Every once in a while Sam sends me an interesting picture or two. These, as he says, have that real feel about them. As ever you decide.
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Tags: corner time, OTK, spanking
Carrie gave a heavy sigh and put down the book in frustration. Her book, Spanking Tales for Girls, was one of her favourites, but sometimes she didn’t want to read about spanking she just wanted…
She sighed again. At 28 she should be out clubbing or joining a BDSM club or something, not moping around expecting the world to come to her. She was pretty enough, even she knew that. Her thick red shoulder-length hair was close enough to auburn to turn heads in the street and she had a good figure. Although the later came from hours of running to work off her frustration.
Carrie sighed yet again and put the book away behind a tome on UK Tax Law 1927-1939; it had had dust on it before she adopted it as her hiding place.
The Christmas wish list was a tradition going back to her childhood, but sometimes it felt a bit silly for a woman pushing 30. Especially when she could never even write down what she really wanted, let alone have any real expectation of getting it.
She picked up the blue Basildon Bond leaf again and rolled her eyes up at the childish green ink she had written in. It was complete with big circles instead of points on her i’s and j’s. In her mind the note read: one overlarge spanking rugby player, one headmaster from the 1930s, two ninja spanking assassins and… she could plausibly write volume two of Spanking tales for Girls, but she didn’t have the nerve.
Carrie ran her eye down the list of stockings, perfume and music and then added the Time Out Movie Guide. Then again she sighed.
She much preferred the list she hadn’t written: one overlarge spanking rugby player, one headmaster from the 1930s, two ninja spanking assassins and… and a good sound spanking on account.
With two weeks to go to the big day (well the small slowly paced day that was never as big as you hoped it would be) Carrie went to bed in readiness for the final push on the shopping front.
That night she dreamed that it snowed and that the sound of sleigh bells had awoken her. Looking out the window she dismissed the sudden appearance of Victorian lamp posts, the unexpected arrival of so much snow in mid-December and the total lack of cars in the street. But she was rather puzzled by the sleigh that sat in the middle of a car-free street.
Pulling on her thick soft robe she yawned and stumbled down the stairs to the front door. But to her surprise it was wide open and thick drifts of snow and brought the street idyll into the house.
It was then that she noticed two things. One that the lounge door was also open and two that there was now a great big open fire roaring away in what had been a thoroughly bricked-up fireplace before she had retired to bed.
“No wonder it’s not cold,” she muttered entering the room.
For some reason she thought she had better check on her list before going back to bed, although it was the security of the hidden book she was really concerned for.
“Is this what you are looking for?” said a voice.
Startled, Carrie whirled around and saw a small man sitting cross-legged on the arm of the armchair. He was dressed in the semblance of Christmas Fair Elf or Santa’s helper and smiling mischievously at her.
The strange creature was holding her list in his hand and was perusing it with interest. Only it wasn’t the list she had written in green ink on the Basildon Bond, but the one she had composed in her head.
“Interesting wish list you have here,” the elf, if that was what he was, said.
“I didn’t write that,” she blurted.
“Oh I know,” the elf said silkily, “And that’s another thing, making false wishes is a crime where I come from, he may punish you for that later.”
Carrie blushed even more. Somehow she didn’t need to be told who ‘he’ was. Once she had seen an elaborate copperplate engraving of an old style pagan Father Christmas with a box of birch rods in the back of his sleigh alongside the sacks of toys and parcels.
“’He’ doesn’t even exist,” Carrie said defensively.
“Oh, you’re really gonna get it now,” the elf said in a sing-song voice and chuckled.
Carrie gulped and somehow believed the little man, but instead of fear she felt a strange excitement in her tummy and a sense of expectation.
“Why are you here anyway?” Carrie said sullenly.
She often became rude when she was nervous or scared.
“Oh, but to give your first gift on account,” the elf said smoothly with another smile.
“My first…” Carrie thought about the rugby player and blushed.
She turned to look hopefully at the door for any sign of a large square-shouldered man with big hands. Maybe the elf thought she was going to flee for in a moment he had grabbed her and upended her across his surprisingly large and firm lap.
“Look you can’t do this…” she spluttered, “I mean… I mean… it is just in books and… and…”
Carrie became more and more uncertain as one by one the elf trundled up the layers of her clothes until he had exposed her baggy sleep-shorts.
“Plenty to work on here,” the punitive elf chuckled.
He patted her bottom twice before tugging the shorts over Carrie’s two firm hills of flesh.
Carrie, who at once wanted to run and to stay, was panting hard and she experienced feelings normal reserved for her dreams about Brad Pitt. But come to think of it they often ended up with her in much the same position.
“What are you doing?” she squealed dutifully. It was her usually instinct to be dense about anything to do with spanking when it came up lest anyone guess.
“A good sound spanking on account,” the elf chuckled.
His hand stung her bottom more sharply than she was expecting and she yelped. Nor were the next dozen swats any softer and soon her laboured breath took on a fury of its own and she began to struggle.
“You can’t do this… this is… someone might see,” Carrie wailed.
“No, not at all, not today at any rate,” the spanking elf reassured her, “But that may come later.”
The elf spanked her for what seemed like hours and whenever she found the breath or the will to complain he merely reminded her that she had requested ‘a good sound spanking’ and that would take time.
“Personally I would put you in the corner afterwards too and have you there to greet the rest of the household with bare bottom displayed when they got up, but I have to stick to the letter of your wish list,” her spanker said.
Finally after a long, long time she was unable to hold out and a small chuckle of tears erupted from her and she began to cry.
“Tsk, tsk, tears at your age, you wait until he deals with you, then you’ll know crying,” the elf said in disgust. “Okay, you’re done.”
Carrie was suddenly set on her feet where heedless of her dignity she proceeded to bounce around the room with her hands clamped to two hot bottom cheeks.
“You have 12 gifts, remember the song; your list is still incomplete. Make sure you choose wisely,” the little man added, but he sounded rather faint now, as if he was fading.
“That hurt you… you… owwie,” she wailed and twisted her head around to try and inspect the damage. Her bottom was like two smooth holly berries and hotter than a Christmas toddy.
Then in all her thrashing about she realised that she was encased in her bedclothes and light was pouring through the bedroom window.
Although clearly she had been dreaming the intensity clung to her as if she had bathed in treacle and she tried to hold on to it with a growing sense of grief. But in a moment only the sting in her bottom remained.
“Damn I must have…” she couldn’t think what she had done to hurt her tail end, but whatever it was had fed into the dream.
It took her a moment to clamber sleepily from bed and then with her back to the mirror she pulled down her shorts. To Carrie’s astonishment when her bare bottom burst over the elastication of her sleepwear it held two smooth raspberry red ovals and was not a little hot and sore.
For a brief moment Carrie felt as she was falling and her heart lurched. Then she saw the little man sitting cross-legged on the shelf behind her in the mirror. He winked.
When she turned around she was alone.
Filed under: DJB stories, M/F, other worldly, spanking stories | 5 Comments
Tags: christmas, dreams, elf, elves, fanatsy, gifts, OTK, spanking, xmas
Our story began here.
The sun was well towards the west now and the shadows of Timon’s eastern walls extended far out form the city towards the allied right flank. The late afternoon glow was slipping into a premature blood-red, casting a pall over the shambling army of the dead.
No doubt the allied commanders were casting anxious looks in the direction of the Pandoria contingent on that wing. But with Gort dead and Fear out on the battlefield there was no clear leadership among the Magister. All in all there were barely 20 fire adepts and mages in any case, and few others had offensive magic for this kind of warfare. So it was a wizard who spoke first.
“I have seen this before,” Dniester said quietly, “But never on this scale.”
Maxine swallowed hard unable to tear her eyes from the army of the dead as they advanced.
“Can they be killed?” Maxine asked nervously.
“Well technically not,” Dniester sounded as if he might chuckle at a private joke, “Being already dead, but they can be destroyed.”
Maxine and two or three of her colleagues swung around to confront the old wizard. But Dniester said no more and merely stroked his beard as he studied the latest development with academic interest.
“Well you old fool,” Maxine said urgently, “How?”
Dniester took a deep breath as if trying to recall and then said, “Hacking them up usually renders them ineffective; they are almost harmless if you can decapitate them.”
“Some of our men are beginning to run,” said an anxious young water adept. One of Maxine’s hangers-on Dniester didn’t wonder. She was certainly pretty enough.
“Fire is probably best, but unless it is well prepared mage fire it tends to take a while,” Dniester said absently. “I used to be able to toss a pretty good one as can some of you. But strictly speaking it is not my area.”
On the battlefield below a mass flight of arrows filled the sky and peppered the forward staggering cadavers so that many appeared as two-legged hedgehogs. It did nothing to even slow the advance.
Maxine was about to take command and try to send word to any of her colleagues who could use fire when around 50 head-sized globes arched high over the allied troops and landed with various degrees of effectiveness among the zombie army.
Perhaps 150 of the creatures were so badly charred that they fell destroyed. But twice that number staggered on more dreadfully than before, appearing now as human torches.
It was several moments before another rain of fire reached the death-ridden hoard and this had much the same effect.
“Well it’s working,” Maxine said tartly, “Sort of.”
By then the first of the zombies reached the forward edge of the allied troops. Dniester was particularly gratified to see a big fellow with an axe cleave one of the monsters down the middle. In fact all along the front the battle fared encouragingly well, but then the real threat became apparent.
For every three or four creatures felled, a mortal man went down to a bloody sword or spear. But a moment later the dead man got to his feet to join the walking dead.
Maxine gasped and clapped a shocked hand to her mouth.
“Even if the men stand, there will be too few to fight the living Westerners later,” she groaned.
“They won’t stand will they,” said Denton Barry, a white mage of some standing. “Come on, I know a few tricks, we have to stem this tide.”
“Where is he going?” Maxine wailed, “We need a plan.”
Dniester had finished pondering the problem and saw no easy solutions. But he did rather think that he knew what Denton might have in mind.
“Maestro, have you ever seen what a natural tornado can do to cattle on exposed ground?” he said by way of answer.
“He can do that?” Maxine gaped.
“As easily as you can bring a maelstrom to the sea,” Dniester chuckled.
Maxine whirled around with a fresh eye for the battle.
“This is too easy,” she yelled.
Dniester was nodding and in unison they said, “It’s a decoy.”
The witches had found a stand of trees to the north of the battlefield. Technically they were behind enemy lines, but since Fear had showed his hand the Westerners had fallen back somewhat to let the army of the dead do its work.
“If every dead soldier gets up again and fights for them, then, then…” Erin was in a panic. “We have to stop them, we just have to…”
Meredith was in agreement. She didn’t say that it was far worse than that. She didn’t say that if Draken had evoked a summoning and had broken down the very walls of death then there was no limit to what might rise in Maiestatis’s cause.
The elder witch looked at Amber who looked as sick as she felt.
“We must close the door,” Amber said.
“Close what door?” Tabitha asked. But she had never been so excited.
“Mother, will the…?” Meredith began.
“The summoning will end with Draken, but that is not the threat here,” Demdike crooned.
Amber rolled her eyes up as the seer went into another of her cryptic sermons.
“It seems pretty bloody threatening to me,” Erin shot back at her.
“Hold your tongue girl, have some respect,” Meredith snapped at her.
“The girl is right, Draken could win this fight alone, but it is not all that is at stake here,” Demdike replied.
Meredith and Amber looked at her and waited for some more words of wisdom.
“Well?” Meredith said at last, letting her impatience show.
“I cannot see… the Wolf is…” Demdike was shaking her head.
“Oh for f-flibbertigibbet’s sake,” Amber groaned.
“Never mind that now, let’s find Draken and end the bastard,” Meredith said sharply. “Demdike, cast the bloody runes and tell us what the heck is going on.”
Fear stood in the middle of a vast mob of the dead eyeing them with disgust. Not one of the creatures came to within a dozen yards of him and so far he had stayed his hand. Maybe they sensed he could smite them or maybe the compulsion they were under was too specifically focussed upon the Allied warriors.
