A Spank in Time by Blushing MischiefTry not to blush - too much.'A Spank in Time' contains erotic spanking and BDSM context in six historical stories with themes of semi consensual spanking.
Travel back in time with "A Spank in Time". Six very talented writers, all new to Blushing Books, have joined forces and created Blushing Mischief, a new group dedicated to writing the steamiest new stories. Their first offering is a collection of six beautifully-written stories.
You will enjoy 'A Parisian Night', where passions light up after dancing and brandy on the verandah, or 'The Wedding Night,' when a new bride truly learns what it means to blush.
In 'The Rules of Engagement' a strong Highlander is drawn to a proud, lonely woman, and in 'Corporal Punishment' we learn that sometimes the secrets we keep can get us into trouble.
'Parting Charity' tells the story about love lost and found again between a rich aristocrat and the serving girl who left him behind, while 'A Good Life' shows that a life of luxury doesn't always have love to go with it.
Read 'A Spank in Time,' and try not to blush - too much. 'A Spank in Time', contains erotic spanking and BDSM context in a historical context. If themes of semi consensual erotic spanking offend you, do not buy this title.
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A Spank in Time (Sample Chapter)
Travel back in time with six new erotic historical spanking stories.
© Blushing Mischief and Blushing Books, 2012- 2013
A Good Life
by A.C. Masterson
Emily was the first to hear the news, and when she did, her heart sank: the Lord of the House was coming home.
That wasn't to say that she told anyone of her personal feelings on the matter, of course. Her Lord Husband -- the Honorable Lord Duncan Ellingsworth -- spent most of his time at the Royal Court in London these days. There was more talk of succession everywhere with each new day, but if Duncan was coming home, that either meant the fervor at Court had died down, or her Lord Husband was escaping from that fervor for a few days before his responsibilities called him back again.
It was just after sunset when Duncan arrived at last, sweeping in without an ounce of decorum whatsoever, and leaving muddy footprints all over her nice, clean floor to boot. "Finally!" he said, dropping into a chair near the fireplace. "I was starting to think I'd never get here."
Emily drew herself up and set her shoulders. "Welcome home, my Lord Husband."
Even at twenty years older than she, it was still easy for Emily to call him handsome. Duncan was very tall, with strong shoulders and black hair streaked through with the creeping inevitability of gray. His face was clean-shaven, but she knew its rough texture all too well, the way it would scrape or softly scratch against her tender flesh. She didn't try to think about that, however — no reason to swallow the tonic until you had to.
"Always so formal, my dear Emily." He smiled, but there was a familiar glimmer of wicked intent in his eyes. This was typical of their encounters together: she stuck to formalities, and he tried to coax her out of them. He always won - damn the man - but she still put up a good fight, all the same.
by A.T. Quinn
Generally, Mary Ormond found it easy to maintain her composure in Lord Winchester's army. She had to, if she wanted to keep her sex a secret. Today, however, Tim Burton had been going out of his way to vex her. Mary scrambled to her feet for the third time that day. For the third time, the little weasel smirked at her, trotting backwards away from her.
"Difficult to stay upright, eh, Ormond? Too much ale?"
Mary bit her tongue and fell into a trot again, behind Burton this time. If he shoved her one more time... Then what? She could do nothing. Mary couldn't risk exposure. The violence that would befall her at the hands of her stepfather ensured that she'd never go back.
Burton and his friends picked on her -- him -- because she was smaller, because she was quiet, because she would not play cards and drink with them. Otherwise, army life suited her; she'd become stronger, quicker and smarter since joining the Marquis of Winchester's legion. The only drawback was her permanent disguise, the permanent feeling of being alert, on edge. It was a small price to pay. She'd never been large-chested, not like some women were. Binding her breasts was easy, though finding enough privacy to do it less so.
This new situation would not last forever, merely until Winchester's army was required abroad and she could desert. Nobody would find her overseas. Nobody would even know she was there. There were already rumors of an impending battle. Mary could not wait.
Mary focused ahead and let herself be lulled into a trance by the dull thud-thud-thud of the soldiers' feet. The marquisate was a lovely area with sloping green hills used for grueling marches and with dense forests for camp training. The marquis himself rarely showed his face, leaving the day to day command of his legion to his adjutant, Sir John Mortimer, the man currently shouting orders at them from his perch atop a fine black horse. Mary reminded herself that it would be unwise to pull a face at him, as it had earned her a day of lock-up before. Sir John had intimated via Mary's direct superior that he would be less kind next time.
A PARISIAN DANCE
by P J Perryman
I knew him during those hot bohemian days before the war. Pleasure was our sole pastime then, for the sound of jack boots on the Champs Elysees had yet to pollute the air. Elegant women in bonnets and tweed strolled through the cobbled streets by day, drinking wine in the street cafes, idly passing the hours in the midst of gossip and scandal.
By night we floated gracefully through the ballrooms of Paris, dressed in fine silk and satin, spinning in merry circles on highly-polished marble floors. Night after night we waltzed while dreaming of passion and falling in love.
One night in particular, drunk with youth and more than a little champagne, I slipped away from the ballroom and headed for the great library, the promise of a little quiet, and a large, comfortable chair. The music faded as I closed the great oak door. Once it was shut, I lowered my head to its great panels and breathed in the scent of the aged wood. A tiny giggle escaped my lips as I thought of the young men who tried to woo me, who sought me and badgered me for my attention. Thus far, I'd succumbed to none of them.
