Category: general
Orientation: M/F
Click HERE for further details and purchase options.
OPENING EXTRACT
Do You Make Exceptions, Sir?
by Colin Daniels

Natalia felt the butterflies growing in the pit of her tummy as she wandered the halls towards the office. All around her girls wandered in different directions. They paid her no attention. School was out, and their laughter and wide smiles only served to darken the young woman's mood. She forced herself to keep going, even though a voice from the back of her mind tried to impose reason. Was she still sane?

She forced herself towards the school secretary's office. She almost faltered, almost spun on her heel and out to safety. But she had no choice in the matter, not really.

---oOo---

Mrs Witherspoon was not particularly surprised to see Natalia in the office. After all, as school captain she often had to visit Principal Skinner. It was not even that unusual when Natalia said it was a 'private matter'. She shrugged, picked up her bag, and prepared to leave. It was Friday afternoon and she had no intention of staying late today.

She knocked, slipped her head into Mr Skinner's office, and told him Natalia was waiting. He looked a little surprised, but pleasantly so. Natalia seemed a little preoccupied, almost worried. Surely she wasn't in some kind of trouble.

---oOo---

"Principal Skinner will be with you in a moment. Say, are you okay, Natalia?" Mrs Witherspoon asked in a concerned tone.

The girl seemed to snap out of her inner thoughts and looked up with a warm smile. "I'm fine, thanks. Just preoccupied. Have a good weekend."

Mrs Witherspoon smiled. She was such a lovely girl, and so pretty too. To think she'd wondered whether Natalia might be in some kind of trouble. She bade Natalia goodnight and slipped from the office, closing the door behind her.

Principal Skinner led the senior girls' captain into his office. He was a little surprised to see her here unannounced, particularly with the unreadable expression on her face. He offered her a seat, trying desperately not to let his eyes linger too long on her figure as she did so.

For Natalia was an exquisite beauty. She had only turned eighteen years of age that fall, but her figure was full, with a woman's curves. However, it was her hair that made her stand out: long golden locks that flowed in a wavy fashion down her back. He sighed to himself as he sat down; it would not be quite the same next year without her.

"Well Natalia, you're not smiling today for a change. What seems to be the problem?"

Natalia paused slightly, as if carefully considering what to say. In fact, she had practised every word of what she was about to say several times, but her mind was blank. Her heart raced. Principal Skinner sensed her unnatural nerves and waited silently.

"Sir, do you remember those girls that were caught smoking last month?" she asked.

Thursday, 25 August 2016

Thursday, August 25, 2016 -

A Real Man for Ruth

a mail order bride romance
by Susan Thomas
Published: Aug 2, 2016
Words: 30,386
Category: western, romance, historical
Orientation: M/F
Click HERE for further details and purchase options.
OPENING EXTRACT
Chapter 1

I didn't cry at the funeral of my parents although I know that's what is expected. Folk wanted me to be the frail, grief-stricken daughter who couldn't cope, but I wasn't going to put on a show for them. My grief was deep and hurt in ways I never thought possible, but it was my grief and not for public display. I cannot recall anything at all about the service; I know it happened, but what the Rev. Cornflower actually said must have passed me by. Afterwards I accepted the condolences of the many mourners, but who or what they said is also gone.

Mrs Bancroft, our kindly neighbour, had organised refreshments but I tasted nothing. I was aware of the expectations: a young woman was expected to faint or at least to require support; I did not. The malicious, of which every town has a few, whispered unpleasant comments, but I cared nothing. I was locked in my own private grief and coming to terms with the simple fact that I was all alone in the world.

Two days later I went to see our solicitor, Mr Jarndyne. He patronisingly assumed I would be selling the gunsmiths business. In fact, I was perfectly capable of taking on the business. There was no gun in the shop I couldn't handle or repair, and that was without the help of Old Phil, the sole employee. However, although the business was profitable, father's debts had piled up. Paying the interest on his various debts was crippling and made it imperative to sell up now while a good price might be had and before the debts escalated. If I sold both the business and our small house, I could clear the debts and have a sum of money that would help me make a new start. If only father had allowed me to run the business side, then all might have been well. Guns were his passion, but he was no better a businessman than he had been a farmer. His stubborn pride had prevented him seeking any help with either.

Much to his surprise, I refused Mr Jarndyne's help in selling the business, but I knew he wouldn't drive a hard bargain. Mr Flathers, the rather dour Yorkshireman I sold it to, expressed surprise at just how hard a bargain I did drive.

"Lass," he said bluntly, "thou's put me through mangle... tis a pretty mangle with silk lined rollers, but a mangle nonetheless."

With the proceeds of the sale (and the sale of the house) the debts were paid. When all was done I had a good nest egg to help me re-start my life. I took a room with Mrs Bancroft and considered my options. They were not good. To earn a respectable living is hard for a woman. I could become a teacher in a National school or one of the new Board schools but it wasn't an attractive prospect.