From somewhere a wind tore at his coat and he hugged it close to his throat and blinked hard against the sudden rise of dust. Behind him a tornado of all things was tearing a swathe through the ranks of the dead hurling them into the air and smashing them to broken bones and pulp.
Fear shook his head, this gruesome army was all very spectacular but it wasn’t going to win the Wolf Lord’s war for him. The demon knew that and Fear did too. What had he missed? It was time, he decided, that he found out.
The march of cadavers had thinned out now and Fear was able to blast a great wedge of them from his path so that half a thousand shambling wretches were frozen black and brittle like a petrified forest. Then utilising an air magic spell that he should not have been able to master, he launched himself across the great ditch he had made and landed in no man’s land.
Quietly over the years he had dabbled in magical pursuits outside his discipline and struggled, albeit less than he should. Now he felt invigorated. The short jump-flight manipulations of the Air patterns had been too easy.
“I have never been so strong,” he said aloud in wonder.
It should have been a troubling thought, but he had too much to do to dwell upon it.
With no time for fancy tricks like the stunt Draken pulled with his invisibility, Fear opted for a heat haze wall between him and the Western Host. The last thing he needed was to ward off over eager arrows. Not until he had located Maiestatis anyway.
The haze would make it hard for the enemy’s eyes to identify him and allow him to draw in close. But maybe that was the Wolf Lord’s plan. To draw the only one who might yet destroy him onto his ground.
Fear stopped and scanned the patterns, first one at a time and then overlaid so that he could see any signs of Wild Magic in the spaces between.
He drew a sharp breath and studied the weave of reality anew, his heart rate rising and the sweat pricking his palms. Something was wrong. He shook his head. There was nothing amiss as such and yet… He looked again at the ground and at the sure firm Earth which was his chief domain. The border between the ground and the air was stark where the afternoon sun beat down upon it, stark hard and… cold; why cold?
The ground was absorbing heat far faster than it should. Fear scanned hard, relaxing his mind so that he might glean patterns of Wild Magic. The ground was wrong somehow, he knew it and yet there was nothing wrong.
Then little by little he saw the corruption, at first just small twists in the Earth lines and then whole bulges in the ground where it should be flat. Looking with his eyes he saw nothing. But something made him step backwards.
Then trampled turf began to tear and rip apart from beneath.
“What in hades…?” he gasped and braced at the air with is staff.
The horse head was a surprise. It was mundane thing of ancient bone and rancid clay. The head was quickly followed by two twisted hooves that the creature used to drag itself from the broken ground. Then once it staggered onto the grass Fear saw that it had but three legs and could only lurch with a stuttering gait.
The rat-like slugs that tumbled out of the hole in the equine beast’s wake were far more disturbing. There were hundreds of them, all fossilised skin and teeth. Then as Fear watched, every creature that had ever died on this ground erupted out and clawed their way from hell onto the once clean soil of the world.
“Behold Maiestatis’s world,” Fear muttered under a bitter breath.
It was not just the one hole that opened, but all across no man’s land dozens of pits twisted apart spewing forth lions, tigers and bears, all rancid with decay and advanced fossilisation and all lumbering in one deadly direction.
Fear ran strategies through his mind and wondered how far this canker could spread; how many tornados, he wondered, could smash this bestial army?
Then he saw not one, but two skeletal dragons lunge from the ground and silently croak fireless breath as they impotently tried to fly. Fear shuddered. These creatures must be ancient and the gods alone knew what else would come.
“Tell me,” pain whispered in his ear, “Could you not extinguish such lowly ones from your world?”
Fear was on his guard, but apart from the growing menagerie of the dead, he could see nothing this side of the enemy lines.
“Unleash your power, break these ancient bones,” the tortured voice hissed.
Fear was calm now and tore at the veils of the world with his sight. Hell was erupting all about him so that he saw the world in darkness; a mirror of the one that men saw. For here, where it should be light it was dark and where natural shadows should be there was crystal white frost.
Amid it all was Maiestatis grinning with agony and watching him with cold burning eyes.
There is a trap here, Fear thought, but where?
“At last foul one,” he sighed, “I have come to send you back to hell with your brothers.”
“Oh why bother dark one, for can’t you see that I bring hell to me,” Maiestatis sighed with a voice like ice.
“I see it,” Fear replied, “But it is too cold for hell, surely?”
“Hell is how I devise,” Maiestatis challenged.
“No,” Fear spat, “How I devise.”
The ground then began to tremble. A little at first and then with the power of the earthquake he had wrought earlier that day.
“Shake harder little man,” the Wolf chided the Mage, “Maybe you can rattle those bones.”
“Rattle? Or burn?” Fear shot back.
As he spoke the ground across the plain fractured, not as with the quake, but like shattered glass. Then glowing red it began to boil as lakes of lava spewed from pits and crevices of the day’s magical battles.
Maiestatis did not linger and fled the way he had come, but Fear did not see where.
“I’ll settle with you later,” Fear roared and then turned his attention back to the sea of fire he had created.
The ground was gone now, giving way to a lake of liquid rock that oozed like smoking mud sucking in the ancient dead and incinerating them as they drowned.
“My poor, poor pretty’s,” Maiestatis sang in his ear, “But Draken can soon make me more. We will fill the whole world with its dead.”
Tabitha heard it first. It was an unearthly scream that made her think of a bandersnatch. The coven as one dropped to a crouch and hid behind what little cover the undergrowth offered.
“That was close to,” Amber hissed.
They had been skirting the battlefield for an hour now, several times having to press deeper into the scrubby woodland that lay to the east to avoid detection.
They had been following Gasgook who sensed, so he said, a great source of Wild Magic beyond the enemy’s right flank.
“Wouldn’t Draken be with the Wolf Lord at the heart of the army?” Erin had asked.
“Well if he is then he will be beyond our reach,” Meredith had sighed, “But if I remember the wretch, that would not be his style.”
“Besides, if Gasgook is right, then what else is on the eastern flank? We should investigate at least,” Amber had agreed.
So little by little they had picked their way through silver birch and dwarf oaks, whilst hiding or hexing their way past outriders.
Once they had encountered a whole troop of cavalry. Tabitha had coaxed each horse like ptarmigan for supper and away from the others where the rider had been dealt with in turn. But it hadn’t taken long for their comrades to catch on that their fellows had gone into the undergrowth and were not coming back
Then it was if all hell had come a calling. But these men were no priest-witches and after Meredith had worked a transmogrification spell leaving two riders sitting astride bears, the scouts had fallen easily.
“Some of the horses escaped,” Tabitha cursed.
Meredith frowned and did some hasty thinking.
“Turn the wounded and captives into… squirrels for a day and leave the rest to the bears,” she said hastily. “That ought to confuse them for long enough, by morning we will be gone.”
Amber didn’t like it. All this magical activity so close to the enemy was bound to draw some unwelcome attention. But there was nothing else for it.
After that Tabitha, who was a huntress of old, took the lead and the coven ranged even wider into the woodlands.
Then they had heard the scream.
“What was that?” Amber hissed.
“I don’t know, but it came from where I sense a strong presence,” Gasgook said calmly.
“I’ll go and look,” Tabitha whispered and before anyone could speak she was gone.
Meredith looked at Amber and they exchanged their fears. Suddenly ranging behind enemy lines to hunt the world’s second most dangerous enemy didn’t seem so intelligent.
But Draken was one of their own and the damn Magister, with a few exceptions, were not best placed to deal with him. Amber took a small gulp.
Among the coven, she, Gasgook and Meredith touched upon the Sixth Circle in power. However, Draken’s gifts lay well within the Seventh and who knew what powers the Triptych had granted him.
Just then something broke through the undergrowth and Amber drew her witch knife. It was Tabitha.
“It’s a… a kind of man… I think… I think…” Tabitha swallowed hard.
“Draken,” Meredith said with some distaste.
“He doesn’t look too good,” Tabitha said breathlessly.
“He never did,” Meredith said, pulling a face.
“No, I mean he is crouching down, like he is in pain,” Tabitha gushed.
Her chest was heaving and there was a sheen of sweat on her naked thighs. The witch was wearing no more than a singlet and knife belt and for a moment Amber wondered why Fear hadn’t chosen her over Katrin. But then she blushed, the thoughts betrayed her own tastes, not Fear’s.
Erin saw the direction of Amber’s gaze and scowled.
All this was missed by Meredith who stared at the trees ahead as she wrestled with her fear.
“It’s now or never then, let’s go,” Meredith said in a determined voice.
Draken had never doubted before, not since he had first chosen to serve Maiestatis. The demon had known things about Draken that no one and nothing else could have; his omnipresence was godlike. Until now the warlock had never doubted the final victory.
The Wolf Lord had augmented Draken’s power over the dead beyond anything he could have gained form a hundred years of study. Furthermore he had promised his chief servant immortality. But now he thought on it, Draken remembered all the evasive cryptic answers to his questions and further he remembered how many servants had fallen to the demon on a whim.
Somewhere a bird sang to taunt him and he became aware of the hard ground beneath his knees. It made him feel… he choked on a sob, mortal. And just when had he fallen to his knees? Then he remembered the sudden pain, the all-encompassing soul-reaving that he had felt when Fear had destroyed his creatures.
Draken looked around and saw that the sun was now low to the horizon and just scraping the tree tops in the direction of the battlefield. But that was not the only glow in the sky. A great fire was burning and the smell of ash and smoke was carried to him on the breeze.
Just as the Magister had crushed his zombie hoard, so Fear had destroyed his second army of the dead; the real one, the one that had counted. But Maiestatis saw everything, he must have known that Fear had such power he must have known… what? The world was wheels within wheels and Draken had been above it all, on top of everything with the Wolf Lord, the Warmonger, but it wasn’t so. Draken was just one more deception, one more decoy for Maiestatis’s hidden hand.
Well he was not done yet. He still had the power, he still had it all. He would raise a still greater host of demon spawn to rule the world. He would raise everything that had ever lived, ever died, fish or foul, beast or man…
Deep into his schemes, Draken did not see the semi-circle of women and one man closing on him. He did not see the present leader of his old coven muttering ancient words and preparing to strike.
Meredith had never been more afraid; she had more cause than most to fear the warlock. But if Meredith was afraid there was another who was terrified.
For Amber, Draken had been the subject of her nightmares for years. She remembered now the baby and the girl in the woods. She remembered Tobias and…
Draken stiffened and a cold calculating cunning crossed his features. His smile was visceral and never once touched his eyes as he sniffed the air.
“Fee foe fie fum…” he chuckled, “Welcome sister Meredith,” his gaze shot around to stare at the witch, “Welcome sister Amber,” and then whipped around to confront Amber. “You will all make pretty recruits for my army of the dead.”
Hemple screamed then and breaking discipline she ran at the warlock bearing her knife.
Draken directed a half-hearted fist at her and then opened it with a five finger point. Hemple was thrown back and slammed hard into the ground. That he did not kill her betrayed his confidence.
Gasgook made a two handed gesture that echoed Draken’s own and a gust of wind blasted at the necromancer stinging at his flesh.
It seemed to Amber then that darkness fell and all that had been vibrant was now grey and dead. She added her power to that of Gasgook’s and felt Draken’s in return.
“What do you do Greydove? You think I will roll-up into a worm or a rat for you?” Draken sneered.
Erin who had been thinking of doing that very thing hesitated and took a step backwards. It was then that Hemple rushed at Draken again. As she launched herself a shimmer surrounded her and twisting in the air she fell as a sandy brown rabbit in a heap on the floor.
Angrily Erin cast and Draken actually staggered before turning on her the young witch.
“You have some power little one,” Draken chuckled patronisingly, “Pity it is so wasted here. Now you will die.”
The simple pronouncement chilled Erin to the core.
“No foul creature, no,” Gasgook yelled and with an onrush of power he charged and actually knocked Draken back two yards.
Amber too chose the moment to strike and the smell of sulphur burned in her nose. The resistance was incredible and something rent at her existence and she glimpsed her own mortality.
“You cannot beat us all,” Meredith said with more conviction than she felt and ripped at his throat with her mind.
