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Saturday, December 28, 2013

Saturday Spankings - The Billionaire Cowboy

Here we go - my first time participating in Saturday Spankings! So many thanks for visiting, and here is a short extract from my new book The Billionaire Cowboy. At last, Carla and Scott are about to get it together ...
******



He looked at her through slightly hooded eyes. That look and the tone of his voice created such frisson that Carla began to tingle with barely suppressed excitement.

"You're going to go over my knee, resting your elbows on the sofa. That mighty fine butt of yours will be nicely elevated for my pleasure." He held up his right hand - it was a large, strong and capable hand - a spankers hand. He wriggled his fingers. "I'm going to stroke you with this hand, tracing my fingertips down from your waist to the top of your thighs, then up again, stroking ... probing ... caressing. After that, I'm going to flip up your skirt, revealing those lovely long and shapely legs."

Oh my - there's my 8 sentences. I have to stop just when we're getting to the good bit! But I'm sure you can use your imagination :)

If you're interested, here is the buy link to Amazon.

Don't forget to check out all the other authors on the blog hop over at the Saturday Spankings blog.




Monday, December 23, 2013

Free Story - Christmas at Woodbridge Manor

It's Christmas, and I have a festive spanking story to share with you. Perfect for a cold winter's night! Enjoy.
Happy Holidays :)

Christmas at Woodbridge Manor
copyright Abigail Armani


The snow-blanketed landscape beyond the window gleamed white ice, humps and hollows of the once comfortingly familiar now teased into otherworldly shapes. Huge drifts blown by the fierce west wind loomed like bizarre creatures of nightmare in this frozen land. And still the snow continued to fall from a leaden afternoon sky. Trees contorted beneath the weight, trunks twisted, icicle-hung branches breaking and cracking. Paths and roads were obliterated by several feet of snow, and the extreme cold bit bone deep.

The old man shifted in his chair by the glowing fire, his gnarled fingers grasping the comforting rug that covered his legs and feet. Age sat heavily on his frame and his old bones ached from the winter chill. The scene outside sparked a memory from his youth, and a smile curled the corners of his mouth as through half-closed eyes he remembered...

**************

They said it was the worst winter in 100 years. In all his twenty years Samuel had known nothing like it - the ice was several inches thick on the inside of the windows and the snow waist-high outside and still falling steadily. Everything was frozen, wrapped in a heavy white blanket. The biting cold was so intense no one could keep warm despite being muffled in several layers of clothing. The prospect of a bitter and miserable Yuletide loomed as the temperature plummeted even further. Despondency and discomfort were beginning to give way to panic, and the villagers of Woodbridge prayed for the snow to stop and warmer weather to set in.

Help came as Lord Woodham from Woodbridge Manor sent his groundsmen and gamekeepers out to round up everyone in the village and bring them to the manor where they would remain until the weather improved. The promise of roaring fires and plentiful supplies of hot food lured the villagers from their own freezing abodes into the comforting warmth of 'the big house.' And so they came, trudging through the snow and ice and cutting winds, their belongings piled high on sledges or tied into bundles. Young and old alike ventured out into the Arctic conditions, and if they couldn't walk unaided they were carried on makeshift stretchers or on the backs of broad-shouldered men.

The manor dated back to Elizabethan times. It was an impressively elegant building with mullioned windows that blazed with the light of a hundred welcoming candles. Lord Woodham, a widower, resided there with his daughter Elizabeth and a dozen or more servants, the latter now scurrying around with great purpose, piling more logs on the fire in the great hall, heating enormous pans of soup, organising blankets and rugs, retrieving all the spare china and cutlery from storage. The tantalising mouth-watering smell of freshly baked bread and roasting meats emanated from the kitchens. It seemed that Woodbridge Manor had enough provisions and fuel to last for months. No one would go hungry or cold this Christmas.

While His Lordship was overseeing the additional stabling required for the cart horses and ensuring the livestock were secure in their pens in the hay-filled barns adjoining the stable block, Elizabeth was busy indoors. The manor was usually such a quiet place, and she enjoyed the welcome break from routine attributed to the influx of visitors.

"Everyone - come into the great hall. There's plenty of room. Ellen - we need more blankets," she said to one of the maids. "Mary - help Constance with the makeshift beds along the back wall there. Josephine, go and ask cook when the soup will be ready - oh, and ask George to bring in more seating." In between giving instructions she smiled and welcomed everyone, helping divest them of wet garments and sodden footwear, seating people in rows before the huge fireplace.

As a wonderful warmth crept gradually into iced fingers and toes, and icicles melted from eyelashes, there were smiles on many faces of those assembled in the great hall; the atmosphere became a heady mix of convivial excitement, for this was an adventure without a doubt and would make a fine tale to tell years from now on a winter's night before a glowing fire in the hearth.

Agnes the cook and her kitchen maids soon began ladling bowls of steaming hot and nourishing soup, serving it with platters of crusty bread still warm from the ovens. Three dozen villagers tucked in and ate their fill, washing the broth down with hot sweet tea or warm milk.

Samuel ate appreciatively, wiping the sides of his bowl with a hunk of crusty bread, but all the while he was darting surreptitious glances at Lady Elizabeth. Although not beautiful in the conventional sense, her lovely copper-gold curls gleamed in the candle light. Her wide eyes, fringed with dark lashes, were a deep forest-green. She had a trim figure - high pert breasts, and a narrow waist that flared into a tantalisingly round bottom. When she smiled, her seemingly plain features were illuminated and her laughter was reflected in her eyes. Such sharp and vibrant eyes, they missed nothing. She noticed when platters were empty and bowls needed refilling, and she ensured that all ate and drank their fill, and after the meal was cleared away, that the guests were all warm and dry and comfortable.

Huge logs were added to the roaring fire. The enormous fireplace was the focal point of the great hall, and as the logs crackled and blazed bright, long tongues of flame darted, illuminating a sea of contented faces.

Lord Woodham entered the manor, stamping the snow from his boots. He strode into the great hall and eyed the assembled guests. "It's as well you are all here safe; the weather is getting worse by the minute."

"Aye. There's a fierce blizzard raging out there," added old Tom the gamekeeper. "It's so thick you can't see more than a few inches in front of your nose, and the wind is so wild it almost blew me over."

"Then you must have a tankard of ale, Tom, to steady your legs," said His Lordship with a wry smile and a twinkle in his eye. "Have a barrel brought up from the cellars. I'm sure it will be appreciated."

It was, and his Lordship's generosity was lauded by one and all. Indeed, his generosity of spirit and obvious concern for the well-being of the village and its occupants ensured that he was both liked and respected - even the strange and unusual taste he had for delivering a good whipping on a whim was tolerated. Given that he possessed so many fine qualities, a blind eye was turned to the less tolerable ones ... except of course by those unfortunate enough to find themselves on the receiving end of that devilishly stingy rattan cane of his, or the riding crop or leather strap that hung on a nail behind the stable door. Those chosen to receive his attentions could often be heard screeching and wailing as he delivered a good dozen stinging blows to their bared hindquarters. Still, tears dried and pain faded, particularly when his Lordship sent them on their way afterwards with a coin or two or a pie from the larder or a mutton bone for the pot. And it was rumoured that there were those who actually derived some salacious enjoyment from his Lordship's ministrations and did their utmost to ensure they were available to assuage any additional needs ... for His Lordship was still a fine figure of a man who could set female hearts a-fluttering.

