by Susan Thomas
The Last Spanking Story
by
Susan Thomas
All rights reserved
Copyright © October 2014 by Susan Thomas
Published by LSF Publications
http://www.lsfpublications.com/
Cover design by Nathaniel Scott.
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. It includes adult spanking and some sexual scenes. Any resemblance to actual persons, places or events are purely coincidental.
Miles LaPage, world leading spanking author and playwright, has simply run out of ideas and decides he has penned his last spanking story. As he has often done before, he is soon striding out across the moors, but when a dense mist descends he ends up losing his bearings and falls down a steep muddy bank. He follows a path but eventually realises he is lost when he is suddenly approached by a strangely dressed policeman. Sometime later he is introduced to Sir George Armitage, who explains that their village became frozen in time in 1937, following a severe electrical storm. None of the villagers are able to leave and all roads somehow lead back to the village.
Miles also learns that the village employs a strict regime of corporal punishment with sentences handed out by a 'court' held in the village hall. Those found guilty of wrongdoing are subject to the cane and birch and some are further placed in a pillory the following morning with their bottoms bared and on the receiving end of a strap or additional spanks from any of the public so inclined.
After several failed attempts to get away from the village, Miles agrees to take the job of village secretary, responsible for recording the events at court and for the ordering of goods. Despite being a writer of spanking fiction, he is appalled at the severity of some of the punishments, especially those given to some of the younger villagers, which he considers to be both unnecessary as well as cruel. Later, Miles discovers a young girl, Sophie, who has been sleeping in one of his bedrooms. It seems that the house Miles occupies was her former home until her mother died and she was placed in the care of an extremely unpleasant woman, Madge Pendle, who runs the dairy and mistreats her.
As Miles becomes increasingly unhappy with the cruel village customs, he intercedes to prevent two young girls from being punished and incurs the wrath of the policeman. Things take a further turn for the worse when he is confronted by Sophie's enraged foster-mother. The following day, he is visited by the constable and two beadles, who demand that he and Sophie come with them to court where they are likely to face the birch. It's time for drastic action...
Miles LaPage groaned loudly and put his head in his hands. "I can't do it any more," he groaned out loud, "I just can't bloody well write this stuff any more."
His study was elegant and comfortable with French windows overlooking a large well-tended lawn. It was lined with books and spoke plainly of comfort and wealth. Wealth indeed, for Miles was the world's best known and most successful writer of spanking literature. He had under his writing belt some 3000 short stories, 5 volumes of collected short stories, 12 bestselling novels, 4 plays, 2 TV dramas and 3 film scripts for highly successful films. In a world with an insatiable appetite for spanking fiction, he was the undisputed king.
So why was the undisputed king of spanking fiction groaning out loud in his study? The problem was he had six months to write his new novel and not one single idea was in his head. He had taken a leaf out of the book of a once famous author, one Ian Rankin. Rankin had been a highly successful writer of crime fiction though crime was now so passé that even the charity shops no longer stocked crime novels. However, in his heyday, Rankin had revealed some of his methods to British television. He had a folder full of clippings and notes of ideas which he maintained constantly. When a new novel loomed he would trawl through his folder until just the right idea appeared and then he was off on his writing.
Now Miles sat with his folder which, when opened, seemed to him full of dead ashes, a folder full of sterile ideas and rubbish. Abruptly, he turned the whole lot straight into his waste bin and within five minutes his Facebook and LinkedIn pages had notices heralding his retirement from spanking fiction. He sent out a Tweet and a text and lastly an email to his agent. Within minutes the world reeled with the horrifying news that Miles LaPage had scribed his last spanking. Naturally, there were responses but he saw none of them. Miles had put on his walking gear, donned his boots, and was already striding from the car park on the long winding path up onto the moors.
It had rained for days in heavy bursts interspersed with steady drizzle and everywhere dripped, but today it was dry. The sun shone and there was sparkle on everything as the sun caught the wetness and turned it to beauty. He had left his mobile on his desk which of course is foolish when out on the moors where the weather can change in the blink of an eye, but he knew he would have no peace with it.
Miles was a big man with the build of a labourer, though he had never done manual work. He had dark hair and a strong jaw and women across the globe longed to be spanked by him (as well as other things of course). Now he indulged himself in his favourite hobby of walking the moors, striding fiercely, ignoring the uneven path and the ever present mud to set a fast pace. He had no idea how far or even where he was going, he just wanted to walk, rejoicing in his decision and leaving the future to take care of itself.
There is a glorious freedom in having made a decision and acted on it and Miles was happy, really happy for the first time in a long while. In fact so happy that he didn't notice the mist as it began to creep up or the fact that the sun was now hiding behind clouds. Then, in the way it can on the moors, the mist was all around him and he could see little in front of him. He knew what he should do but he was happy so, confident that he was familiar with this stretch of the moor, he carried on walking. It was then, in the midst of what was now fog-like more than mist-like, that he slipped and suddenly found himself careening down a steep muddy bank where none had been before. He landed in a heap of mud and uprooted bushes and realised that there must have been a landslip because the rain had taken out what was once a good path. Looking back up, he realised that there was no way he could with any ease go back up and so he turned his attention to where he was.