“Three such powerful ones,” Draken hissed, “So close to overmatching me, so close, but…”
All three of his attackers were blasted back. Perhaps because he had plans for them, Amber and Meredith landed hard, but were alive. Gasgook was not so lucky. He seemed to twist where he stood and then burst open like a melon on a rocky road.
The remaining witches screamed in anger and frustration and one or two rushed at the warlock as Hemple had done, instantly meeting the same fate. To their credit the other women did not flee, but held the circle casting for all they were worth. They were many, but it was hopeless.
Draken had not seen the girl who jumped on his back until that moment. She was a small dark creature with a look of the Southern Desert about her; a Silver Shore girl, no doubt. He shrugged her off with a spell.
Tabitha felt the searing heat of a force emanate from Draken as she clung about his shoulders. It almost threw her, but she could see the patterns of it as Fear had taught her. It was a laughable attempt, she thought as she countered it.
Draken gaped and suddenly confused began to stagger and claw at the girl on his back.
Tabitha bit him and wrapped her legs around his chest. She could hold her own as well as his, she laughed inwardly at the pun, but the man was no ptarmigan and her offence for now was purely physical. He could shrug off her hexing as easily as she could his.
“Tabitha, flee,” Amber wailed in despair.
Draken growled and prepared to end the bitch Sage once and for all.
It was then that Tabitha remembered the witch knife Meredith had given her. Launching herself upwards she clasped now it two hands and blessing it with her will she plunged it deep between Draken’s neck and his collar bone.
“No,” Draken gasped, “No.”
Tabitha was finally thrown clear as the necromancer clutched impotently at the hilt of the knife protruding from his shoulder.
“No,” he said again, “I am immortal.”
Then he fell dead.
Fear felt Draken’s demise and knew that no more creatures would rise from the ground. Not that there had been any immediate danger of that. For where there had been largely flat grass, now lay an expanse of orange lava oozing to find its level and already crusting a brownish-grey on its surface.
This last effect Fear encouraged by extracting and dissipating the heat so that glowing cracks formed around small islands of rock that slowly merged together. The scar of the land would last for centuries perhaps, a permanent mark on the landscape where the Battle of Timon had been fought.
It had been hard to control such power and Fear had once again had to resort to the Ubermind, that separation of his dispassionate and his emotions selves. He felt like a god.
As if from above he imagined that he saw all the armies of the world laid out, each warrior carved on his mind, each a small play thing to be snuffed out or preserved. Now it was time to end this, the Western Host was his to destroy.
“It feels good doesn’t it?” like the lava Maiestatis oozed into his consciousness. “One such as you has not walked this world for a thousand years.”
“One such as I?” Fear asked, only vaguely curious now, for such concerns were beneath him.
“An Arch Magus, a master of his crafts and one who can draw upon the Wild Magic as if of the Seventh Circle,” Maiestatis hissed into the void of Fear’s mind. “You have even drawn upon the Air Magic and perhaps Water too, haven’t you? These arts should be closed to you, or would be if you were not as you were.”
“There is no such thing as an Arch Magus,” Fear muttered with what was left of his emotion, but the last of his self-denial and modesty was crumbling. Dispassionately however he knew that Maiestatis was right. He had changed and had been changing since… all his life had led to this moment. It was an epiphany and he surrendered to it.
“Draken was weak, it was always you Arlon Fear, always you,” Maiestatis said silkily. “This body of mine, this king will die soon, the vessel of yours, its power allied to mine… oh think, think.”
There was a pleading tone hinting at hope and fear.
“You are nothing,” Fear said absently, “I destroyed your brother before the Triptych was realised.”
“No, that was not it at all,” Maiestatis’s voice but a breath now, a breath that touched Fear’s lips as closely as his own.
Just a little closer, just one or two more breaths and they would be one.
“The Triptych cannot be destroyed, just the hosts, by destroying my brothers you set them free and the three became one in me,” Maiestatis continued, his explanation occupying all that was left of the one who was once Arlon Fear.
“But you needed the girl,” Fear frowned; something was troubling him still, something he could not quite let go. The girl was it? What girl?
“She was unimportant, her early subjugation would have merely ensued this outcome all the sooner,” Maiestatis sounded impatient and just a little further away.
Fear nodded, another decoy then, it was unimportant he supposed, but still there was something.
“Fear, Arlon,” the voice called, it was very far away, “Master please.”
“You are just a decoy,” Fear muttered, the Ubermind was him he was the…
“I love you,” Katrin yelled.
She had come across the battlefield as soon as the Magister had destroyed the army of the dead. Even then it was all but impossible to get across the lake of fire until it cooled.
She felt the hot sticky ground even now. There was a disgusting smell where the leather of her boots had begun to burn.
“Arlon,” she screamed once more and then almost angrily she barked, “Look at me.”
“Who orders Fear?” Fear snapped and turned from Maiestatis who was no more an arm’s length away now.
Katrin looked so small and vulnerable to the Arch Mage Fear, he should do something, shouldn’t he?
“Arlon,” Katrin was pleading, not knowing what to say.
The demon was near, right there, but Arlon just stood in a stupor. What was wrong with him?
“Fear, forget the girl, look at me,” Maiestatis snarled.
As he spoke he grabbed Katrin as if he had a great invisible hand and tossed her in the air to dash her into the ground. The Ubermind saw it all, the tendrils of Wild Magic in the patterns were as clear to Fear as those of the Earth or Fire. He twisted them with is mind, unspinning them as he traced them back to his source.
“Leave her be if she is so unimportant,” Fear snapped at Maiestatis.
“As you say Arch Mage,” Maiestatis said hastily. He seemed afraid now.
“Why was she so unimportant? Why did you want her?” Fear was asking himself now, as if there was something just out of the reach of his mind.
“Arlon, come back to me,” Katrin yelled.
This happened once before, when I… when she… I lost her, Fear remembered.
“Katrin,” he yelled, “Get out of here.”
Just in time Fear stepped between a blast from the Wolf Lord and his beloved apprentice. He was sent sailing across the smouldering plateau of cooling lava.
“Fool, you could have had the world,” Maiestatis sneered.
As Fear gained his feet he could see the Wolf Lord for what he was. Not the broken war chief the demon had subsumed but the shades of shimmering patterns of something that was not quite right. It was the same canker he had seen within Katrin on the day he had cured her, on the day the he had last been lost to the Ubermind. He had so nearly lost her again, he knew.
“Fool? Not I,” Fear sighed, “I already have the world.”
He smiled at the still terrified Katrin and then turned to confront Maiestatis.
“Will you blast me with lava? Send a tornado of fire to engulf me?” the Wolf Lord laughed mirthlessly. “Little Man.”
Fear frowned and then reaching out with his mind seized the cankerous patterns wrapped around the captured soul and unpicked them.
“Impossible,” Maiestatis screamed. “What are you doing?”
Fear adopted his customary posture and leaned on his staff as he spoke.
“It is called magic,” he said.
And then the last of the demon was unbound and the shell that had once been a man fell to the ground.
“Thank you,” the prince said as he died.
“Arlon,” Katrin wailed and rushed at Fear and seized him into her arms.
“I told you to stay behind,” he scolded her.
He didn’t sound like he was about the compromise just then, but Katrin didn’t care.
“Is it over, is it?” Katrin sobbed.
Fear sighed and turned towards the Western Army. It still outnumbered the Allies by a healthy margin, but left to a conventional fight King John and Peron would prevail eventually. But too many would die.
Lord Commander Varis of the West stood morosely trying to get his head around recent events. He was a big man who had long been a general. But still he had never thought to be first commander.
Now he had to weigh his options and it seemed prudent to hear the enemy out. Maybe the way things were they were ready to surrender, but one look at the damn magus in black told him that it wasn’t so.
The Shadow Dreamers had fled with the fall of the War Chief and he noticed that the three or four mages that had rallied to their cause were nowhere to be seen. Still he had witches and sorcerers aplenty yet to draw on, loyalist from the west that were not so faint of heart.
He had accepted a summons to meet with King John and the Magus. And the small contingent now stood at the edge of the lava field eyeing each other like cats on a garden fence.
“What terms do you demand?” he decided to bluff it out.
“I can answer that,” Fear said.
The new Arch Mage indicated the lava field and then put is face close to Lord Varis’s ear.
“You agree to surrender unconditionally and I agree not to open up the regions first volcano under your camp,” Fear hissed.
Varis gulped and glanced at King John and then back at Fear. Then with the smallest of motions he nodded.
And so ended the Battle of Timon and the War of the Shadow Dreamers as it would come to be known
To be continued.
Filed under: DJB stories, military, other worldly, spanking stories | 12 Comments
Tags: demons, mages, magic, spanking, witches, wizards, zombies
Last week saw the first of the Christmas posts; you may remember we reported on LSF Christmas story collection (see Bookshop). That is going to be a heavy feature of Spankville for a while no doubt.
We also got to welcome a new blog, Scarlet’s Real Magic, which we wish well and also welcome back the Spanking Spot, which has not only returned from temporary oblivion, but this time has shaken off the Trojan that had been cursing it for the last few weeks.
In terms of content, Acknowledging Imperfection has a story called Detention and the Spank Statement has a great excerpt from the Tattler, which featured an article on spanking and the pitfalls of spanking and being a young and sexual active man in the 1980s.
On a seasonal note the Spanking Romance Reviews has launched a winter competition for bloggers. A Voice in the Corner has accepted an invitation to take part and is offering a prize. There will be more about that next week.
Also seasonal, is Blossom and Thorn’s feature on spanking in the snow, which includes among others the birching picture above.
Filed under: web round-up, Weekly Round-up | 5 Comments
Tags: spanking, spanking blogs
Today’s offerings are from 1919, the 1920s and the 1930s.
Filed under: retro, vintage | 3 Comments
Tags: 1900s, 1920s, 1930s, birching, spanking
Somehow she knew before she did it that she shouldn’t. But it had ever been a battle between them. He would say ‘you can’t,’ ‘you mustn’t,’ and ‘don’t.’ And she would say, “I know” while thinking ‘only if you catch me.’ Well he had caught her red handed and it had happened again.
Now her world was all pins and needles and nervous nausea churning in her tummy. Almost worse was the zing of the bee-sting fire he had lit in her now exposed bottom. It was so hard not to rub and dance around the room while bawling like a kid. Well she had done enough of that today already with worse to come once the visitors had gone home.
Visitors, the worst word in any language, they would be here at any minute and why today?
“Please Sir, please, please, please, I’ll be good,” she had pleaded once she had got her breath back. “Spank me again, anything but that.”
“Oh I will,” he said in his stern baritone, “Later. But right now you get that cherry red behind of yours in that corner and stay there.”
“But… Kathy, Mark… don’t let them see me like this… please,” she begged.
This was another contest for them; ding-ding round three. She had lost the first two rounds already. Sometimes if she cried, if she promised, then he would relent, but only if she conceived of a very imaginative alternative and begged him for it. It was a funny sort of victory, but right now she would have taken it.
“Cane me, cane me hard. Make me do a thousand lines and cane me for every mistake, give me two thousand,” she wheedled, “Make me do it every week for a month and, and… ground me. Ground me with… with two hours corner time every night.”
This last promise could rebound too. What if they had visitors again? It was hard to imagine that they wouldn’t, not for a whole month. But that was her all over, she never thought ahead.
“Get your bottom in that corner where I can see it and don’t move until I tell you to,” he barked at her, “Or I will accept your suggestions and more on top.”
So round three had been dud too, she miserably thought – three falls and a submission. Now she was out for the count; red hair, red bottom and in the red corner.
A car pulled up outside and she jerked back to the present. Oh God, please, please, please let it not be them, please let them cancel. It was a long two minutes, but no doorbell rang.
Perhaps if they were late he would relent.
She thought about round two. The spanking had been bad, that is to say good. Well he would say so. “A good sound spanking,” he would say, but what was so good about it, she thought ruefully.
The evidence from round one had been irrefutable. There on the table had been exhibits one, two and three. The coat, the hat and the credit card statement: busted.