Molly Hartley was the one who caught his eye on this particular afternoon. She was a comely dark-haired woman with a buxom figure. Feeling his gaze upon her, she looked up and instantly recognised the familiar gleam in his eyes.

"Molly, you will join me in my study immediately," said Lord Woodham.

"Yes sir. Of course, sir," replied Molly, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment and excitement. As she scuttled after him, there were nods and winks from some of the villagers.

"Lord - he's at it again," said one.

"Molly won't mind. She likes it," said another.

"Hussy," snorted Mrs. Smith, the blacksmith's wife.

"Less of that, wife," chided the blacksmith. "Or Molly won't be the only one eating her supper standing," he said meaningfully, flexing the fingers of his huge right hand.

His remark caused a few smiles and calls of encouragement, which gave way to general chatter and good natured banter.

As Lady Elizabeth returned to the great hall, one of the house maids addressed her. "Four days to Christmas Eve, My Lady. Should we begin to decorate the hall?"

"Of course, Mary. Get the villagers involved in making Christmas wreaths and garlands ... and mistletoe balls," she added as a fleeting image of the handsome young farmer Samuel appeared in her mind, his blue eyes staring oh so meaningfully into her own green-eyed gaze. "Yes. Do that. It will give them something to do. Deck the walls and windows. The tree has already been cut - have it brought in and decorated."

"Oh yes, My Lady." Mary clapped her hands and her eyes shone bright as buttons. "It will be a Christmas to remember."

"And better tell cook to make more Christmas puddings too, and we shall need two more turkeys and another goose. Heavens - I had better make a list of what we're going to need to feed all these people at the Christmas feast. There is much work to be done, Mary."

"Indeed, my Lady, but we have many willing hands to help."

Intent on discussing provisions with Agnes the cook, Lady Elizabeth left the hall. But instead of going down to the kitchens, her feet trod a different path. Along the corridor she walked past the drawing room, to stand outside her father's study as he disciplined Molly Hartley. It wasn't as though she were eavesdropping. No, for if she were seen, it would be assumed she was gathering extra supplies of linen from the small room opposite the study. To give weight to her assertion, she went inside and gathered up a pile of white linen sheets which she held with trembling fingers as she listened to the series of mewls and yelps emanating from the partially closed study door.

"Oh my Lord," she whispered as father's cane did its work. She closed her eyes, visualising the rattan as it arced and swooped down with a rush of air to land on bare buttocks. She had seen Molly's bare trembling buttocks before when she had been spying. It was an activity she had continued with, since it resulted in such deliciously wanton feelings in the pit of her stomach. To see the white lines turn red, searing the skin with a slash of fire, was an inexplicable delight. How she wished she could be the one to experience the kiss of the cane. But father had never disciplined her. Never. And so she was reduced to hiding in the laundry room or peeping through cracks in the barn when her father took it upon himself to use his crop or cane or thick leather strap.

The noises in the study continued. Father was breathing heavily, grunting in satisfaction with each carefully aimed blow. Molly would be thrusting her upturned buttocks wantonly, eager for more.

"Lucky Molly," murmured Lady Elizabeth. She leaned against the linen cupboard, and clutching the linen to her chest with her left hand, she let her right hand stray, fingers creeping slowly down from her waist to her belly and below. The soft fabric of her velvet gown felt wonderfully lush, and as her fingers lingered over her secret place her breath came in little gasps as she allowed herself to be caught up in the lust-filled moment, and -

"Lady Elizabeth?" Samuel stood by the doorway.

"Oh!! Samuel!" she gasped, straightened up, and in her haste dropped the armful of linen.

"Let me help."

He was retrieving it before she could protest. Her heart beating wildly in her chest and her cheeks flaming red, she gulped and took a deep breath, calming herself.

"Here we are, my lady. Where would you like them?"

"Ah, um. Bring them to the great hall and put them on the table by the west window." With as much dignity as she could muster, Elizabeth swept past him and retraced her steps down the corridor. Her face was still flaming with embarrassment, knowing he had seen her in such an intimate moment.

But as she walked, she reassessed the situation. Her stray hand would have been hidden by the armful of linen. He couldn't possibly have seen her fingers lingering over the fabric of her gown. The realisation brought great relief, but the fact remained that he would most certainly have known she was clandestinely listening to the sounds of Molly being disciplined.

It was true. Samuel had seen the look on her face - a look of ecstatic longing tempered with lust and excitement. So, it would seem that Her Ladyship shares the same proclivities as her father, he thought to himself. The thought brought a smile to his face and a wild rush of heady excitement as he indulged in imagining his own hands raising her gown, baring that soft sweet flesh, and reddening it with the palm of his hand. And if she needed more, he would take his belt to her, and caress her bare buttocks with the supple leather. How glorious that would be - and how utterly impossible. It would never happen of course, but a man could dream. He sighed and followed in Lady Elizabeth's wake, his arms full of linen, his eyes fixed hypnotically on her swaying posterior.

**************


For the next four days the manor underwent a transformation. Aside from the neatly organised row upon row of makeshift beds piled high with blankets and set against the west wall of the great hall, the place was teeming with people all caught up in the magical excitement of Christmas at Woodbridge Manor. Heavenly aromatic scents of fir, pine, hemlock, sweet cinnamon, cranberry and apple filled the air.

On Christmas Eve, massive Yule logs sparked and cracked in the fireplace, casting dancing shadows on the Christmas tree. It stood some twenty feet tall and made a glorious spectacle, all bedecked with holly berries, trailing ribbons of ivy, ropes of popcorn and cranberry, and a unique miscellany of objects from house and garden - pine cones, evergreen leaves, fruits and berries, ribbon and raffia-wrapped walnuts and cinnamon sticks. There were strings of dried fruits, and sugar plums wired through and attached to the branches with red ribbons. The women had made wonderful cornucopias by twisting square pieces of thick paper into cone shapes, and when stuck together the cornucopias were decorated with pictures and ribbons, stuffed full of sweets and then hung from the tree. And underneath the tree were placed an array of gifts that were lovingly stitched, glued, coloured and crafted - including knitted mufflers, tapestry bookmarks, pen wipers and embroidered handkerchiefs. There was a gift for everyone in the household.

Elaborate wreaths of evergreen foliage were secured to doors and windows. Holly and ivy and yew graced mantle-shelves, and green garlands trailed around door frames and ledges. Some of the garlands were decorated with apples, holly berries and pine cones. And at strategically placed intervals in secluded corners were hung the mistletoe balls, ready and waiting for the embrace of kissing couples.

The larders were crammed to full capacity, stashed with meats and cheeses and huge sacks of flour and sugar, chests of tea, glorious jellies and delicious pastries, bowls of sugared almonds, bon bons and sugar plums. Cook and her helpers worked long and hard, making puddings and pies and all manner of good things to eat. More Christmas puddings had been prepared a few days earlier, wrapped in cotton cloth then boiled for six hours. When cool and patted dry the puddings were hung in a dark corner of the larder until Christmas Day, when they would be steamed for three hours to reheat, then doused with brandy before being set alight and eagerly devoured with custard and brandy butter.

But cook was not happy. Her face was set into a permanent scowl of annoyance and indignation. She made no secret of her bad temper. The puddings were best made five Sundays before Christmas, giving them the chance to age properly to improve the flavour. It was bad enough that there was insufficient time for the puddings to age, but to add insult to injury, cook's stash of silver coins had gone missing. Agnes had been adding coins to her puddings for the past five years, following on from the tradition established by Queen Victoria - apparently as a gesture of thanks to her cook - a gesture fully approved of by Agnes.