He could see very little and to his bemusement his compass appeared to be going wild, so he edged his way cautiously along thorough the tangle of uprooted vegetation and found a path. Upwards, the path began to peter out and it appeared as if it was going to be a dead end, so he turned back and began to walk slowly downwards. The banks on either side began gradually closing in and getting higher, so that he felt more as if he were in a tunnel than anything else. He was wishing desperately he had his mobile with its map and communication facilities, or even that his compass worked when he came across a stream. The path went right through it. It turned out to be quite shallow (perhaps just a wet-weather stream) but even so water got in his boots. He carried on until abruptly the path widened, the mist disappeared and he found himself in a valley he had never seen before.
There were houses and farms and what was clearly a village, so he headed towards it hoping to get a taxi back home. As he approached the village he was spied by a policeman, or at least Miles assumed that's what he was by his officious manner, but the uniform looked wrong. It was more like something from the 1930s, blue serge with two buttoned down pockets on the chest and a row of metal buttons right up to the neck. It had a high collar with metal numbers on each side, epaulettes on each shoulder, a sturdy leather belt with an S-shaped buckle and a helmet of the traditional sort (though few wear them today) but with a spike of some sort
coming out of the top.
"Stop there a moment, Sir. I don't know you so I'd like your name and business if you please."
Miles felt like telling this 'Pirates of Penzance' oaf that he didn't please but he had a sense that something was very wrong in this situation. "Actually officer I am lost. I was walking on the moors and fell afoul of a mud slip and what with the mist and all I have no idea where I am. I was hoping to get a taxi home."
"Ah I see. The mist, was it? We haven't had a mist visitor for some years now. Oh dear, oh dear. Well you'd best come and see Sir George straight away."
As they walked together, Miles gave his name expecting a start of recognition as he really was extremely well known and often interviewed, but the officer merely said, "LaPage, French is it Sir?"
They approached a handsome manor house and went in not by the main door but by a side door into a corridor with a highly polished old oak floor. Miles heard a sound he knew well, it was the swish of a cane followed by the crack of it landing on a bottom.
As a spanking writer, Miles had attended many spanking events, it being an essential part of his work. Now his keen ear sorted out the sounds: swish, a medium cane, crack, a cane landing on an unclothed bottom. The muted sound of pain, a youngish person but one used to being caned.
The policeman put a hand on Miles and muttered, "Wait until he has finished."
Swish, crack, yelp came the sound again. Swish, crack, yelp. That was three he had heard and Miles found himself counting in his head - three, four, five, six, seven. The sounds stopped at eight.
"Must have been twelve, we just missed the earlier ones." Miles was amused to realise the policeman had been counting too.
The door in front of them opened and a young woman came out. She was in his view around nineteen or so with brown hair that hung down to her jaw line. Her face, while not plain, was certainly not overly pretty and was now blotchy red with tears in her eyes. She was clutching her bottom and hurried past them down the corridor. The policeman ushered Miles in.
The room was an attractive study with a coal fire in an eighteenth century fireplace. There were some chairs against the wall and, sitting on two of them, were a defiant looking boy in his late teens and a shy nervous looking girl of possibly eighteen years.
"Excuse me interrupting a discipline session, Sir George, but we have a mist visitor."
Sir George was a tall strong man wearing a tweed suit. "Oh, damn, I had hoped that had all come to an end. Oh well," he said and extended a hand to Miles. "George Armitage and you are?"
"Miles LaPage, but I suspect that you are not going to have heard of me. Am I right?"
"Right, and you are in for a shock old chap, but hang on a while. I must just finish off my session for today."
"Now then Giles." Sir George was really quite severe. "I have warned you about this before."
"I know, Sir George, but Miss Smithy will lecture me about my tie and she is no relation of mine and all I said was that I liked my tie like that."
"I see, hmmm, well the best thing to do with Miss Smithy is just say, 'Yes Miss,' and move on quickly. Do not answer her back. However, I will give you the benefit of the doubt this time and just give you a sixer. Drop them and bend over Giles."
It looked to Miles as if the boy would like to argue the point but with a somewhat theatrical sigh he undid his trousers and let them drop, then without a glance at anyone else pulled his underpants down, bending over to touch his toes. Sir George pulled the shirt clear of Giles' bottom, picked a cane up from his desk and, taking position behind the lad, laid the cane across his backside. He then stepped back and, with a quick movement that included a little half step and a wicked flick of the wrist, he brought the cane down on the boy's bottom. There was a nasty meaty crack sound and a strange white line appeared which immediately turned red as the cane lifted. Giles made no sound.
Miles was astonished all this was taking place not only in front of him but a girl too. He noted she seemed more worried about herself than the bare backside of the lad not two yards away. Crack! A second vicious stroke produced another red line across the bottom being punished. Again Giles made no sound.