Ding-ding round two; “you wouldn’t dare.”
What a dumb thing to say, she could almost admit she deserved the spanking that followed.
He had given her that ‘look,’ the one that said, “Really?”
In return, and this was good, like she wasn’t in enough trouble, she rolled her eyes at him.
“Would you be so kind as to fetch your hairbrush?” Only it wasn’t a question.
“Oh come on,” she wailed, “Kathy and Mark will be here soon.”
“Better hurry then.” He had folded his arms.
She had refused. She had stamped her foot and refused. Well after she was out of earshot, she did.
“I won’t do it,” she said and repeated it all the way back before handing him the hairbrush.
“What was that?” he said sharply.
“Nothing,” she muttered, her eyes downcast, but then she quickly added, “Nothing Sir.”
Then it was over his knee and with her trousers and little cotton pants down. “Look I’m sorry,” she had said.
He let the hairbrush make his reply, loudly and fast so that the spanks sang back at her in an echo even as he spanked her again.
The gritting of the teeth stage was quickly overtaken by the ankle crossing and panting like a Labrador on a beach stage. Dogs didn’t sweat, was the idle thought that crossed her mind as she realised that she was. Then it was on to the barking stage. This was accompanied by the bucking and clawing at the crosspiece of the seat stage as the barking became more of a howl.
“I’ll be good, so good, please Sir, please,” the begging stage already, he must be pissed off with her.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she honked, her tears had real moisture in them, a veritable cascade of great rolling rivulets of water that ran with make-up down her face.
The prospect of the corner had seemed like a good thing then. Corner time and a good old rub and I’ll never be a naughty girl again. And so it went on, the same old same old.
But the corner wasn’t a good thing, especially when he hadn’t let her rub. She sniffed and risked a tiny probe around her backside with her fingers. But if he were to see… her hands were quickly snapped away.
The car outside seemed louder than the one before and she felt a fresh wave of tummy tingles. Maybe it wasn’t them, maybe… long minutes passed and she tried to let go of the apprehension, there was still time. Then the doorbell rang.
Ding-ding, round four was going to be hellish.
Filed under: DJB stories, domestic, M/F, spanking stories | 9 Comments
Tags: corner time, embarasment, embarrassing, hairbrush, marital spanking, public corner time, punishment, spanking adult daughters
This is a racy crime drama that I stumbled upon on Google Reader. It is from the St Paul Pioneer Press Magazine on Sunday 22 October 1933. It is hard to read, but if you click on the picture above you are welcome to try.
And if anyone does want to type it out I would be happy to republish Sam E Smyth’s period gem, but don’t strain your eyes.
The Wife Who Needed Spanking (as typed by Logicl63)
By Sam E. Smyth
“Wilson, you may tell Hargis I’ll be ready in 10 minutes.”
“Very good, Mrs. Bannister.”
“I’ll take the Mercedes.”
“Very good, Mrs. Bannister.”
“London” Lonnie was feeling his way cautiously along a dark upstairs hallway when this conversation halted him. Suddenly, a cluster of brilliant lights directly over Lonnie’s head switched on.
He shaded the peak of a dark cap over small, humorous eyes and took a swift survey: three open bedrooms on the right; on the left, two closed doors. He opened the nearest door, a large trunk closet, just as the soft tread of feet on heavily carpeted stairs came to him.
“I’ll take the trunk closet, Wilson.” He smiled. “Very good, sir.”
Bobbing into the closet and closing the door quietly, he draped a cauliflower ear over the keyhole. Feet swished past the closet door, and stopped.
Looking through the keyhole, Lonnie saw two exquisitely curved, feminine, red stockinged legs. Stooping, his eyes traveled leisurely up the legs and beyond the knee to a short red skirt, then to a fiery red jacket, and finally Oh! Oh! ’d at a lovely oval face.
Topping this flaming female was a large red hood from under which stray locks of straw-gold peeped out. The lady was in a worried stew about something.
“She’s going as little Red Riding Hood,” mused the man in the closet, his eye dropping helplessly down to her legs again. “Now, if I were the wolf, I’d start on the legs. “Oh, Mrs. Conda Bannister?” He bowed. “I am delighted to meet you. I’ve admired your diamonds.”
“London” Lonnie had been stealing American diamonds and money for so many years, that even his accent was now American.
Mrs. Conda Bannister snapped on a light and disappeared into a bedroom across the hall.
“Little Red Riding Hood’s expression,” frowned Lonnie, “looked like she had already seen the wolf.” He vacuumed the cauliflower ear to the keyhole and dialed it around trying to tune in on what she was doing. She was telephoning. “She’s married. She’s worried. She’s alone. No woman can stand that very long without talking.”
“Hullo,” came from across the hall. “Jeoffrey?… Yes. I was afraid you had left… Listen. Behave tonight. Phillip is inquisitive. … No, nothing definite. I must ask you again for those letters. … Yes, but you’ve lied to me right along. Be a good boy and … Oh, my God, Jeff! You can’t mean that!”
Lonnie caught a sob. She was listening. Jeoffrey had a lot to say. Presently, she broke out with: “So, that’s what you are! I loathe you! Do you hear? Phillip will divorce me! … Jeff! JEFF!”
He had hung up on her. She dropped the receiver on its hook, with: “Oh, oh, I’m in for it!”
Lonnie shook his head. “That’s a shame.” He sighed mockingly “Don’t you know, Conda, that the devil’s horns are in the velvet when the tale is in the silk?” He yawned. “Serves you right, you little fool. Hang on to the letters, Jeff. It’s a good racket.”
Her room was quiet. “Well, it’s your move Conda, but I wish you’d move your pretty legs and get out of there. I’m not a guest, you know.”
Jeoffrey Dayne had recently come over from England. What for, New York didn’t seem to care. The fellow was a well-mixed cocktail: a dash of D’Artagnan, a measure of Monte Cristo, the bouquet of Beau Brummell, a sip of the Devil. Conda and Dayne had found each other a whetstone upon which to sharpen wits.
The grindstone epitomized Phillip and his commercial activities. Conda was just a lovely flower to perfume his home. Phillip was a poor horticulturist… so poor that the lovely flower kept itself fresh and fragrant by feeding on the love and attention others willingly gave.
A door downstairs closed with a bang. The percussion caused the closet door to rattle. Lonnie’s eye found the keyhole. He smiled. Conda’s red legs were framed in the doorway across the hall.
“If that’s Phil,” mused Lonnie, “they’ll probably put on something dramatic.”
Firm steps on the stairs. The red legs disappeared into the bedroom, then soft humming.
“I’ll bet that is an effort.” chuckled Lonnie. Bannister swished down the hall and halted at her bedroom door, where he stood in dour silence.
Lonnie quietly approved Bannister’s six foot one, the Barrymore profile, the resolute jaw. “Money maker. Lets the girlfriend drift. So busy chasing the dame on the dollar that the dame in the home coins her own slogan of liberty.”
Bannister stood silent, motionless, gazing in at Conda. Her soft humming seemed to irritate him.
“Well, Bluebeard,” sighed Lonnie, “make up your mind what to do with Fatima. She must be playing that old game, ‘I didn’t hear you come …’”
“Oh, Phillip,” came from across the hall. “I didn’t hear you come in.” A little laugh of surprise trailed off into the humming again.
“Watch your step, lady,” frowned Lonnie. “The boyfriend knows something!”
“You look charming.” offered Phillip, leaning leisurely against the door.
The humming bird stopped humming. “Hadn’t you better start your Captain Kidd makeup?”
He ignored the advice. “If I remember correctly,” he said, and his tone implied that he did, “Little Red Riding Hood met a wolf, didn’t she?”
The subtlety of the words plunged her into silence.
“Smart crack,” sighed Lonnie. “Now, Lady of the Lovely legs, let’s see you keep the wolf from the door.”
Bannister evidently thought that was enough for her to think about. He turned as if to go down the hall when she spoke.
“I think she did,” Conda laughed, feebly. “I can’t hope to meet a wolf at a masquerade, can I, Phillip?”
He turned back quickly. “Can’t you?” He was quite clear what he meant.
Bannister went into the room. “There’s too much talk.” He blurted, “about you and Dayne.”
She was making a lot of unnecessary noise opening and shutting drawers. “Missed choice scandal, haven’t I?”
“You mean messed,” correct Lonnie.
A person can,” Bannister broke out, “be too close to a thing to…”
“STOP it, will you!” Her voice burst like a crash of lightning. Lonnie nearly slipped off the trunk. The room was quiet.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” apologized Lonnie, “this program has been interrupted by technical difficulties over which this…”
“I’ve dance, lunched with Dayne, yes.” she pouted. “What of it?”
“There you are, Phil,” nodded Lonnie. “What of it?”
“Dayne’s goal,” he cried warningly, “is money, my money! His reputation is stamped all over him!” he appeared in the doorway, lips tight.
“Pardon me but the lady,” offered Lonnie, “needs a damn good spanking, Phil. And you need a good swift kick in the same identical, anatomical location.”
“Going with me?” Bannister shot back at her.
“No. Hargis is driving me.”
He strode down the hall and into his bedroom. After ramming around noisily, he yelled to her: “Wilson put my costume in the trunk closet?”
“I think so,” she called back. Lonnie scrambled off the trunk and burrowed deep into the closet. Then she added: “Oh, I forget, It’s in your closet, after all.”
Bannister’s hand was turning the trunk closet doorknob when she spoke. He grunted and went back to his room.
“Ah, fair Lady of the Lovely Legs,” sighed Lonnie, thankfully. “Birds of a feather will flock together.”
She appeared in the doorway, a black cape snuggled about her. “I’m going now,” she called. “Be along soon?”
She started down the stairs, stopped, and called back: “Love me?”
Silence. Then, loudly: “What’s that?”
A pause. “Oh, of course. Run along.”
“And beware of the wolf.”
“That’s a good girl.” His voice didn’t carry the humorous banter hers did.
She floated down the stairs, the front door closed, and the house was quiet.
“Now,” sighed Lonnie, stretching luxuriously, “Captain Kidd, if you’ll kindly get the hell out of there, I’ll have a little peace and quiet and some other things. Candidly, I think you’re an old maid. If you’d take that shapely-legged kid in your arms once in a while and crush the devil out of her she wouldn’t hunt up every Tom, Dick and Dayne.”
Bannister appeared in the doorway.
“Yes, sir.” from the butler downstairs.
“Did a Mr. Corson call?”
“Oh. He was coming over to show me his costume. Keep your head, Wilson, if something scarey shows up. Corson’s a cutup.”
“Very good, sir.”
Bannister presently strode down the stairs in swashbuckling boots, nasty cutlass, and a great floppy pirate hat, and left the house.
Lonnie lost no time. Conda’s bedroom lights were still on as he slid across the hall. Silent, deft fingers worked through drawers. He frowned. Then he ran finger tips along under the edge of Conda’s massive dressing table and bumped into a button.
A secret drawer glided out. Two necklaces, exactly alike, sparkled up at him. He examined them.
“Fool your friends with that one,” smiled Lonnie, putting one back.
He selected three rings, the good necklace, and a pendant. Someone was coming up the stairs.
“Wilson,” he nodded, “to turn off the lights.”
As his eye swept the room for a hiding place, something wild popped into his head. He started whistling and sauntered out into the hall. Wilson’s mouth fell open.
Lonnie smiled easily at the massive butler. “Is Phil in?” he whispered. His self-possession and brazen poise alit a sudden grin across Wilson’s face.
“I might have known, sir,” apologized Wilson, obsequiously. “Mr. Corson, of course.”
“Right.” Lonnie flipped his coat collar up, cocked his cap over one eye, and hunched his head out. “Who am I, Wilson?”
Wilson gasped. “My word! The image of the slimy crook, London Lonnie, sir! That…”
Lonnie frowned. “That’s enough, Wilson. I see you recognize the masquerade.”
“Sorry, sir, but Mr. Bannister just left.”