"Someone has stolen my bag of silver coin! It has gone! Disappeared. I know where I left it - it was locked in the spice cupboard. Who has taken it? If I ever get my hands on the thief, I'll ... I'll-"

"You will what?" asked a voice from behind.

Agnes whirled around. "Oh. Your Lordship! You've caught me all flustered and no mistake."

"And why exactly are you flustered? What is this about money being stolen? And why was I not informed of it sooner?"

"I - well... I didn't want to get nobody in any trouble, Sir. But the fact is, I know where I left the bag of coin. It couldn't just disappear. It was locked away in the spice cupboard. Someone must have stolen it."

"I see. And who knows where the key to the spice cupboard is kept?"

"The kitchen staff do, Your Lordship. Not that I'm accusing any of them mind," she added as the other women gave her black looks. "But with so many people here, well - it could have been anyone."

"Indeed. Well, cook. After supper and before the exchange of gifts, I will find out who the culprit is, and they shall be given a whipping." Warming to the task in hand he rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "A sound thrashing will serve as a suitable punishment, on the bare bottom. I will not hold back. Theft is not tolerated at Woodbridge."

"Yes, Your Lordship." Cook bobbed a curtsey, somewhat mollified that His Lordship was going to look into the matter, but she was also almost feeling sorry for whoever it would be on the receiving end of his cane.

The kitchen staff were about to resume their duties when His Lordship spoke again. "The punishment will be delivered in public, in the great hall."

There came a series of startled gasps from the kitchen staff. Cook's eyes widened. "In public, Sir? And bare bottomed too?" She fanned herself with a wash cloth.

"That is correct. The added humiliation will surely serve as a warning to others contemplating such a despicable act in the future."

"Oh my," mumbled cook.

"It's not decent," whispered the scullery maid.

"If you are innocent, Constance, you have nothing to fear," remarked Lord Woodham.

"I am innocent, Sir. I truly am!" said Constance. Having felt six hard strikes of the master's cane on her own tender flesh for breaking a valuable porcelain vase less than a week ago, she was in no hurry to repeat the experience - and particularly not bare-bottomed in front of the whole village!

The news of His Lordship's intended action spread like wildfire, and after a hearty supper of roast beef and spiced mulled wine, the atmosphere in the great hall was electric. The men looked forward lustily to witnessing the baring of a feminine bottom and the spectacle of the subsequent chastisement. Many of the women were also excited - some agonising over how they would cope if they were wrongly accused, others wishing fervently it were they who had stolen cook's money, and others who trembled slightly and began feeling the first inexplicable stirrings of arousal at the prospect of what was to come.

Lord Woodham disappeared from the room and returned a few minutes later. In his right hand he held a rattan cane. All conversation in the great hall ceased, and the only noise was the crackle and hiss of the burning logs in the hearth.

"It appears we have a thief in our midst. Will the thief step forward and confess?"

Everyone collectively held their breath. Heads turned, but there was no sign of anyone stepping forward from the throng.

"I see. We have a coward as well as a thief." Lord Woodham regarded the villagers calmly but there was a steely glint in his grey eyes. "In that case, I shall cane each and every woman present."

A series of gasps and cries went up from the women.

"That's not fair! The thief might be a man!" protested Josephine, one of the kitchen maids. She immediately regretted her outburst as Lord Woodham crooked his finger and beckoned her forward.

"Since you are so forthcoming, Josephine, I will start with you. Come here."

"Oh but, Sir, I-"

"Now."

Josephine gulped and stepped forward. His Lordship had placed a straight-backed chair in the centre of the hall. He gestured towards it. "Bend over it. Feet apart."

Cringing with embarrassment, Josephine approached the chair. She directed an agonised and pleading look at her employer, but it had no effect whatsoever. Choking back tears, she leaned over the chair back and grasped the edge of the seat. The position elevated her bottom nicely. Lord Woodham surveyed the rounded rump appreciatively and stepped behind the girl to raise her skirts waist-high.

The onlookers watched in a combination of fascination, horror and lust. A slight tug at the ribbons on the girl's bloomers and her bottom was bared and presented for punishment. His Lordship smiled wolfishly and assessed the target, and a most pleasing target it was too, being fleshy yet firm - perfect for the cane.

Poor Josephine screwed up her face and closed her eyes. It was taking all her resolve not to burst into tears. Her grip on the seat tightened so much her knuckles turned white. As the cane slashed through the air and delivered a sizzling stroke across the centre of her buttocks, Josephine lost her resolve not to cry out. She emitted a piercing screech like a stuck pig as the searing stroke burned like fire. Her bottom wagged obscenely from side to side as she stamped her feet and howled.

"It burns! It burns!" she cried. "And it wasn't me. I didn't take cook's money, I didn't! I - Aaarghhh!" She squealed anew as a second stroke even stingier than the first, landed an inch below the first raised red weal. The tears fell and Josephine made a horrible mewling sound. The poor girl was inconsolable and began to babble and plead for mercy.

His Lordship showed none, and he raised the cane again.

"Wait!"

To the surprise and astonishment of the villagers, Lady Elizabeth stepped forward. Looking her father in the eye she spoke. "It was I who stole the money."

A sequence of audible gasps could be heard, then all was silent save for the snap and hiss of the burning logs.

"Therefore, it is I who should receive the appropriate punishment."

The gasps turned to 'ooo's' and 'aahh's' as the villagers turned as one to stare at Lady Elizabeth. Why would her Ladyship do such a thing? She had plenty of money of her own without resorting to stealing it from others. And why ever would she confess, and offer - no, demand - to take the punishment? There were only three people present who knew the answer to those questions. One was Elizabeth herself, the second was Samuel, and the third, his Lordship.

His Lordship regarded his daughter speculatively. He should have realised it was her before he announced the public punishment of the guilty party, for he had known for a long time that she took every available opportunity to observe him disciplining an errant female. But discipline his own daughter? He had never once raised a hand to her, nor did he intend to. It was unthinkable. However ... an astute man, he was aware of the spark between his daughter and young Samuel. Yes. Samuel. His head turned and met the frank gaze of the young man.

"Samuel Croft. I have no intention of punishing my only daughter. I charge you with the task, for today and henceforth. Come here and take the cane."

The villagers were stunned. With their eyes bulging, they watched as Samuel took the cane from His Lordship.

"Bare her. Administer six strokes - and make sure you lay it on hard. She deserves it."

Samuel swallowed. His Lordship's words echoed in his head like a mantra. For today and henceforth. He attempted to assess the implications of those words, but was still in a state of shock. He would never have thought His Lordship would have his own daughter punished - and certainly not in public. But he nodded. "Yes Sir," he said quietly but firmly. And then he looked to Elizabeth and gestured to the chair. "Approach the chair if you please, Your Ladyship, and bend over to receive your punishment."

"Very well." She was amazed at how cool and calm her voice sounded, when inside she was quaking and trembling with dread and excitement and terror. Stepping forward, Elizabeth bent over the chair vacated by Josephine and positioned herself in the same manner. Then she waited, and each second was an eternity...

... Until she felt his hands on her skirts, and his breath like a caress, warm on the back of her neck. And she heard the word he whispered so low that only she could hear.

