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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-"


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.


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.


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.

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