Lonnie clucked sadly. “Missed him! And Wilson, the old fake, bet me a good drink I couldn’t break in!”
Wilson laughed. “That’s easily fixed, sir.”
They went downstairs, arm in arm.
“I’m sure Mr. Bannister,” winked Wilson, opening a bottle, “would want me to pay his debt with the best.”
Lonnie waved a careless hand. “Oh, Phil would go the limit for me.” Presently he pressed Wilson with: “What do you make of this affair between Conda and Dayne?”
“Nothing good, sir.”
“No real affection?”
“Not a hoot.”
“I mean Dayne.”
Wilson sighed and dipped deeper in the news. “He’s a bad one sir. Shot at in Vienna… this Dayne. Friend of mine working at The Clarendon where Dayne lives, got hold of it. Affair similar to this.”
“Lives at The Clarendon.” grinned Lonnie, absently.
Ten minutes later Wilson was dozing on a davenport. Lonnie raised a window and vanished into the night.
Mrs. Bannister got home, after the ball, a few minutes ahead of Phillip. She was flushed and nervous. Looking about to make sure that Phillip had not yet returned, she went to her room, locked the door and got Dayne on the telephone.
“Jeoffrey? … I want to see you, early, tomorrow.” she told him. “I’ll … buy those letters from you with my necklace. Hear me?”
Dayne was silent for a moment. Then a mocking laugh tumbled into her ear.
“Conda, dear,” he said. “I bow to your cleverness. You’ve won. Totally unlooked for, I assure you. I’m sailing in the morning.”
He hung up. She was trying to solve his words when there was a soft rap on the door.
“It’s Wilson, Mrs. Bannister!” It was a whisper. She opened the door. “Mr. Corson,” whispered Wilson. “said to give this to you when alone.” He handed her a small package.
“Henry Corson?” she whispered, doubtfully.
She took the package and locked the door. There was a note under the string. She read:
“I was unavoidably delayed in the trunk closet when you telephoned Dayne. I heard your witty repartee with Phillip. Pardon me, but you need a damn good spanking.. You saved my hide when you told Phillip his costume was in his own closet. So I thought the least a gentleman could do to reciprocate was to save your hide. Here are your letters. Wilson told me where Dayne lived.”
“P.S. – My services come high. I took your necklace and some other trinkets.”
“The Man in the Closet.”
Filed under: domestic, history, spanking stories, web round-up | 3 Comments
Tags: 1930s, crime, melodrama, period, spanking
Harmony guessed she probably should have known. Probably nothing, she should have known. But somehow her temper and big mouth always got her into trouble. Just then the penny literally dropped and she growled in frustration. It had been her job to keep it pressed to the wall with her nose whilst holding her hemline up. But every time she moved the darn thing slipped and tumbled to the floor under the chair.
She quickly leaned back and close to panic she scanned the yard to see if he was coming back. The breeze chose that moment to pick up and the curtains to the French windows billowed-in and left her exposed to anyone in their or the neighbours back yard, which thankfully at the moment was nobody.
For some reason she hadn’t let go of the hem of her short A-line summer skirt, this even though there was nobody there to see. God he had her well-trained she scolded herself with a blush. But she had already cut way too big a portion of peril by doubting his resolve. Bare bottom corner time right next to the open French windows was about as much consequence as she could stand; especially when corner time came with the firm instruction that her panties had to be at her ankles. Not all the way off, mark you, but most definitely hobbling her around the ankles.
“If you even think about pulling them up, I will keep you like that for your chores for the rest of the weekend,” he had warned her, adding, “garden chores too.”
At 22, Harmony was a lively cheeky girl, and even if her mouth did sometimes run far too fast for her brain, she was popular with almost everyone. It was just that sometimes her fiery red-headed temperament got her in to trouble.
That was where Martin came in. At 28 he was the level head in their partnership, but then he needed to be. She had known he was the one since the day she had barbecued the 25-year-old grad student’s sneakers at the frat beach party in a fit of anger.
He had spanked her, right there in front of everyone and then told her, also in front of everyone that if she didn’t apologise he would spank her again on the bare bottom, right in front of everyone.
She had been a proud feisty 19-year-old back then and for the longest time she weighed the threat while everyone had laughed. To this day she didn’t know what she hoped would happen, but the die had been cast and seeing no way out she had offered him the bird with a double ‘fuck-you’ accompaniment.
He had effortlessly put across his knee and her shorts and panties had gone south and then she had learned of Martin’s resolve. It had taken until graduation to live down that summer of 1969 and by then they had been engaged.
Nor had that been the only time he had spanked her. He was the only man in her life who had ever known how to handle her and given her sassy mouth and temperament, that had meant spankings.
Mostly he had spanked in her in their bedroom using his hand. But sometimes, well quite often, if she were honest, he had spanked using her own hairbrush and then put her in the corner.
Corner time was a bitch, especially when she was required to stand bare-bottomed heedless of any friends or callers. Not that it was usually that overt. Mostly she had experienced being nose to the wall just yards from an unsuspecting visitor.
The worst and most embarrassing escapade had been when she had dared him to do his worst when her brother and sister-in-law had come for lunch one Sunday. He had spanked her soundly just half an hour before their arrival and she had still been in the corner as they had turned in the drive.
“Martin, please,” she had begged, “Come on…”
He had eyed her with that steely gaze of his.
“Do you promise to behave now?” he had asked.
Well she was standing in the corner of the family room wearing nothing but a tank top and her socks. So what else could she say but, “I promise.”
He had allowed her to put on an apron for the final preparations just as they entered the house. Even then her cherry red bottom had been left bare and she had had to keep her front forwards or stay behind the kitchen counter right up until she served.
“I should get changed first,” she had said pointedly while looking at Martin with pleading eyes.
He had broken off from a football story with Steve her brother to consider this. It had been one hell of a squirmy moment and not so much in a good way.
“I suppose you should,” he had said at last.
She must have looked comical as she sheepishly backed away from the counter. The glint in her sister-in-law’s eye suggested that she had at least half guessed what was going on.
All this had been before Martin’s trick with the penny.
Now often when she was out of line he made her hold a penny to the wall with her nose as she stood holding up her skirt behind. This was all very humbling and even a little embarrassing. Except that was when she had been spanked on a summer’s day with every window in the house open and made to stand in the corner by the open glass doors to the yard. Then it was very embarrassing.
And that was where she found herself today.
Harmony stole another glance into the yard then made an undignified scrabble on the floor to grab the penny. It was a bitch to place just so and almost impossible to do it unaided. But finally she got back into place.
Darn the man, she seethed. The last and only time he had caught her dropping the penny he had warned her that he would secure her thumbs behind her back the next time she was so careless. Then she would be spanked and have half hour added every time he had to reset the coin.
Outside she heard Martin at the gate and knew he was coming back. Harmony held her breath; maybe he would release her now? Then disaster struck.
“Martin,” said a masculine voice.
“Hey Frank,” Martin replied.
Frank was their neighbour, mercifully on the other side from the one that had an outlook into the room, which was just as well as he was almost always in his yard.
“I thought I heard some… applause earlier,” Frank said innocently, “Catching a game on TV?”
Harmony gaped into the wall and nearly dropped the penny again.
“No I have been checking out the car after…” Martin countered.
Darn the man, couldn’t he lie. But she knew Frank wouldn’t be fooled. She could almost hear his eyes swivelling towards the open yard door. Thank God Martin hadn’t put her in the opposite corner.
“Sorry about earlier,” Martin continued, “Was your car okay?”
“Oh sure,” Frank said dismissively, “She barely touched it.”
“Well… let me know if there are any damages and…” Martin began apologetically.
“Hey forget it,” Frank said expansively, “But hey, your wife,” he whistled, “She has some mouth on her.”
“Yeah,” Martin sighed, “Sorry about that.”
“Not that… you know, I’m just saying… I mean she was the one driving, I was just parked and I only ran over to see if she was okay,” Frank said placatingly.
“Yeah,” Martin sighed, “She was just scared, sorry about that.”
“Anyway, I’ll let you get back to the… eh… um… game,” Frank brought the conversation to a close.
Just then another voice came from outside.
“Hello Frank, Martin,” it was Mrs Pearson on the other side.
Harmony felt her heart surge with panic. The drapes were still or at least looked to be as far as she could tell from the corner of her eye, so hopefully she was still obscured from sight. But with two neighbours just yards from her place of shame Harmony was on tenterhooks.
“Hey Mrs Pearson,” Frank called over.
Harmony guessed from his silence that Martin had given the woman an unspoken greeting.
“Did anyone hear that spanking earlier?” Mrs Pearson asked as casually as she might have ordered bread. “Sounded like a girl, a big girl too. Aren’t your girls a bit old for a spanking Frank?” She sounded mildly disapproving, but it wasn’t clear if her displeasure was directed at the supposed naughty girl or the punishment.
Harmony went goggle-eyed and nearly swallowed her own head. Little flames touched her face and threatened to spread.
“Nah,” Frank chuckled, “My girls are still away with those friends of theirs at Lake Tahoe; been there since the semester ended.”
“Well I could have sworn that I heard an old fashioned spanking,” Mrs Pearson said, sounding aggrieved.
Harmony’s eyes darted back and forth as she pressed closer to the wall. Go away, she cursed the woman silently.
Someone coughed and Harmony imagined she could hear Frank’s embarrassment when he said, “I eh… thought I heard some applause earlier, maybe it was that.”
“No, this was definitely a spanking, believe me I would know,” Mrs Pearson said impatiently.
Harmony was about melt away when it got worse. A short gust of wind kicked up the drapes and exposed her to the yard.
“Oh my lord,” Mrs Pearson gasped. “Mercy me, can you see that?”
Harmony couldn’t help herself and the penny went tumbling to the ground with a tink-tink-tink and she whirled around to see the extent of her exposure. Mrs Pearson was gaping her direction with a shocked hand clamped to her mouth.
“Nope, not a thing,” Frank coughed, “See you Martin. Good luck with… the eh… the game.”
For a moment Harmony stood all a gangly with her panties plainly at her ankles framed by the door and then she dived for the drapes still dancing in the wind and tried to hide.
“Oh, oh I… I see,” Mrs Pearson spluttered, “I thought I heard a ruckus earlier… I mean… applause yes, I guess that’s what it was. Yes… I think I left the… goodbye Martin… oh… goodbye Harmony.”
The stop light-faced Harmony eyed the penny and wondered if there was any point picking it up as Martin came through the door.
“What did I tell you?” he said glaring at her and then the penny on the floor.
Harmony could only gape.
“The penny,” he sighed, “I told you not to move.”
“I know but…” Harmony wailed.
A moment later she was across his lap with her bottom bare again.
“Martin the door, the windows,” Harmony hissed.
Martin snatched up the hairbrush from where he had left it by the chair and let fly. The splat landing belied any handclap and must have been heard over on the street side.
“Martin,” Harmony screeched; her face screwing up as if she had been sucking lemons as her spanking began in earnest.
It took five more swats before Frank’s mower started up and a moment before that Harmony heard him cheerfully whistle. But by then she was already deep into full on broken boo-hoo sobs.
A cooling breeze for when she was back in the corner might be just the ticket, she thought miserably; so long as the wind wasn’t too energetic and Martin allowed her the luxury of closing the drapes again. God, she hoped he didn’t dream up any garden chores like he threatened.
Filed under: DJB stories, domestic, M/F, retro, Romance, spanking stories | 7 Comments
Tags: 1960s, 1970s, corner time, embarassing, humiliation, marital spanking, public corner time, spanking
Maddy Merry sat back and examined the latest figures. The hotel had done well this quarter, in fact since the business with the crooked bar manager had been resolved the year before, things had gone very well.
The only fly in the ointment was Abaconti himself. Even after she had proved herself the old man had kept more than a weather eye on his first and favourite hotel and nothing she ever did quite entirely pleased him. She looked up at him as he stood framed by the window. She knew he was over sixty now, but although it showed in his face, his posture was firm and strong like his unrelenting eyes that seemed to watch her every move. So far the meeting had not gone well. Her buttocks clenched involuntarily and he had not responded favourably to her suggestion that he now relax his vigilance of her a little.