"Courage."

Elizabeth had waited long for this day, but her only regret was that she was to be punished so publicly. That she had not anticipated. For this first experience with Samuel as her chastiser was special, and deserved better. No matter, she thought. I stole deliberately, seeking the consequences, and now I am to receive what I deserve. I must endure. I must be brave. She acknowledged Samuel's words with an almost imperceptible nod of her head. "I'm ready."

There was a sudden rush of cool air as her bare flesh was exposed. The villagers were staring slack-jawed, some rubbing their eyes as though they were hallucinating, for surely this could not be Her Ladyship's bare bottom presented for the cane?

For Samuel, this was a moment he had only dared dream about. He ran the fingers of his left hand lightly over her naked flesh. Her buttocks twitched in anticipation beneath his touch. He focused on the task so utterly and completely that he became unaware of the watchful audience and the appraising gaze of His Lordship. For now, there was only himself and Lady Elizabeth, and it was his role to give her that which she craved. Grasping the cane firmly in his right hand, he raised his arm.

Elizabeth's eyes opened wide, as did her mouth, forming the shape of a perfect O, though no sound emerged from her stricken throat. The pain was beyond imagining. How could she ever articulate the intensity of the burning line of fire that scorched her skin and bit so deep? For one interminable moment she screamed her silent scream and experienced the rush of feelings that assailed her.

"One." Samuel's voice penetrated her turmoil. He tapped her buttocks lightly with the tip of the cane, signalling she should ready herself for the next strike.

When it came, it landed in a perfect parallel line immediately below the first, and this time, Elizabeth found her voice. Her screech reached the rafters, echoing amongst the ancient timber frames. Oh what pain. It was dreadful. It was a torment. It was ... exquisite. She hated it. Yet she yearned for more.

"Two," called Samuel, shortly followed by, "Three."

Three. I am but halfway through. Oh Lord, the pain fills me. She took a deep breath as the third stroke landed, and choked out a strangled sound as she arched her back and let the sensation build deep within her.

For Samuel, the sight and sound of her inflamed his ardour like nothing else had ever done before. He beheld the once porcelain white bottom now decorated with three festively red lines. He paused, tracing his fingertips lightly over her pulsing flesh, the heat of her skin making his own skin tingle with arousal and excitement. He obeyed His Lordship. He did not hold back. Had he done so, he knew he would disappoint Elizabeth. Two more strokes were applied in perfect symmetry. On impact, each left a trail of white fire that immediately deepened to red.

Elizabeth was breathing hard and fast, her eyes closed. One to go. One more. Courage. She turned her head slightly, angling up and she met his eyes, full of promise and passion and understanding.

"The last one," he told her. "The worst one."

She nodded, chewed her lip, and braced herself. The cane rushed through the air and swooped down on her punished flesh, branding anew. The rod sliced down, harder than the strokes that went before it. Elizabeth cried out, and only then did she remove her hands to knead her poor punished bottom.

Samuel restored her dignity, standing directly behind her as she tried in vain to rub out the sting, and then he adjusted her clothing, smoothing down her skirts, covering her stripes. "It is over. You did well," he whispered.

Elizabeth gazed at him with tear-filled eyes and nodded. Her father stepped forward and addressed the hushed crowd.

"Well, as you see, justice has been done with remarkable competence and fortitude," he remarked. "And we shall speak no more of this episode." As soon as the words were out he knew how fruitless they were. Every single member of the watching crowd had been held mesmerised by the scene they had just witnessed. It was burned into their memories. They would indeed speak of it again, many times. So be it. He shrugged and continued. "However, it is Christmas Eve. We have gifts to open and mulled wine to drink and carols to sing. Let us make merry inside while the weather rages wildly outside. Merry Christmas to all!"

"Merry Christmas!" The call was returned countless times.

The spell was broken. The villagers surged towards the tree and there was much laughter and jollifications as gifts were received and wine sipped and sweetmeats eaten. And the next day, the Christmas feast was pure indulgence, enjoyed by one and all. No-one mentioned that the puddings did not contain any silver coins. And no-one but Lord Woodham noticed that Lady Elizabeth and Samuel slipped away hand in hand after the feast. His Lordship smiled knowingly for he had given Samuel a belated and unexpected gift - his best rattan cane.

Like father, like daughter, he murmured to himself before catching the eye of the comely raven-haired dairymaid with the well-proportioned rump. He had a spare cane after all - several in fact - and all would be put to good use.

**************


Elizabeth returned and sat by her husband before the glowing fire. He reached out and caught her hand in his. She was in her seventieth year now and her copper-gold hair had dimmed but her eyes had not; they still glimmered forest-green and sparkled when she smiled, which was often. She was still beautiful to him, his wife of fifty years.

"Look at the blizzard out there," Samuel said. "It reminded me of our first Christmas together in this house, just before we were wed."

"Ah yes. It was certainly a Christmas to remember," she said, giving his hand a squeeze. "I still have the little bag of silver coin I stole from cook to earn myself my first caning."

"I suppose it's a kind of family heirloom," reflected Samuel, "as is that cane your father gave me."

"I think we should pass them on to Holly."

Samuel blinked. At 19, Holly was their youngest grandchild. "Why Holly?"

"Because ... she seems to have inherited a certain family trait. I caught her in the stables with that young groom - she was over his lap getting her bottom whacked with a riding crop, and she was clearly enjoying it."

"That settles it then. We shall bequeath the family heirlooms to Holly," laughed Samuel.

As the heart of the fire glowed red, Samuel and Elizabeth sat in companionable silence, looking into the flickering flames and basking in the warmth, and all was well.

**************


If you have enjoyed this, you can buy the book, Christmas at Woodbridge Manor, which contains the above plus nine more Christmas themed spanking stories by various authors.

More details here.

Saturday, December 21, 2013

The Billionaire Cowboy

Greetings. I have a new ebook out called The Billionaire Cowboy. I had fun writing it, and at 43,500 words it's more substantial than some of my other titles. I hope you will enjoy reading it. :)


The Billionaire Cowboy, the fourth book in the Love on a Ranch series, is a fast paced novel with exciting story lines and a delicious hint of kink. Alpha male Scott Armstrong is depicted as an ordinary hard-working guy with extraordinary talents. He is a prime specimen of a cowboy if ever there was one, breathtakingly handsome, broad shouldered and strong, his jeans moulded to his muscled thighs. But it isn't just his looks or his vast wealth that make him so endearing - he is also warm-hearted, intelligent and witty. Unaffected by material wealth and success, he is neither arrogant or superior, but he is a man who knows exactly what - or who - he wants ... and that is Carla Odell. Some wonderfully believable characters are portrayed, set against a backdrop of ranch life, cattle stampedes and the ubiquitous villain thrown into the mix, but the developing romance between Scott and Carla will hold your attention. Their relationship isn't without its conflicts, but a wholly satisfying and heart-warming happy ever after ending beckons and demands to be read...



Available for Kindle from Amazon and in a variety of formats from LSF Publications:

Wednesday, December 11, 2013

Free Story - The Man at the Carousel

Hi folks, here's a follow up to the earlier story. Hope you enjoy it.

The Man at the Carousel

Elizabeth regarded her eldest daughter speculatively. At nineteen Carla was stunning, with her honey-blonde locks that tumbled down her back, hazel eyes fringed with dark lashes and a dazzling smile that captivated anyone who looked at her. Carla sparkled with the vitality and confidence of her youth, but today there was a difference ... today, when asked where she was going, those hazel eyes glimmered with subterfuge.