Swish, crack and that one was the hardest yet, burying itself in the bottom before springing out. The first two red lines had now started to swell and Miles guessed that this third would be the largest yet, but still the boy made no sound.
Swish, crack and a fourth nasty red welt quickly joined the other three, and yet Giles made not a sound. It was the fifth that produced a grunt of pain which brought a slight smile to the face of Sir George, who then took an extra step back before making what can only be described as a hop and a skip, bringing the cane down in a ferocious blow at a diagonal across the previous five welts. This time the boy let out a strangled "aaah" of pain and when told to stand did so slowly and carefully, bending his knees to pull his clothes back up.
When he finally turned, it was seen that his face was red and his eyes were on the verge of tears, but he shook Sir George's hand and promised he would not answer back again. Sir George then turned to the rather nervous looking girl who immediately shot to her feet when spoken to.
"Now what's all this about your skirt?"
"Well, Sir George, it's Miss Smithy sir, she stands waiting in the lane for us to walk home from school and checks on our uniform, sir, and if it isn't quite right she reports us to your secretary. She says my skirt is too short but I haven't done anything to it and my mum made it last year and made sure it was over the right length sir."
Sir George walked to the door, opened it and called his secretary to bring in a tape measure. Miles watched fascinated as the girl stood meekly while her skirt was measured against her leg by a severely dressed woman who was the secretary.
"Yes, Sir George, Miss Smithy is correct. I don't know how she does it but is a quarter of an inch short of the minimum distance above her knees. I expect Amanda here has grown taller since her mother made it."
"Oh dear Amanda, you girls really do have to check your clothing conforms to village rules you know. I'm afraid I can't overlook this..." The girl made a distressed sound and Sir George continued, "...but you're not a girl who gets in trouble and I will take a lenient view. I'll just make it a sixer with a light cane and I will let you keep your knickers on. Now lift your skirt, there's a good girl and bend over."
The girl did turn and look at Miles and the policeman, but she did as she was told with a very red face. The thick and very old fashioned skirt was lifted and thrown up on her back and the girl bent over and touched her toes. Miles was astonished at the sight of her knickers. For a start they were a thick dark blue and covered far more than anything he had ever seen, quite unlike anything worn today and to underline the oddity had elasticated legs as well as waist band. His eyes became fixed on her knickers like some dirty old pervert, but it was their sheer oddity he was drawn to.
Sir George didn't do his little step this time but the stroke he gave her was no soft tap. He lifted his arm right back and brought it down on her knickers with a good solid blow. Miles winced at the girl's cry of distress, spanking writer though he was he had never seen a real punishment before today. A clear mark was left on the thick blue knickers, and then - whack - down the cane came again. "Owww," Amanda yelped but stayed in position. Miles had a feeling that jumping up was not held in high regard. Two clear lines tracked onto her knickers and four to go. Miles couldn't help thinking this was a bit steep for an accidental quarter of an inch short on a skirt that would have been more than acceptable in his life.
As a third cry filled the room, Miles couldn't help wondering just where the hell he was and what was a 'mist visitor'. He watched Sir George bring the cane down hard on the girl's bottom a fourth time. The kid might be wearing thick knickers but this caning was still being felt right enough. Thwack, it buried itself in the material and the girl began to cry. Thwack landed the fifth and she reared up prompting a sharp, "Down" from the man who then waited while she returned
to the bent over position, stepped back, gave a quick step and whipped the cane down extra hard across her bottom. She reared up again, holding her bottom under her skirt and wailing loudly - clearly a girl that had not had much in the way of punishment before.
When Amanda had taken herself off, snuffling all the way, Miles asked why he had been so hard on what was clearly a mistake when the skirt was modest anyhow.
"Standards old boy, standards, with all the village busybodies at work, especially Miss Smithy, if I didn't cane the girl someone would have her in front of the village court and the fact of the matter is the skirt is too short. She'd fare far worse at the village court, possibly twelve on her bare bum in front of everyone. No, I was being lenient you know.
"What you don't understand is where you are. Thing is, Mr LaPage, you are in a very strange place. Back in 1937 there was a terribly violent electrical storm here. When it was over the people of the village found they simply couldn't get out. They could walk, ride or drive but always ended up coming straight back in again. Occasionally, there was a strange mist on the hills up there and then someone, usually a walker such as you clearly are, would arrive here. Some attempted to get out and we never saw them again, so we hope and pray they escaped. Some simply went in circles until arriving back here. Some liked it here so much they stayed."
"You're having me on," Miles reacted with a laugh, "how about stuff like coal, petrol, and clothes? I can see you might be able to grow all your own food but not manufactured goods."
"I grant you it was quite unbelievable but the thing is that too is a mystery. We simply send off orders as we always have and the goods arrive. We don't know how and we never pay for them. Try it for yourself. Borrow my car and try driving out. I'll see you back here in a couple of hours or more. I'll have a room made ready for you."