“There are bigger hotels in the chain, some of them in the most desirable locations on Earth,” Abaconti had told her the last time she had hinted that he should perhaps now back off, “You may have your pick.”
This time he had responded no more favourably.
“I just meant that… well I know we agreed that you would give me the same support and guidance as your daughter, I thought perhaps…” Maddy blushed.
Abaconti eyed her carefully weighing up every detail of what he saw. The woman had come a long way since her over confident debut in his service. Her dark red-brown hair was well-groomed and hung over one shoulder of her smart grey business suit in a striking braid. She had even taken to wearing trousers, albeit in a feminine style. But he still had plans for her, big plans and unless she wanted to wriggle free of his close supervision altogether then she would do it his way.
“You wish to end our arrangement?” he let the words hang.
“Good,” he said curtly. “Last quarter I set you three targets. You only had to meet one of them to escape my ire and achieve two to get another bonus. You remember I hope.”
“I got a cover story in the…”
“I got a cover story, you merely picked up the glory, which would have been enough I agree, but then we had that little matter with the prostitute in the bar,” Abaconti sighed.
“It didn’t make the newspapers I made sure…” Maddy explained.
“You tried your best to squash the story but again I have to report that it was my influence that swung it, so all in all I think target one, get us a higher profile came out as no-score draw, which in my book hardly counts,” Abaconti said dismissively. “So are the bookings up?”
“They are holding firm, but we raised the bar so high last quarter that I…”
“Are the costs down?” Abaconti said sharply.
“They are in general terms but the damn chandelier in the lobby needed unexpected repairs…” Maddy sounded strained, she knew that a cost was a cost, “I know, I know, expenditure was up by 2k,” a damn spit in the sea given the running costs for the hotel.
It was true, she had done rather well on the costs side of things and the target for bookings was all but impossible. But those were the breaks. If hadn’t been for the avoidable problem with the drunken sex worker in the bar he would have been pleased with her.
“Given our arrangement I think you need an incentive,” Abaconti said firmly.
Maddy blushed, she hated this part; the embarrassment was worse than the pain. But she nodded.
Abaconti brightened expectantly and there was an awkward silence. Last time he had caned her, but he had arrived with the wherewithal on account of an unresolved matter. More usually he applied the paddle to her bare bottom and that was in her charge. Her blush deepened.
“You want me to…” she swallowed.
“If you would,” Abaconti said with a tight smile.
Maddy got to her feet with slow deliberation and almost sauntered over to a locked cabinet on the far side of the office. The American sorority paddle was in plain view when she opened the mahogany door, the swirl of the knot in the wood like an accusatory eye. Above the blemish Greek letters were embossed on the hardwood surface, next to which were the words ‘To Mr Abaconti, with gratitude from the girls at…” she couldn’t read the Greek it had faded, but Maddy guessed it was the same as the lettering. Maddy licked her lips and reached for the tail-stinger, then paused.
“You know Mr Abaconti, a 34-year-old hotel manager getting a spanking is…” Maddy said, suddenly wheeling on her boss.
“Yes?” Abaconti asked, an edge creeping into his voice.
Maddy pouted and then turned back to retrieve the implement.
“I was only saying,” she muttered and then sheepishly stepped towards him and offered him the paddle.
“The usual position if you please,” Abaconti told her as he took the blade of wood.
Maddy sucked in her cheeks and made a quick about turn to approach her desk. The edge of the table-top made a line long the top of her thighs as she pressed against it and she sighed heavily. Then she unclipped her waist catch and unzipped the fly on her suit trousers letting them fall in a puddle at her ankles.
“That’s no way to treat clothes,” Abaconti tut-tutted her.
An impatient breath escaped Maddy’s lips and she stepped out of her suit bottoms and stooped to pick them up. Once she had hastily folded them and placed them on the desktop she grudgingly slewed around to face the desk again.
“Are you giving me attitude today?” he scolded her.
“No Sir,” she said quickly and slid her knickers down her thighs and stepped out of them too.
Abaconti studied her pale bare bottom for a moment and was about to press her further to prepare when she leaned forward and placed her elbows on the desk. This caused her moderate sized bottom to jut out at him, especially when she dipped her knees to support herself against the side of the desk.
“Thank you Miss Merry,” Abaconti said and made his approach.
The cold wood patted her behind and she did a little shimmy for him. He doubted that she realised this and patted her bottom again. This time she pressed her backside back some more and held it still.
He could see a slight tan-line and where the skin was palest she had small clusters of goosepimples, although there was no chill in the room.
The paddle landed with a mighty thwack and she grunted. Maddy hated the first one most. There was a disconnect between the swat and the expected pain which lulled her; not that it wasn’t hard. It was just that just as she thought she had coped, the delayed bite seared her and she struggled to hold position.
Abaconti spanked her again, this time harder and watched as the gooseflesh sharpen as a deep red flooded the impact area. Maddy made a strangled sound under breath and raised one leg at the knee.
Then he picked up the pace. Five swats landed in 30 seconds and she bucked and rocked over the desk, giving out gasping squeaks at the last two. She thought of two red coals turning slowly in the fire, but Abaconti settled for an image of a pair of ripe tomatoes. It was immensely satisfying, he had to admit.
“Mr Abaconti, I… I…” she made a grimace like a cold smile and a small hiss leaked from between her teeth.
Her bottom shimmied again and she did a slow little dance with her knees.
Once before she had jumped up and grabbed her bottom. Abaconti had put her in the corner and a half hour later had begun the whole thing over. It was good training and she never left position again.
The paddle having made seven visits already, landed again and she barked angrily. Tears spilled from her eyes now and she was breathing heavily.
“You take this much better than many I have had to spank,” Abaconti said.
“Thank you Sir,” she said in a strained voice.
Her bottom was puffy now and at the edge of the impact zone there were raised welts that looked more than a little sore. She was a two dozen girl if he remembered. That was where she broke. But she had done well and today it wasn’t necessary. But he did have to make a point. She would shrug off a mere dozen by the next day and he would have wasted his time.
Abaconti let her feel the blaze for a moment or two and then slowly, taking more than a minute, he added eight more biting blasts that made her yell and squirm. To his surprise she started to cry.
“Are you alright Miss Merry,” he asked paternally.
She couldn’t speak yet, so she nodded, but he noted that her knuckles were white where she gripped the desk.
“Two more and then we are done,” he said gently.
She nodded again and pushed her bottom back to brace it. There was that shimmy again, he thought.
She arched her back a brayed out, “Nyah,” as the penultimate swat landed, a sound she repeated with a concluding sob for the finale.
Then she hugged into the desk breathing rapidly through her nose until the boiling tumult in her bottom had subsided to partially bearable.
“Now Miss Merry, while I review all the books for this quarter you can go to the corner as usual and think on how you will meet the targets for our next meeting,” Abaconti said at last.
“Yes Sir,” she said in a very miserable voice.
Then with a careful gait she tottered to the corner and finally allowed herself a good cry.
Picture courtesy of Firmhandspanking.com
Filed under: Abaconti, DJB stories, M/F, sorority, spanking stories, workplace | 8 Comments
Tags: bend over, corner time, mentor, mentoring, paddle, paddling, spanked to tears, spanking, tears
Our story began here.
The Battle of Timon
Katrin was awoken by the sound of boots on gravel. Then before she had even opened her eyes she heard muted shouts of marshalling sergeants amid the cacophony and reluctantly she allowed thoughts of the day to touch her mind. She reached out then, but Fear was no longer beside her. Why was that important, she pondered as wakefulness caught up with her?
The taste in her mouth was a little sour and the urge for the pot competed with her thirst for her attention. So she sat up and opened her eyes.
There was a warm orange light as the beige canvas tent glowed all around her in the morning light and Arlon Fear was crouching in the sunny gloom at the foot of the bed.
“Good morning,” she smiled, the love-light warm in her eyes.
Fear straightened up and smiled back.
“You’re awake then sleepyhead,” he teased.
He grinned as she pulled the covers about her naked form and peered at him under a bird’s nest of raven hair that cascaded across her face like straws in the wind.
She nodded and her own grin widened.
Then his smile left his eyes and he turned to retrieve his black robe.
Katrin watched Fear finish getting dressed with a sense of foreboding. Thoughts of the coming day could no longer be ignored. If the battle did not come this day, then it would be upon the next.
The tent had a lacklustre feel now as if they were going through the motions of ordinariness. It was hard for Katrin to imagine that she may never be alone with this man again.
“Can’t you stay a little longer?” she asked sullenly.
Fear regarded her with a hard stare and then purposefully snatched up his staff as if warding off his emotions.
“You know that I can’t,” he sighed.
Again she nodded, but this time she looked sad.
“Listen to me,” he said with sudden hard edge to his voice, “I have not forgotten that you disobeyed me. You will not do so again. Once you have washed and bathed, I want you to find the healers and offer your services at the rear. If things do not go well do not go to Timon, flee south-west. Take a horse if you can and try and get to Gansk. From there you can find your way back to Pandoria.”
“But…” Katrin began to protest.
“Obey me,” he barked with a flash to his eyes. “If all fails here you will be needed at Pandoria. Now go to the rear and find work with the healers.”
The heat rose to Katrin’s cheeks and she gave him a pout. But he held her gaze until she nodded her assent.
“I love you,” he whispered and stooping to her they kissed.
She held on to him like it was the last time and then he left.
Sometime that afternoon word reached them that the Great Western Host was drawing near. They had made far better time than any had imagined and the order went out to strike camp.
“There is a ridge to the east of Timon, with a slight southerly slope between. We will set our command post atop of the high ground with our ranks aligned up along the top of the slope guarded at the flanks by the ridge on the left and the city on the right,” William Armarlon told his senior officers. “Their majesties have decided to combine our cavalry and place them on our left flank beyond the ridge. In that way we will make the most of the cover and have a hammer blow in reserve should the opportunity arise to use it.”
All around them men were striking tents and gathering weapons for the tactical withdrawal east and among the clanking of iron and urgent shouts came singing.
“Are there any questions?” the Duke of Timon asked.
There were some shrugs and exchanged glances, but most shook their head. What was there to ask? By the end of the next day they would be dead or they would be victorious.
As the men left him to attend to their various commands, William looked southwards dreading what he might see. However the horizon was mostly clear, and but for a few circling crows and the last straggling refugees, devoid of life.
“It will take all day to strike camp and move it north,” his aide said.
William nodded absently. That was what he had told his brother and their ally Peron. But he doubted that the enemy would reach them before nightfall and by then they would have secured their defensive positions.
It was a good plan and made the most of their inferior numbers as it did not tie down their cavalry in defence. This left it free for the counter attack. If this had been any other battle he would be feeling confident despite being outnumbered, but this conflict would be decided by magic.
The next day word reached Peron about an hour after dawn. The Great Army of the West was moving up fast and would be with them by noon.
“The gods help us,” he muttered.
“And so it begins,” William Armarlon said from somewhere behind him.
The rest of the general staff looked at King Peron expectantly as if he might say something else but the King of Precips could not meet their eyes. What was there to say?
Then someone laughed. “Will you stand with me your majesty? Shall we bear this burden together?” said a voice.
King John strode from behind the assembled ranks beaming as if he had just issued a party invitation. In response Peron’s eyes crinkled at the corners and he began to chuckle.
“I will,” Peron whispered and then with more heart, “I will.”
“And I,” said one of the officers.
Others joined in the assertion and in a moment the mood had changed.
“We have a good battle plan and I for one welcome the foe,” the Duke of Timon added to the chorus.
“Well-spoken William,” King John said cheerfully. “Now there is only one detail to which we must attend.”
“Those mages,” Peron agreed with a nod, anticipating his ally’s thoughts.
Noon came and went and a strange calm befell the amassed ranks of the allied army. Officers had been coming and going all morning but none of them had anything new to report. Although at eleven the General of Horse, Sir Mark De Lacy, rode up and said that all final arrangements had been made and that his men were in position. Then with a ‘good luck’ and a ‘fare thee well’ he rode away.