"Just out," she shrugged.

"Out where?" Elizabeth persisted.

"For a walk by the canal. Does it matter? I'm nineteen, mum. I don't need your permission." There was a slight hint of defiance in her tone, but it was overlaid with a simmering excitement." She couldn't control it - her face radiated an almost feverish eagerness.

"Does it matter?" mused Elizabeth. "Yes, I'd say it does matter. I think I know where you're going, Carla - in fact I'm sure of it. You're going to the travelling fair."

Carla blinked in surprise. "I might be," she said evasively. "And what if I am?"

Elizabeth nodded, a wistful smile curving the corners of her mouth. "You've seen him, haven't you?"

"Who?"

"Leon. Leon Altamarino. The man at the carousel."

"How the heck do you know that?!"

"You're not the only one to see him, Carla. I've seen him too, and so has your grandmother and your great grandmother, and goodness knows how many generations before that."

Carla moved away from the doorway and went to sit at the table opposite her mother. "I don't understand. You speak as though he were a ghost. He's not - he's flesh and blood and gorgeous. I met him last night and he's asked me out for a drink. That's where I'm going. I'm going on a date with Leon Altamarino." A dreamy look crossed her face and then vanished as she pondered her mother's statement. "What do you mean when you say that you've seen him? Okay, I get that, and maybe gran too - but great grandma? That's not possible - Leon can't be older than mid thirties."

"I've been preparing for this day for some time. There are things you should know, before you go and meet him. I'm not trying to get you to change your mind - far from it. I remember only too well the charm and mystery of the man. He will take you to heights you have never imagined, Carla, and you will revel in the experience and hold it within you for all time - just like the rest of us."

"You're not making much sense. Have you been smoking weed?" Carla eyed her mother with suspicion. The tin in the food cupboard stashed behind the tin of custard powder was no secret.

"No." Elizabeth smiled. "And you know that is only a very occasional vice. I remember having a similar conversation with my mother, a conversation which we discussed many times as the years went by. She didn't talk to me in advance of my first experience, feeling it best for me to find out for myself. But I've thought long and hard and I want you to be prepared. I want you to know. Leon Altamarino - what a name - seductive, fluid, almost musical. A magical name. It makes you tremble when you speak it out loud, doesn't it?"

Carla nodded. She focused on her mother's words, listening avidly as her mother continued.

"Your gran described part of her experience as though she was looking into a kaleidoscope, and as the tube was rotated, a mass of coloured shapes tumbled and danced, forming intricate patterns, multiplied by reflections in the mirrors set into the tube. Round and round danced the patterns, round and round, like the motion of a fairground carousel. And in the blink of an eye, through the kaleidoscope she could see the rows of gaily painted wooden horses on the carousel, and as the hidden bevel gears cranked, the horses moved up and down, galloping to the music that blared from the organ built in to the centre of the carousel. The memory was so clear she could see the intricate detail on the colourful wooden horses; she could hear the din of the fairground organ, with its drums, whistles and tooting horns - producing a sound that was at the same time both fun and wistful and scary. And in the background she could hear the hum of voices as people talked and laughed and squealed in delight and pretend fear."

"I can picture it," whispered Carla. "That is so real - the sights, the sounds, the atmosphere of the fairground, the horses on the carousel..."

"It is real. And the more I think of it, the more vibrant and alive my own memories become. Each of our line get to see him three times. Only three ... I wish it were more. I have had my quota and so has your gran. And now it is your time - your first time. Are you ready?"

Carla shivered. "I ... I - well I was ready to go out on a hot date. But now ... now everything has changed. This is all so mysterious and otherworldly. I'm still trying to work out how me, my mother and my gran can all date the same man!"

"It's best not to ponder too much - just accept, and enjoy. He'll spank you, you know."

Carla's eyes grew round. "Spank me?" Oh god, her fantasy ... her dark and secret and twisted fantasy ...

"Yes. But that's what you want, isn't it? I can tell. It shines through your eyes."

"Well, maybe," said Carla hesitantly, a flush of embarrassment colouring her cheeks.

"Most certainly you do. There's nothing perverse about it. It's in your blood! In our blood. And this man - whoever he is and by what strange means we get to see and experience him - he brings about a realisation of our fantasy."

"Let me get this straight. If I go to meet leon Altamarino, he'll spank me. And I get two more occasions when he'll spank me some more?" Her mother nodded. "And then what?"

"Then you will do as I am doing now, and prepare your own daughter for her first meeting with the man from the carousel. For as long as our line continues, that is what will happen to each woman in turn. Are we cursed or are we charmed? The latter - it is a gift. Take it. Experience it for yourself." Elizabeth stood and hugged her daughter. "Go now, it is time. Then when you return I'll have that tin out of the cupboard and we can compare notes."


Carla left the house just as the sun was dipping and made her way to the fairground. The evening was warm and humid, redolent with the sweet scent of candyfloss and the aroma of hot dogs from the many vendors' stalls. She made her way purposefully to the large carousel on the edge of the fairground. It was lit up with dozens of fairy lights winking pink and blue and green, and it was deserted except for one person - Leon Altamarino. He raised his hand and waved a greeting as she approached, and flashed that wickedly wonderful smile.

"Hello Carla," he said, reaching out to hug her.

"Leon," she said. "I ... I was talking with my mother about you."

"Of course," he nodded. "You have inherited her beauty. You are captivating." He kissed her fleetingly on the lips, his eyes sparkling with pleasure. "Come." He led her up onto the platform. "Ride the carousel with me. You will like where it takes us."

All her unspoken questions faded into nothing. She laughed with childlike glee, and clambered onto one of the horses. It was painted in green and gold, with a red saddle and a red bridle.

Leon went to the controls in the centre of the carousel platform. "Hold tight." That wide and generous mouth smiled a smile full of secrets and promises. He pulled a lever.

The machinery whirred and the horses began to move, slowly at first - a sedate walking pace which escalated to a trot, then a brisk canter, and finally a gallop. Carla laughed, and held tightly to the barley twist pole as the momentum increased. She felt euphoric. The twilight air shimmered. Leon came to sit behind her on the wooden horse, his arms sliding around her waist, his breath warm against the nape of her neck. And as the carousel spun and whirled, Leon Altamarino whispered in Carla's ear about all the things she would experience with him.

Carla leaned back in his embrace, desire pulsing from every bone in her body. She was barely aware that the carousel had slowed. His hands cupped her breasts, his mouth came down hard on her own, devouring her in a kiss full of promises. When the carousel stopped, Carla slid down from the horse to be caught in strong welcoming arms. Then, taking her by the hand, Leon led her over the field to his caravan.

There was a new vibrancy about her as she ran over the grass, easily matching Leon's pace. And when they reached his caravan and tumbled inside, he caught her around the waist and pulled her close.

"All things are possible if one wants them enough," murmured Leon in her ear. "And I know what you want. But I need you to tell me. Tell me, Carla. Tell me what you want of me."

"I... I..." she faltered. "I want - need - you to ... to spank me. Please."

"It will be my pleasure," he said huskily. His hands began to undress her as his eyes devoured her.