A familiar voice startled me out of my girlish fantasies. "Ah, Gabrielle. There I was, thinking about you. Now, here you are."
I turned to see Enri sitting in the very chair I sought. The owner of the house was dressed formerly in a dinner jacket, which he wore well, having a natural ease and certain je ne sais quoi. He smoked a cigar, which he held loosely in one hand propped on the arm of the chair, careless of where the ash fell. I lowered my eyes and stared at the dense weave of the patterned carpet and felt the blood rush to my cheeks which burned hotter than any fire. I never knew why he affected me so, but my mouth was so dry that I was unable to greet him as a well-bred lady should.
Enri studied me, and I was helpless under his gaze. "I watched you in the ballroom," Enri said. The edge of his mouth curled slightly — was he laughing at me? "You have a lot of admirers."
By Sadie Dane
Charity could not get the stench of pig filth out of her nose. George Bishop was always coming in too close for comfort. It wasn't only that he insisted on standing so near to her, but he asked again if she'd given any more thought to his marriage proposal. Charity would have sooner lived with his pigs before she agreed to marry him. She pulled her coat more closely around her and walked quickly down the side of the rocky road.
Behind her, Charity heard the clip-clop of horse's hooves, and she moved to the side as a black carriage passed her by. Before it reached the next corner she heard the driver order the horses to halt. He called out for her to come up to them, so she hurried to catch up — perhaps the Lord or Lady had returned early from their travels.
A voice called to her through the carriage window. "Has no one told you how impolite it is for a lady to travel without a companion?"
Charity froze. The door opened and a boy she used to know stepped out a man. His wiry frame had filled out below the brown hair that fell down upon his shoulders. His deep green eyes were the same as she remembered, mischievous and kind.
Charity realized she stood there staring and opened-mouthed. "Master James," she said with a curtsy.
James reached out his hand, and she hesitated for only a moment before accepting it. Instantly, she was transported to years earlier on a hot summer's night in the darkest corner of the stable, while his hands were frantically fumbling at her fastenings as she explored his skin. They had barely been old enough to recognize their desires, but that night they had realized them together.
RULES OF ENGAGEMENT
By Jill Glass
Kinnon's head hit the dirt. The pain was ringing between his ears, drowning out the noise of the battle around him. Any strength he had left to grip his weapon disappeared. The last thing he felt was the grass on his cheek before his vision went black and he slipped into unconsciousness.
The memory of that grass against his skin was replaced by the feeling of someone's hand slapping his face.
"C'mon, you brute. Wake up!"
The urge to fall asleep again almost sucked Kinnon back down until another slap woke him up again. He grunted, turning his head slightly, if only to dodge another slap before it happened.
"That's it, open your eyes. You've been out for days."
Kinnon frowned but tried to force his eyes to open, if only to find who was hitting him and make their life extremely short. The hazy blur he saw was enough to make him shut them tight again as his stomach lurched.
"Keep still. You got a nasty crack on your head and you need to rest."
That much Kinnon understood. He'd seen plenty of head wounds in the past, so he knew the normal instructions for handling such things. But who had found him? He tried to remember and found the details fuzzy, making him struggle with them. There had been a battle. He'd been wounded and had fallen on the field. But there weren't any settlements near the battlefield, were there?
THE WEDDING NIGHT
by Sara Peal
To the single ladies of New York City, there was no bachelor more desired than Thomas Brockeford. For me, almost ten years his junior, becoming the wife of such a travelled and intelligent man was both a dream come true and a very intimidating prospect.
After the ceremony was over, Mother said that she'd never seen a finer, more beautiful wedding anywhere. She saved the clipping from the newspaper article announcing my engagement to Thomas and offered it to me, framed, as a wedding present. She talked on and on and I kept nodding, only catching a word here and there, still in a daze from it all.
Part of me was scared for the wedding night. Mother had told me in an ominous tone that I should do my utmost to allow my new husband to take his pleasure from me. Her words did nothing to soothe my fears and I could not stop thinking about the shiver that ran through me when he kissed me at the chaplain's final words. "You are now husband and wife" the man said, and Thomas laid his lips on mine, in front of everyone, for the very first time.
"Thomas, dear," said Mother to my husband ― how strange it was to think of him that way ― "you should take Elizabeth to your room. She looks exhausted."
"Yes, Mother," he replied, and I smiled at the way he spoke to her. He took my arm and cleared his throat loudly. The room fell silent as all the guests turned their attention to the two of us. "Can I have your attention," he said in a loud, clear voice. "My poor Elizabeth is tired after such a long day."
A chorus of murmured whispers rang through the crowd, a mix of poor thing's and of course's.
"We now bid you farewell in the hope that you will continue to enjoy yourselves this evening."
Thomas turned to Mother and bowed. "And to you, Madam, I am most grateful for the loveliest gift a man can receive." He smiled as Mother blushed, then he bowed to the crowd again.
"Good night," he added. Thomas took my arm, led me out of the ballroom and up the stairs to the farthest corner of Mother's house. Mother had assured me that she would not mind staying at her sister's until we left, as no other home was as suitable as her own for the wedding. The master bedroom was prepared for our overnight stay until we left for our honeymoon in Vienna the following week.