The Duke of Timon felt a knot in his stomach and remembered the part Sir Mark had played in their abortive attack on the West. As he watched the retreating back of his old comrade he wondered if he would ever see the man alive again.
But then an officer handed him a note and the press of duty overtook him. Now all reports had ceased and all but the furthest extent of the outriders had returned. There was nothing to be done but wait.
William glanced at his brother who sat his horse with aplomb and a steady look in his eye; he might even be enjoying himself. But the assembled staff officers merely looked bored now and only Peron held himself with concern. His shoulders looked as if his armour was now too heavy and there were two sharp lines marking his brow.
On the lower slope less than a furlong from his position a dust devil swirled along parallel to the ranks of waiting warriors. William followed it with his eye and idly wondered if it might turn on them. And then it died with the breeze leaving the army marooned in still air like a ship becalmed.
Far to his right a horse whinnied and another began to kick at the traces rattling its war gear. If the Duke listened hard he could hear such sounds all along the lines, like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. This gentle melody was marred only by the intermittent buzz of solitary horse fly.
But as he listened another insect hum caught his attention, a more rhythmic sound on the very edge of his hearing. Then it was gone.
Next to King John a mounted courier sighed and began to blink hard as if awakening. He was a callow youth with carrot red hair who was not above 17 and who looked far too young for war. The boy pulled a cork stopper from a pewter horn and took a swig of water. William had to laugh as the courier struggled with the bottle and fumbled with the top for long nervous moments before pushing it home.
Then the insect hum was back and William surrendered to his own drowsiness. But this time the sound did not fade and the Duke fancied he heard a bell above the chimes of the harness.
“What’s that sire?” the redheaded courier asked.
Several ears pricked up and then let their attention drop again. The long wait was apt to play on the mind of the inexperienced. But William heard it too. An indistinct drone that seemed to end on a… he strained to hear, a bell?
“It sounds like… voices,” the boy said hesitantly.
King John pulled a face and shook his head doubtfully. But now he was listening too.
“I hear it,” said a voice from the assembled staff.
“Sagy-sah, sagy-say, ompoomi-da; saggy-say sagy-sah ompoomi-da,” was carried to them on the wind and then a small bell rang.
At eight minutes past one the Western Host spilled over the far hills like black water as the vanguard tumbled pell-mell towards them. In its train came dark blocks of cohorts, slowly but surely advancing on their positions like the teeth of some huge monster. Wending between the oncoming ranks were small lines of slowly chanting priest-witches. This army was vast, having near twice the ally’s numbers. It was a grim sight.
King Peron looked like a greyhound that had caught a scent. His horse skittishly danced as the king looked up and down the ordered ranks for any detail he might have missed.
While King John opted for ostentation and drew his sword then then charged up and down the lines urging the men to hold-fast.
“I think my brother is going to make a speech,” William laughed; battle had now come and he was ready.
“Good, for I have no words on this day,” Peron replied.
John made three turns on the battlefield before coming to a halt at the dead centre.
“Comrades,” he screamed with more authority than any man in the history of the world. “My brothers and sisters in arms…”
Peron knew then that he may be the director of this battle, but King John, ruler of the great Timbre Empire would command it.
“Once again the armies of the West have come to our lands. And once again we have risen to meet them. There is nothing new here today. Look at them and their pretty little formations. Look at the heedless rabble and the unwashed witches that come dragging on their tails,” King John sounded as if he were addressing a village hall, yet his words were quiet and firm and heard by all. “Once again we will meet these unwelcome guests in the land of Timbre as our forefathers have before. But do you remember your history? Do you?”
The King now paused for effect. Every man and a woman in the army knew the histories and the great victories of old.
“Just weeks ago we met this rabble in Precips and cast them out as we have many times before. But who remembers when they conquered us?”
There was muttering now and some men called out.
“When have they ever?” King John answered them.
“Never,” came a shout.
“Never,” John bellowed and 40,000 voices answered him.
John broke now from his position and reared his horse.
“So I say to you,” he called to them, “Once again we meet them and once again we will have… victory!”
He rode then in triumph as if victory was already theirs for the whole length of the line while 40,000 men screamed in a chant, “Armarlon, Armarlon, Armarlon…”
The enemy tried to answer him with drums, but horns and trumpets from the Precips contingent drowned them out.
But still weaving its spell among the celebrations was the relentless song, “Sagy-sah, sagy-say, ompoomi-da; saggy-say sagy-sah ompoomi-da,” followed by that bitter little bell.
Arlon Fear could feel the waves of dark magic fouling the air like stale smoke and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. As he scanned the patterns, he saw them tremble as if a shadow was trying to supplant them and push them aside. It was as if a hundred million spike ants were burrowing under the fabric of reality.
“What do you see Fear?” Gort asked, the strenuous mage now standing at his side resplendent in golden yellow.
Fear frowned at his colleague and saw from his eyes that he did not sense it.
“It has begun,” Fear replied, but now he was troubled, for if Gort did not see the obvious then how could he combat it?
The crone was as a walking corpse and twice as foul. Her clothes were barely worthy of the name and it was beyond understanding how even the Wild Magic had sustained her life for so long.
She held aloft a twisted stick draped in feathers and bones and twirled thrice in the air before muttering something under her stench-ridden breath.
“Sagy-sah, sagy-say, ompoomi-da; saggy-say sagy-sah ompoomi-da,” sang her followers as they came on behind her.
Already they were within arrow range of the front ranks of the Timbre troops, but as yet not a shot had been fired.
“Sagy-sah, sagy-say, ompoomi-da; saggy-say sagy-sah ompoomi-da,” the crone added to the chant.
Two dozen voices countered with, “Saggy, saggy, saggy, sah,” followed as ever by the nasty little bell.
The men in the front rank, who up until then had viewed the small foray with amusement, began to feel uneasy. One or two of them were even sick. Then men who had stood in the face of certain death many times before began to feel the terror and made as if to break ranks.
“Sagy-sah, sagy-say, ompoomi-da; saggy-say sagy-sah ompoomi-da.” The terror spell worked its will, weaving among the mortal men and turning their hearts.
Suddenly then the bestial cat leapt from the long grass and landed on the dead-faced crone with a wailing scream. Before a single priest-witch could react the old priestess’s head had been torn from the shoulders and now rolled on the ground. None would mourn her, not even her own.
The next witch in the line who knew the lead chant well let his mouth hang open indecision for a heartbeat too long. For in another moment the wild cat’s dread caterwauling was joined by the feral shouts of a dozen other voices.
A near naked Hemple reached the procrastinator first and took his throat with her knife. Others may have overwhelmed her, but the first two who tried died on the spot clutching their necks as if slashed by an unseen blade.
Once on the Silver Shore Tabitha had told ptarmigan to wait passively for her knife, but now seasoned warrior witches and foul priests stood agape as she danced among them taking heads.
Brusquely Amber Sage strolled into the melee ordering heads from necks with a spell and putting up warding spells for the sisters like Tabitha who had to come close for the knife work.
“Meredith can you…?” Amber was not wont to give orders here, but so far the more powerful witch had held back.
“Where there was terror there will be resolve,” she said simply and cast a mutter-supported hand in the direction of the allied ranks.
Two of the Shadow Dreamers rushed at her, the air before them fizzing with hellish hornets, but Meredith dusted the insect-spawn and then set the two to become at once toads and rats so that their bodies twisted in the conflict and they spewed blood.
The remaining eight and two more pacts of priest-witches that had been closing on other positions first waivered and then broke, a hell-born tiger-beast lunging at their heels.
“Peel, fall back,” Amber ordered the shape-shifting witch.
Finally the previously paralysed archers let fly with a volley and the first wave of Shadow Dreamers together with their supporting warriors perished or fled the field.
“Did you see what Meredith did?” Erin gushed excitedly.
Amber turned to see her friend and pupil grinning from ear to ear whilst holding up a rat by its tail.
“Best I could do I am afraid,” Erin said sheepishly.
“You turned a witch into a rat?” Amber gasped. Sure she could do it, just, but not under battle conditions.
“Sorry,” Erin winced, “I got a bit squeamish about knife work.”
Amber rolled back her head a laughed.
All along the battlefront, sorties of Western warriors were repelled by well entrenched defenders. Only where there were no witches to counter the Shadow Dreamers did they make any headway. But they were not the only magical forces at work.
Fear and the other mages had set-up on the right flank where less effective adepts and journeymen could be placed nearby on the walls of Timon safely passing on magical intelligence.
At intervals behind the lines there were mages and wizards to counter various magical attacks, but for the most part they could only detect such assaults. After all a water mage might creatively counter a direct attack but there was little he or she could do against a spell that cast a whole phalanx of regular veterans into a funk.
The Fire mages fared rather better and although in terms of fire power they were barely equal to a company of archers, they did have the ability and skills to be immune from the Shadow Dreamers terror spells and pick out the leadership of various chapters and incinerate them where they stood.
“Our people are overstretched,” Fear yelled above the din of the fighting, “We have far too few witches and Wild Magicians on our side.”
Maxine du Jared at his elbow nodded. It would seem that Fear and Amber had been right all along, thaumaturgy in this instance was no match for powers that could by-pass the physical world and directly influence the soldiers on the ground.
Maxine herself had little to do for now. Even though she could raise an ocean and dash it onto fleets at sea, the most she could do here on a grand scale was set the ground to frost and slow up the enemies cavalry.
Nevertheless, in private she had dabbled in forbidden magic that had enabled her to boil the water content of person in seconds and with some effort she could extend that to a dozen warriors or more, she had no doubt. But that was but a drop in the sea in this fight.
“We could try forming a concert,” Maxine yelled.
Fear nodded, but he was at a loss to what the target should be. Not unless Maiestatis showed himself and then what?
“Concert be damned, let me show you what a war mage can do,” Gort growled.
A moment later Gort the High Hand had lifted from the ground like a harrier and with ever increasing speed soared over the battle field. Below him a rain of fire from the fire mages showered the Western Army and from his lofty vantage he could see the puddles of death delivered by his comrades amid the fray. But it was not enough, he could see that now. A flight of arrows did almost as much damage and the Allies had far more archers than it had fire mages.
But Gort was no mere Fire Mage and with a thought and barely a sweep of his arm a dozen fire balls spun from his hand and splashed like waves among the enemy. Where each ball of plasma landed small lakes fire expanded in all directions engulfing hundreds in their wake.
A great cry went up among the Allied troops and where previously they had fallen back, great sections of warriors pushed forward and began to recover lost ground.
Not content, Gort affixed his mind on his staff of office and filled it with flame. Then in a great rolling whip he unleashed tongues of white hot fire along the attackers’ lines. This was even more effective than fire balls and whole companies ceased to exist.
“I take it back,” Maxine screamed gleefully at Fear. “Sic ‘em boy, kill them all Gort.”
Fear tried to be horrified by the sight of death and Maxine’s enthusiasm for it, but part of him rejoiced. It was working and if he could just hold them back on the ground then…
His train of thought was interrupted by an unearthly scream. The loud eeriness of the sound was somewhere between the wail of leviathan and the roar of a dragon. It was the howl of a wolf like no beast Fear had ever heard before. And then he saw him. Maiestatis, the Wolf Lord, the Warmonger and now he feared, the Three-Who-Are-One in the combined power of the Triptych.
The creature was at once merely a man and a giant, his demonic form bursting to escape the mortal facade it had usurped. And although on the scale of the battle he was a dwarf, all eyes were suddenly drawn to him and transfixed so that there were none who did not shudder.
Maiestatis howled again and the great Western Host surged forward.
“We must hold them,” Maxine yelled.
Half a league away Maiestatis strode through his minions, his eyes scanning the opposing mortals for any who could trouble him. To his left he quickly found the Magister and dismissing the distance between them he devoured each one in turn with his eyes as he marked them for death. He was not complacent, but for each one he had a plan. That left Gort high above him as he put the Army of the West to the flame.