Off came her blouse. And then he unclasped her bra and drew the straps down slowly over her shoulders. Stooping, he brushed his lips lightly over her nipples - they were already engorged. Carla trembled with excitement and longing. She felt his hands slide her zipper down, and then tug lightly at her skirt. It fell to the floor. She kicked it aside dismissively.

Leon bent to unfasten her sandals. He removed first one and then the other. Now Carla faced him, wearing only a pair of black lace panties. She felt his hands dart round to fondle her bottom, pinching and patting her well-rounded buttocks. Then he pushed her roughly onto the bed. She got up on her hands and knees and he pulled down her panties, baring her bottom. And then he started to spank her.

His hand cracked down on her pale bottom. Again and again the spanks descended, and Carla wondered how a hand could possibly hurt so much. She squirmed and bucked and yelped; hating it; loving it. Her bottom quickly lost its pale sheen and became a uniform pink.

Leon laughed. "We need more colour. What's it to be, my love? Crop, strap, belt or cane?"

"All of them," she mewled.

"Patience," he smilingly admonished, and picked up the crop.

He used it expertly - lightly at first, enjoying the sharp cracks as it tapped against the whiteness of her inner thighs, and the change in sound as it flicked lightly over her secret places, making her writhe and moan and beg for more. He lashed the back of her thighs. A succession of hard blows soon reddened her milky skin and had her yowling and kicking.

Next, came the thick strap of hard and heavy leather. It thudded down onto the hills of her buttocks, leaving angry red splats and welts in its wake. Carla cried out in pain as the strap bit unforgivingly. Her bottom felt red raw and swollen. Tears trickled from her eyes as the strap continued its descent, and then there was a new sensation as he cast it aside and used the soft leather belt.

She purred. This was much nicer. She writhed, arching her back, thrusting out her bottom lewdly, her legs parted, her thighs glistening with the physical evidence of her arousal. The belt snaked over her buttocks in a rhythmic dance. She undulated her hips, crying out in pain or pleasure - she knew not which, for the lines between the two were blurred and indistinguishable.

And then she felt the tap of the tip of the cane; three light introductory taps on her bottom. She shivered, and held her breath, tense and expectant, waiting for the first strike to fall. When it failed to happen, she exhaled, and at that moment, Leon's arm descended, bringing the cane cracking down in a perfect line over her lower buttocks.

Carla screamed, her senses reeling, the pain blistering and bubbling. Her bottom burned. And then came another strike of liquid fire, and another, and another as Leon laid on the stripes, one after the other. He was relentless. The pain was relentless. It filled her entire being. She sobbed, her body sagging as she fell forwards, sprawling flat on the bed.

His hands stroked and rubbed and kneaded her wounded flesh. She raised her hips, eager and willing for him to enter her. And as he thrust deep inside her, the air shimmered and rippled, and their hoarse cries blended as their bodies moved in the eternal rhythm.


When Carla arrived home, her mother was waiting for her in the kitchen. The aroma of coffee filled the room and as promised, the tin of weed had been retrieved from the cupboard and placed on the table next to an ash tray and a cigarette lighter.

One look at her daughter's animated face told Elizabeth all she needed to know. Carla sat down tentatively, wincing a little as her bottom made contact with the hard wooden chair, and then her expression changed to one reminiscent of a cat who had lapped up all the cream.

Mother and daughter looked at each other. Their faces wore identical expressions - of wonder and acceptance and passion and excitement, tempered with a tacit understanding of the thing they shared.

The kitchen soon filled with the sickly sweet smell of cannabis. The two women lapsed into silence, both of them floating in a welcome haze, both of them picturing the devilishly handsome face and sparkling eyes of Leon Altamarino, and both of them hearing in their head the sound of the fairground organ on the carousel. The music was loud and raucous, punctuated by the clash of cymbals and the discordant tooting of horns. And as the music played, the carousel horses moved round and round, bobbing up and down. Up and down and round and round for all eternity.

Friday, December 06, 2013

Free Story and audio recording

Greetings. Here's another free story. This one is a bit different. It's called Out of the Mist. It's one I wrote a while ago under my other pen name of Lucy Appleby. What's more, I can offer you a sound file. Click on the link to listen to the audio recording and the wonderfully expressive voice of my friend The English Master. If ever there was a deep chocolatey voice, it's his! Curl up in front of the fire on a dark night and listen and enjoy...




Out of the Mist
copyright Lucy Appleby/Abigail Armani

A white pall of mist rolled across the rocky peninsula, its unwholesome fingers trailing over the beach and curling up the cliffs. Cold and clammy fragments of smog clung to the water and more segments floated away to lurk in the hidden hollows of the land.

Up on the clifftop path a lone figure watched the mist drift in off the sea and rise up like a white wave of haze. Coating every dip and fold of the fields, it curled into the ditches and lapped ravenously around the trees. The long quavering call of the owl hung on the still air, heralding the onset of the night as the sloping rays of the setting sun began to crimson as they pierced the heavy black swags of cloud which fused with the distant horizon.

And as the mist rose, so too did the wailing wind, blowing a sudden squall that raked the fields of corn and whipped the tree branches into a frenzied dance. The figure stood resolute and solid though the wind tore through his hair and threatened to topple him by its sheer force. Feet apart and arms outstretched, he embraced the mist, exulting as it wove its wild magic, entwining itself around his body.

He embraced its power and harnessed its energy, filling himself with the intense force that coursed through his veins and burned fanatically through his eyes. And as the raw energy surged and pulsed within him, he felt uplifted, renewed, and all-powerful. All self doubts dispelled, he turned and focused his eyes on the line of cottages nestling in the shoulder of the field. With a determined stride, he approached them, and pushed open the white gate of the end cottage, his booted feet crunching on the gravel path as he stood by the front door.

Without knocking, he thrust open the door, stepped into the kitchen and through to the sitting room. She was there, waiting for him, an expression of fearful excitement upon her face. She rose in a silent greeting, her long hair caressing her nakedness, her porcelain pale skin glowing lightly from the fire burning in the hearth.

"I am ready," she said, and got into position on the floor. On her hands and knees, legs splayed invitingly, she thrust out her bottom, awaiting punishment from this man who was, and yet was not, her husband.

His mouth curved into a hard smile as he surveyed her appreciatively through narrowed eyes. His hands moved automatically to the leather belt he wore at his waist. With strong fingers he removed it, folded it into a loop, grasped the ends tightly, raised his arm, and brought the leather cracking down vehemently on her pale flesh.

The crack of the leather accompanied both her cry of pain and the spitting of a log on the fire which sent shards of tiny red sparks flying up the chimney. Time fractured. Pain filled the small room. Lust filled his loins as the madness was upon him. She smouldered beneath the blows as her buttocks were welted, slashed sore, throbbing red, mottling to a purple hue. And when it was done, he entered her in a haze of heat and desire, bellowing out his frenzy and release.


The night passed, and the pale early morning light cast a dull monochrome over the fields, gradually infusing as the day dawned and the birds began to sing. The thick pulsing clouds of morning were blown out to sea, leaving the skies clear and blue and bright under a golden sun that dazzled the surface of the waves.

In the end cottage with the white gate the occupants stirred to greet the day. She walked stiffly, her hands rubbing her bruised flesh, yet there was a secret smile of satisfaction and wonder on her face. Her husband, a quiet, mild and gentle man, smilingly ate the breakfast she prepared for him, and then went out to tend the sheep.


Far away, deep in the dark caves beneath a hidden cove, the strange mist pulsed and eddied; now that it had found a willing host, it would return.