Monday, 22 August 2016

Monday, August 22, 2016 -

The Debt Collector

spanking the arrears away
by Jack Crawford
Published: Aug 2, 2016
Words: 30,573
Category: general
Orientation: M/F
Click HERE for further details and purchase options.
OPENING EXTRACT
Chapter 1

It has always amazed me how certain jobs are looked down upon by those not performing those jobs. Why consider janitorial work as menial or demeaning? It involves labor that has to be done by someone, and those janitors I've run across who do excellent work are those who take pride in what they do. And what about lawyers? There is a running joke that tells you what most people think about that profession: 'What do you call a hundred dead lawyers at the bottom of the ocean? A good start.'

But, when you have real trouble involving the justice or legal system, the first person you call is a lawyer. It's a good thing the one you call isn't dead at the bottom of the ocean, right? Dentists get a bad rap, too. But think about what their job is like... up close and personal in people's mouths that they don't really know. Hey, it may be a little uncomfortable to have a tooth filled, but how would you like to wake up every day to the prospect of meeting a bunch of people who don't want to see you? As a good dentist, you do your duty, put your hands in their mouths and hope you don't get bitten.

I'm reminded, also, of the CBS television network public service announcement about the importance of a prostate exam. You don't like the humiliation of bending over for a finger probe, but what about the doctor? Do you think he really went all those years to medical school and being an intern just so he could stick his finger up your backside?

Consider, now, the plight of the lowly debt collector. He is the last person you want to hear from if you're having trouble paying your bills. Oh, it was all sunshine and daffodils with the lending institution when you wanted money from them... but when they want it back, the debtor considers any communication with the lender as being a sure sign of the apocalypse. This is especially true when the debt is secured by, say, your car or your home.

Forget that you wouldn't even have that car or house without the lender, but how dare they ask to be repaid... especially when it is often so inconvenient to repay that debt. Don't those people have any sympathy for the poor working person who has all sorts of other financial demands being made of them?

Then again, as a debt collector, do you know how many times I've heard, 'You can't get blood from a stone'? Do you think these debtors have any idea about the big picture, in economic terms, or even the smaller picture such as my insignificant existence as a debt collector? It's a rhetorical question, but just in case you missed it, the answer is no.

Tuesday, 16 August 2016

Tuesday, August 16, 2016 -

Consequences

... and other spanking tales
by Philip Kemp
Published: Aug 1, 2016
Words: 24,495
Category: general
Orientation: M/F
Click HERE for further details and purchase options.
OPENING EXTRACT
Consequences

I was 18 when I got my first proper job - in the lingerie department at Pearson's, the biggest clothing store in town. It wasn't, to be honest, entirely through my own merits. Hugh Pearson, who owned the store, was an old friend of my dad's - in fact they'd been in the army together during the war. I knew his daughter Marion, too - she'd been a few years ahead of me at school. So when I finished school and was looking for work, Dad had a word with Hugh - and there I was, with a real proper job that paid all of £22 a week. Doesn't sound like much these days, I know - but this was back in 1963, when money went a whole lot further than it does today. I was still living at home, too - so after I'd given Mum £8 a week towards my keep, I found I still had plenty to spend on whatever I liked.

Maybe that was the cause of my downfall. Pretty soon I got into the habit of thinking I could have anything I wanted. So in the run-up to Christmas that year I was spending quite freely - on stuff for myself, my family and friends. Until, with Christmas still a week away, I suddenly found I'd run out of funds, four days before pay-day. Luckily I'd bought all my presents, so I thought I could manage for a bit. And then - temptation struck.

Temptation was a beautiful pair of panties of emerald-green silk - French culottes, and designed by Givenchy too, so as you can imagine they didn't come cheap. They weren't even in Pearson's either, but in the A La Mode store down the street. The moment I saw them I wanted them with an uncontrollable longing, especially since they were just my size. But they only had one pair left in stock, and with Christmas coming up and customers spending freely, I was pretty sure someone would snap them up.

Of course, I could probably have got an advance on my wages. That would have been the sensible thing to do. Mrs Jenkins, the head of department, was a warm, friendly woman and very approachable, and I'm sure she'd have agreed without any hesitation. But I thought she might ask what I wanted it for - and stupidly, I felt I'd appear 'shallow', wanting money for something so frivolous as a pair of French silk panties. Looking back now at my teenage self, I can see what an idiot I was being. But at the time, I made the fatal choice.

So one day just before lunchtime, when I was sure nobody was looking, I slipped some money out of the till. I told myself that I was just borrowing it, and that come pay-day I'd pay it back. Then as soon as it was my lunch hour I shot off to A La Mode, praying that my silken joy hadn't been sold.