Always challenged by the present, it took the Wolf Lord a moment to focus as he saw the two armies rise and fall in death and defeat, and survival and victory by turns as his visions cycled through the past and present.
Then among it all was an archer, a mere youth from the farthest end of the Western Plains. The boy stood just yards from where Maiestatis’s mortal form now surveyed the battle and in all versions of the past and future the boy shot arrow after arrow unerringly into everything he aimed at.
The Wolf Lord let out another terrifying howl and then waded through his minions as they fell dead at his touch.
“Boy,” he hissed, “The War Mage above; end him for me.”
The archer glanced upwards and wondered at the shot. But before he could answer his dread lord, Maiestatis laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder and drank his soul leaving nothing but his aim.
The boy, a dead thing now, bleeding from his unseeing eyes, staggered for a moment and then notched another arrow. It sailed further and faster than any he had ever shot.
Gort barely noticed the shaft that screamed past his head. It was not the first and any that came too close he smashed them to ash with a thought. Nor did he notice the next six or the seventh, which all came near with deadly speed, but could scarce be called a threat.
Below, the archer, one of many when viewed from the sky, seized arrow after arrow from a frame that stood adjacent with a demonic speed now. Each arrow was collected and fired in a blur so that the ghoulish marksman became the equal of his whole company.
Above and much too late Gort realised the danger and extended his will to counter the rain of deadly darts that were launched at him. Had they been mortal or one fewer he would have prevailed, but the last escaped his sanction and glanced off his staff. Then like a shard of ice the necromantic spike speared his side and deep into his heart.
It was a death he may even yet have survived. A War Mage was ever hard to kill, but what little of his will there was left smashed into the ground from a hundred yards above, where a dozen Western Axmen fell upon him and Gort the High Hand was no more.
Uncaring the demon released his hold on the archer, who fell dead to the ground finally expended for the life of a magus.
Katrin saw the Mustard Mage, as she remembered him, hang in the air and knew at once something had changed. Then like a broken golden kite he seemed to twist and fall, tumbling to the ground until he passed from her sight among the melee of angry soldiers on the ground.
Just minutes before she had gained Timon’s outer battlements after some premonition had pulled at her. The healers had set-up in impromptu hospitals within Timon itself, leaving Katrin with no choice of obedience to her master. But that was far from her thoughts as she watched the death of Gort. Was this what she was meant to see then? All around her the old men and boys left warding the city gasped in horror and there were startled screams.
Katrin thought of Rachel then and wondered at the girl’s feelings for her former mentor. They were never close, but Pandoria without Gort… Katrin heaved a sob. Yet deep within her she knew that this was not what she had meant to see.
Free of the fire the Western Army rallied itself and again surged forward. Now the Shadow Dreamers were in their element and as their song took hold, whole companies of the allies broke ranks and fled back up the slope.
Katrin felt sick. She could even smell the terror of her countrymen as they ran and for the first time in her life she knew the meaning of defeat. Is this what you show me, she cursed the universe, is it? And then she doubled over crying.
But the world was not done with her yet and something compelled her to look again. Amid the fleeing troops she made out a dark figure who stood his ground. In moments the last of the warriors had broken past him and he was alone.
It took no sixth sense, if that was what had brought her here, to tell her that it was Arlon Fear who now stood like a solitary battle pike on the field. Oh the gods no, she wailed within herself, please by all that is holy…
As she watched a storm of arrows almost blotted out the sun in an indecent haste to smudge the Black Magus from the world, and in a blink she could see her love no more.
Katrin’s heart filled her mouth and she went numb. Nothing could have survived such an onslaught. Why hadn’t he dashed the arrows from the sky?
But the storm passed and among a forest of knee high sticks in the ground Fear still stood unwavering. Katrin found the strength to breath.
Calm then befell the battlefield and the only sound was the chanting of the Shadow Dreamers punctuated by that damn bell. Ten thousand men who should have charged forward held back and Katrin again held her breath.
“Sagy-sah, sagy-say, ompoomi-da; saggy-say sagy-sah ompoomi-da,” was carried on the wind, “Sagy-sah, sagy-say, ompoomi-da; saggy-say sagy-sah ompoomi-da,” and a hollow metallic clang.
It was enough and all at once the enemy surged ahead.
Katrin trembled then. An unstoppable quaking seized her body and her knees crumpled beneath so that she had to hold on to the wall. But the shake did not stop and all around her others staggered to hold their feet.
Then as she watched, far out on the battlefield the ground rolled as smoothly as an ocean until a great crack opened cleaving the grass. The Black Magus, master of Fire and Earth, had seized the land and melded it to his will.
Katrin saw the crack grow into a chasm and men who would have slain all in their path staggered at the abyss and then tumbled before it. Her fellows were too shaken to cheer, but the dying are rarely so silent and Katrin had to clamp her hands to drown out a hundred-hundred screams.
The earthquake lasted for several minutes and when it was over near a tenth of the Western Host were dead. Better yet, there was now a great ditch between the armies, a trench of twisted shattered ground.
King Peron had never been so afraid. The terror had seized him from nowhere and it was all he could do to hang onto his horse and not flee. But others were not so strong and whole battalions of soldiers flowed past him in a torrent of fear for some imagined haven a league beyond the battle he adjudged.
“Rally to me, rally to me,” he yelled.
But there was no conviction in his voice and for the price of his spit he would have turned and fled with his men too.
Unknown to the king, Meredith Greydove and her coven had found a spot behind the lines to form a circle and hold hands. At once they sensed others doing the same and in a chant as old as the mountains they gave all they had to counter the Shadow Dreamer spell.
“What is it?” Tabitha gasped as she burned where she touched Erin and Amber in their place within the circle.
“Hold on,” Meredith yelled, but she felt as a woman drowning in a sea of evil as the terror, like winter mist chilled her and surged up to engulf them. “Hold on.”
Magic can break a soul. Sometimes slowly, sometimes fast, but magic-shattered souls there were, and this day would see more yet if Meredith’s coven could not hold. The terror rushed at them and surrounded them to blind senses and still they held…
The threat was slowed but not yet defeated but before the covens could claim a triumph the Shadow Dreamer chant abruptly stopped and a new threat began.
“The ground, it is shaking,” Amber screamed.
“It is the demon,” said another in terror.
“This is not Wild Magic” Meredith said.
Amber focussed and looked for the patterns of Earth Power as she had been taught. There was only one who could do this. She grinned, about time you did something Fear, she thought happily.
By now Peron had gathered his courage and joined by King John and the Duke of Timon they put renewed spirit into their men and little by little the ranks reformed.
“We are not done yet boys,” John said affectionately, “Those Pandoria magicians have not deserted us.”
By the time the ground stopped shaking lines of warriors had returned to formation wondering why they had ever been afraid.
High beyond the battle lines Katrin should have felt relieved, but something still compelled her and deep inside she knew that she had not yet seen all.
“My lady, the walls are unsafe, the earthquake has undermined them,” said an old watch sergeant commanding that section, “We must fall back to the inner ramparts.”
Katrin nodded absently. But in her heart she knew that Fear needed her. It made no sense of course; the man had just torn up the battlefield single-handed and probably won the war for them, but…
Fear studied the retreating Westerners and regained some of the hope he had felt before the fall of Gort. The Allies now just about matched the foe for numbers and they had the added advantage of the high ground. Even the Shadow Dreamers had fallen silent and in any case before the quake Fear had sensed that Meredith and her ilk had begun to turn the tide. It also boded well that neither king had fled.
But the ground was littered with the corpses of the dead, many at his hands, both friend and foe alike, although thankfully, most of his fallen comrades had died by an honest sword or arrow. It was a grim sight and in the late afternoon sun the bodies had begun to stink.
The Black Mage looked for Maiestatis now. The last of the Triptych was all that mattered now and as he and Dniester had defeated his brothers, so he would deal with Maiestatis and send him back to hell.
As he scanned the warriors that faced him he was pleased that in adversity they had not the discipline of his own side, convincing him that without the Wolf Lord they would flee or surrender.
But then he saw one among them, as one does when someone stands out against a rabble and Fear narrowed his eyes. It was not Maiestatis, but nevertheless Fear sensed danger.
The man who drew near was not a man at all. Not by his appearance. He was a shrivelled ugly thing with bluish white paper dry skin. Everything about him spoke of death, he even moved like one who had died and had forgotten to lie down. But it was his eyes, like two dead polished coals that made Fear shiver.
The cadaverous creature was less than 20 yards away now and only separated from Fear by the broken ditch that was left as a consequence of the earthquake.
“You are Dr Fear,” he said, his voice like sand running off parchment. “I have heard so much about you.”
“Draken, I presume,” Fear replied.
The warlock inclined his head in acknowledgement that suggested he was flattered.
“Where is Maiestatis?” Fear growled, he had no more time for minions.
“You will meet him soon enough,” Draken said sardonically.
Fear was on his guard now. What did this necromancer want with him if he had not come to fight? Surely he did not intend to die?
“So what business do you have with me?” the Black Mage asked.
“With you?” Draken sounded like one genuinely puzzled, “No my brother, you are for Maiestatis.”
Fear frowned. There was something he had missed. He had battled two demons now and Maiestatis was no greater than they? The Western Host had tried and failed to triumph and now they had a stalemate surely. That was why the demon hid from him?
“You speak in riddles dying one, or are you already dead?” Fear sneered. He had no understanding of this level of sacrifice. What did Draken have to gain? “What do think you do here?”
Fear readied himself to blast the creature out of existence, although a witch of the seventh circle would not go down so easily and this warlock had the power of the Triptych behind him.
“Do? I do nothing,” Draken said gently, “It is done.”
There was a shimmer and suddenly the magus found it hard to focus on the warlock. The natural elemental patterns were disrupted in a haze of Wild Magic and Fear knew that few if any of his colleagues would even have seen it. Then he realised, Draken believed himself invisible as he retreated back into the ranks of the Western Army. What was that all about? He wondered, suspecting that he had been distracted while some cunning trap had been set.
Fear gathered himself and braced against any unseen attack. But there was none. The sun still shone and the only sounds for the moment were the flies feasting on the dead and occasional cry of a dying horse. No, that was not all. There was a scrape to his left, like the claws of a dead rabbit on hard ground. Then he heard the metallic ring of a sword being taken up. Fear sensed dread and foreboding so strong that it was tangible, but there was no magic that he could discern.
Then a man he had previously taken to be dead staggered to his feet with a groan. Fear almost blasted him where he stood until he saw that he was of Precips; a marine from his light armour.
“You gave me a fright friend,” Fear said, relaxing a little, “Come on, let me help you back to the lines.”
The man grunted angrily and although Fear could not see his face, from the man’s posture he looked as if he was glaring at the enemy.
“Over here,” Fear called him, “This way. You are in no shape to fight again this day.”
The man ignored him and slashed angrily at the air with his sword. There was some clumsiness to his movement and the sword blow was inexpert. But who was he fighting?
Then Fear saw the reason. Another of the fallen men had gained his feet, this time one of the Westerners. Oh the gods, Fear cursed, there must be many wounded out here unattended.
The wounded Westerner was so battered that something reminded Fear of Draken as he lumbered awkwardly towards the other wounded man as if to do battle.
Fear might have dropped the lame soul, but he felt sorry for him and then he heard another scrape behind him. Turning he saw another warrior had risen, but this man was different. For all down his left side he was bloodied and Fear saw that not only did he have no arm, but half his face was missing. The man was as clearly dead as any the Magus had ever seen.
Then all around him corpses got to their feet lashing out the nearest mobile cadaver in a slow parody of a fight already lost. There were hundreds if not thousands of them now.
Fear backed away. An entire army of the dead had risen to refight the battle, broken warriors now all sharing gory damnation. There must have been half as many as there were yet living on both sides, Fear realised, but why?
Then far to the rear of the Western lines a horn sounded three times; a sound so low and ominous that Fear felt his teeth on edge and nausea tremble in his guts.
Then as one and in strange synchronicity, the entire army of the damned swung their dead faces to regard the Allied army on the rise above them and began to advance.
To be continued.
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