**********

Did you like that? I hope so. It was published along with a collection of my other stories in the ebook Six of the Best:Book 1 by Lucy Appleby. Further details here.

Wednesday, December 04, 2013

The LSF Christmas Collection

Februs and I have been hard at it working on the LSF Christmas Collection. Like Santa's elves, we have laboured long into the night and after much swearing and cursing, pulling out of hair and scoffing of chocolate, seven brand spanking new volumes of Christmas spanking stories are now available, with a total of 266,500 words!

This is a fund raising initiative to help support The Library of Spanking Fiction. We set LSF up in 2009 to provide a free resource for the spanking community, and we currently make available over 22,500 stories free of charge to our 13,000 plus members. Many thanks to all the authors who contributed.

LSF Publications have released seven brand spanking new volumes of Christmas spanking stories. With a total of 222,500 words, there is something for everyone ... there are 5 M/F books, 1 F/F and 1 F/M. So stuff your Christmas stockings with the following titles:

The Best Christmas Present Ever (M/F)

Blue Christmas (M/F)

One Last Christmas (M/F)

The Christmas Sprit (M/F)

Christmas at Woodbridge Manor (M/F)

Christmas Spanking F/F Femdom Tales

Christmas Spanking F/M Femdom Tales


All titles are professionally produced and very reasonably priced. They can be bought from LSF Publications or Amazon. Further details, including links to all the Amazon marketplaces are available here.


My story is Christmas at Woodbridge Manor, so if you enjoy spanky delights set in times past, then be sure to check out that volume :)


Tuesday, December 03, 2013

Winter Spanks Cold Hands Warm Bottoms blog hop

Delighted to promote the forthcoming Winter Spanks Cold Hands Warm Bottoms blog hop. A toasty spanked bottom will keep you warm on a cold day!

More info about this initiative later.


Sunday, December 01, 2013

Free Story - Carousel

And now for something other than cowboys. Here is a free story called Carousel that I wrote some time ago. It's a little bit different, with a hint of something wistful and magical. It's one of those stories that intentionally doesn't explain everything neatly - it leaves the reader a choice in determining events for themselves. I've just finished a follow up, which I will post in a few days time. Hope you enjoy reading it.

Carousel

"I can't keep pace with them all," laughed Mum. She lit up a spliff and exhaled contentedly. "What's his name?"

"Leon," said Elizabeth, dreamily. "Leon Altamarino. Isn't it a wonderful name?"

"What did you say?"

"Leon Altamarino. He's part Spanish and he's gorgeous. He ... Mum? Mum, what's wrong?"

Elizabeth stared at her mother who had slumped down on the nearest chair by the kitchen table. She sat with her head bowed, her hands covering her face; and when she raised her head, her face was ashen and there were beads of perspiration on her brow.

"What is it, Mum? Don't you feel well? Can I get you some water? Or a cup of tea?" Elizabeth flapped around, not knowing what to do.

Mum shook her head, and weakly pushed away the proffered glass of water. "Leon Altamarino," she whispered. "Did you meet him at the travelling fair? Yes, of course you did," she mumbled, answering her own question.

"Yes. Yes I did. But how did you know that? He's asked me out for a drink on Saturday. I can hardly wait! But, Mum - are you ok? You look terrible."

With an effort, Jennifer sat up and forced a smile at her daughter. "It's just a headache, love. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure? Karen's on her way round and we're off out to the cinema. But I can cancel and stay home with you if you like."

"No, really. It's good of you to offer, but I really will be fine. There's the doorbell. Karen's here. Off you go and enjoy yourself. Be home before midnight."

"Mum, I'm nearly twenty! I can stay out late if I want to," said Elizabeth, giving her mum a kiss on the cheek.

"I know, but I still worry about you. Have fun. Bye, sweetheart."

"Thanks mum. See you later."


Jennifer sat in the quiet kitchen, smoking her joint, with just the ticking of the wall clock breaking the silence. Leon Altamarino. The name was seductive, fluid, almost musical. She spoke his name aloud, slowly. "Leon Altamarino." There. She had said it. For twenty years that name had been locked within her, and now she had released it, and with it, the memories came hurtling, jostling for supremacy.

It was as though she was looking into a kaleidoscope, and as the tube was rotated, a mass of coloured shapes tumbled and danced, forming intricate patterns, multiplied by reflections in the mirrors set into the tube. Round and round danced the patterns, round and round, like the motion of a fairground carousel.

And in the blink of an eye, through the kaleidoscope she could see the rows of gaily painted wooden horses on the carousel, and as the hidden bevel gears cranked, the horses moved up and down, galloping to the music that blared from the organ built in to the centre of the carousel.

Jennifer smiled. The memory was so clear she could see the intricate detail on the colourful wooden horses; she could hear the din of the fairground organ, with its drums, whistles and tooting horns - producing a sound that was at the same time both fun and wistful and scary. And in the background she could hear the hum of voices as people talked and laughed and squealed in delight and pretend fear. The sun was dipping yet the evening was warm and humid, redolent with the sweet scent of candyfloss and the aroma of hot dogs from the many vendors' stalls.

It was all so familiar. She made her way purposefully to the large carousel on the edge of the fairground. It was lit up with dozens of fairy lights winking pink and blue and green, and it was deserted except for one person - Leon Altamarino. He raised his hand and waved a greeting as she approached, and flashed that wickedly wonderful smile.

"Hello Jennifer," he said, reaching out to hug her.

"Leon," she said. "It's been twenty years and you don't look a day older than when I saw you last." You handsome devil. You haven't changed a bit.

"You are still beautiful." He kissed her fleetingly on the lips, his eyes sparkling with pleasure. "Come." He led her up onto the platform. "Ride the carousel."

"Oh yes!" She laughed with childlike glee, and clambered onto one of the horses. It was painted in green and gold, with a red saddle and a red bridle.

Leon went to the controls in the centre of the carousel platform. "Hold tight," he grinned, and pulled a lever.

The machinery whirred and the horses began to move, slowly at first - a sedate walking pace which escalated to a trot, then a brisk canter, and finally a gallop. Jennifer laughed, and held tightly to the barley twist pole as the momentum increased. A sudden, unexpected jolt caught her unawares, and she gripped the pole tighter, and closed her eyes as a wave of nausea hit her. It took her a few moments to realize what was causing it. The carousel was moving backwards.

It was weird - a bizarre feeling. Jennifer felt as though she was high on cannabis. The air shimmered. She glanced at Leon. He was smiling at her through the haze and telling her to hold tight. So hold tight she did, and at last the carousel began to slow, and the pace of the horses became leisurely. The carousel stopped, and Jennifer slid down from the horse. Leon caught her in his strong arms, then, taking her by the hand, he led her over the field to his caravan.

She felt different somehow - more alive and energetic. There was a new vibrancy about her as she ran over the grass, easily matching Leon's pace. And when they reached his caravan and tumbled inside, he caught her around the waist and pulled her close. He reached out to cup her face, and then he turned her round to observe her reflection in the mirror.

"Look," he told her.

And look she did. And what she saw was not Jennifer, the 40-year-old, but Jennifer the 20-year-old. She was slimmer, brighter, animated and more agile; her face was firm and her hair thick and lustrous. She gazed at her reflection, her mouth open in shock and disbelief. The tiny lines around her eyes and mouth had disappeared, and her skin was smooth and clear as porcelain.

"How can this be?"

"All things are possible if one wants them enough," murmured Leon in her ear. "And I know what you want. But I need you to tell me. Tell me, Jennifer. Tell me what you want of me."

"I... I..." she faltered. "I want - need - you to ... to spank me. Spank me like you did before, all those years ago. Please."

"It will be my pleasure," he said huskily. His hands began to undress her as his eyes devoured her.

Off came her blouse. And then he unclasped her bra and drew the straps down slowly over her shoulders. Stooping, he brushed his lips lightly over her nipples - they were already engorged. Jennifer trembled with excitement and longing. She felt his hands slide her zipper down, and then tug lightly at her skirt. It fell to the floor. She kicked it aside dismissively.

Leon bent to unfasten her sandals. He removed first one and then the other. Now Jennifer faced him, wearing only a pair of pale pink knickers. She felt his hands dart round to fondle her bottom, pinching and patting her well-rounded buttocks. Then he pushed her roughly onto the bed. She got up on her hands and knees and he pulled down her knickers, baring her bottom. And then he started to spank her.

His hand cracked down on her pale bottom. Again and again the spanks descended, and Jennifer wondered how a hand could possibly hurt so much. She squirmed and bucked and yelped; hating it; loving it. Her bottom quickly lost its pale sheen and became a uniform pink.

Leon laughed. "We need more colour. What's it to be, my love? Crop, strap, belt or cane?"

"All of them," she mewled.

"Patience," he smilingly admonished, and picked up the crop.

He used it expertly - lightly at first, enjoying the sharp cracks as it tapped against the whiteness of her inner thighs, and the change in sound as it flicked lightly over her secret places, making her writhe and moan and beg for more. He lashed the back of her thighs. A succession of hard blows soon reddened her milky skin and had her yowling and kicking.

Next, came the thick strap of hard and heavy leather. It thudded down onto the hills of her buttocks, leaving angry red splats and welts in its wake. Jennifer cried out in pain as the strap bit unforgivingly. Her bottom felt red raw and swollen. Tears trickled from her eyes as the strap continued its descent, and then there was a new sensation as he cast it aside and used the soft leather belt.

She purred. This was much nicer. She writhed, arching her back, thrusting out her bottom lewdly, her legs parted, her thighs glistening with the physical evidence of her arousal. The belt snaked over her buttocks in a rhythmic dance. She undulated her hips, crying out in pain or pleasure - she knew not which, for the lines between the two were blurred and indistinguishable.

And then she felt the familiar tap of the tip of the cane; three light introductory taps on her bottom. She shivered, and held her breath, tense and expectant, waiting for the first strike to fall. When it failed to happen, she exhaled, and at that moment, Leon's arm descended, bringing the cane cracking down in a perfect line over her lower buttocks.

Jennifer screamed, her senses reeling, the pain blistering and bubbling. Her bottom burned. And then came another strike of liquid fire, and another, and another as Leon laid on the stripes, one after the other. He was relentless. The pain was relentless. It filled her entire being. She sobbed, her body sagging as she fell forwards, sprawling flat on the bed.

His hands stroked and rubbed and kneaded her wounded flesh. She raised her hips, eager and willing for him to enter her. And as he thrust deep inside her, the air shimmered and rippled, and their hoarse cries blended as their bodies moved in the eternal rhythm.


The next day, Jennifer opened the door and greeted her mother. Irene was standing on the doorstep with a smile on her face, and in her hands was a package tied with pink ribbon. The two women embraced and went to sit in the kitchen to chat and drink coffee.

"I can't believe Elizabeth will be twenty tomorrow. How quickly the years fly by," said Irene. There was a slight wistful tone to her voice, which disappeared with her next remark. She leaned forward conspiratorially, her eyes gleaming. "He's back. I saw him this morning." Irene shifted uncomfortably on her chair and rubbed her bottom.

"I know. I saw him last night. You wouldn't believe how sore I am."

"Yes I would," quipped Irene.

Mother and daughter looked at each other. Their faces wore identical expressions - of wonder and acceptance and passion and excitement, tempered with a tacit understanding of the thing they shared.

"Does Elizabeth know yet?" asked Irene.

"No. I wanted to tell her but felt she should find out for herself."

"Yes, it will be best that way," nodded Irene.

"She's seeing him on Saturday. She'll find out then."

"I wonder how she will react?"

"She will react the same as you and I and Grandmother and Great Grandmother and Great Great Grandmother. Are we charmed, or are we cursed?"

"Probably a bit of both. Let's smoke a joint. I need it."

The kitchen soon filled with the sickly sweet smell of cannabis. The two women lapsed into silence, both of them floating in a welcome haze, both of them picturing the devilishly handsome face and sparkling eyes of Leon Altamarino, and both of them hearing in their head the sound of the fairground organ on the carousel. The music was loud and raucous, punctuated by the clash of cymbals and the discordant tooting of horns. And as the music played, the carousel horses moved round and round, bobbing up and down. Up and down and round and round for all eternity.

Sunday, November 17, 2013

The Lure of the Cowboy

Welcome :) I finally got around to setting up a blog for Abigail Armani, and what could be better for a first post than some thoughts about the romantic appeal of a cowboy...

The Lure of the Cowboy

Looking at the sheer number of Western romances weighing down the virtual shelves of the Kindle ebook store on Amazon made me stop and think – just what is the appeal of a cowboy?

First off, when it comes to stating the obvious regarding female attraction to men, then the physical appeal of a cowboy is near the top of the list. Broad-shouldered guys with honed bodies and muscles in all the right places, wide-brimmed Stetson's and tight fitting jeans is enough to set any warm-blooded female pulse racing. Add to that a pair of twinkling eyes, chiselled features and a sexy smile, and we are captivated.

And then there's his horse. Archetypal cowboys are always depicted astride a magnificent animal, all sleek and swift with flowing mane. What a powerful image –the cowboy and his horse, so in tune with one another, moving as one. Of course, the cowboy would have complete control over the animal, and the notion of a degree of control applied to his romantic relationships is something else that appeals to us.

Putting a lid on the simmering sex appeal for a moment, let's look at other qualities too, because I don't want my cowboy heroes to be just a shell. There has to be some honesty and integrity inside there too. We all like a man who is protective and honourable, daring and brave, strong and reliable. Those qualities combined with a Stetson, leather gloves, spurs, and a pair of leather chaps, together with a soup├žon of charm and a penetrating look has the effect of making countless women go weak at the knees.

Consider the whole environment – the great outdoors – acres of lush pasture, arid dessert, or rocky and rugged terrain. These wide open spaces are a typical backdrop for the cowboy romance novel and offer tremendous scope for detailed descriptions of location to further the plot and develop the resilience of the characters. I try to show my cowboys as being in synch with the natural rhythms of nature as they ride out purposefully on some quest, or apply themselves with physically demanding work in all weathers and conditions. They are a hardy bunch, these cowboys... that's all part of their allure.

Fiction and movies portray cowboys as heroes of mythical proportions - gallant men who do what needs to be done, intent on the pursuit of justice. Historical or contemporary, the western novel is here to stay. I find the myth of the West fascinating, and am planning a book with a historical as opposed to a contemporary setting as my next offering in the Love on a Ranch Series. It will tell the story of the adventures of the first Armstrong cowboy.

I have only scratched the surface in this brief ride through the factors giving rise to the eternal appeal of the cowboy. What do YOU think?