Holiday Heat, Volume Two

by Assorted Authors

The Director's Christmas Present by Chula Stone (Sample)

"What's this?" the handsome young music director asked his oldest tenor as he examined the gift in its box. "A Christmas present?"

"It's a director's baton, Brother Mike. A nice, strong, long one that I can see from the back row of the choir loft. My eyes aren't what they used to be and I need to see what you want us to do, 'cause I sure can't hear what you say over all that chatter in the soprano section," answered Mr. Sikes.

Mike smiled ruefully and shook his head as he agreed. "I know, Mr. Sikes, and believe me, I've tried everything I know to get those ladies under control. Worst of it is, one of the ring leaders is my own intended! I've talked to her after every rehearsal and she always promises to do better next week, but then...." His voice trailed off and he hung his head.

"There's a time for everything, and sometimes after the talking's over, it's time for stronger measures. Even a nice girl like Leticia needs a firm hand now and then," Mr. Sikes replied.

"I don't hold with shouting," Mike answered, doubtful that he had understood his older friend, but at a loss to imagine what else he could mean.

"No shouting needed, young man, nor rough treatment either. No man should ever mistreat a woman. What I have in mind is a very calm controlled paddling and that baton there should do nicely." At Mike's incredulous stare, Mr. Sikes continued, "Sometimes girls just hear things better after they're shown how serious a man is, that's all. You'll get her attention and then maybe you'll get some of the respect you're due."

"All that chit chat is disrespectful, to me and to every member of the choir," Mike mused aloud. "But I have no right to manhandle her or discipline her. We're not even married yet. And we'll never make it down the aisle if I paddle her. She'll leave me flat!"

"If she can't accept your leadership and give you common courtesy, are you so sure you want to make it down that aisle? To love you, first she's got to respect you. From what I've seen, a girl usually loves a man even more once she knows he cares enough about her not to take any disrespect from her," Mr. Sikes commented. "She should be thankful that you care enough to take her to task."

Mike could only stare at the man again, so Mr. Sikes went on. "It's not like I'm telling you any different from any of the other men in town. If you'll notice, I give lots of the couples in the church a wooden wedding or Christmas gift. Buck Taft will get a quilt holder just the right height for bending a little wife like May over, if he can ever manage to get her to set a date, that is. Bill Fenamen got a set of flat headed wooden spoons when he married Flossy, though I can't tell as he's used them yet. And I figured with a wife like June, poor old Jed Taft had better have a hefty paddle which I disguised as a rug beater. He looked downright relieved when I handed it to him. Just wish he'd use it to help June remember that choir practice isn't gossip hour set to music."

"I don't know about all this, Mr. Sikes. Paddling a grown woman? But I'll think about it, I promise you. And thanks for the baton. At least I can rap it on the music stand to get their attention next week. We really need to learn that new arrangement of Silent Night for the city Christmas Festival, so I may have to do a good bit of rapping."

"You'd do more good rapping it on Leticia's behind, I reckon," Mr. Sikes replied with a grin. "Why not talk to Jed about it and see what he says? It might just kill two birds with one stone, so to speak."

Fighting Angels by Danielle Smith (Sample)

Alicia was watching when the first angel went down. As the assistant director, she’d been hovering in the stage right wings, script in hand in case one of the students forgot lines or song cues in this Christmas pageant.

Not pageant, she reminded herself as she scrambled up the metal staircase trying to reach the melee. Holiday musical revue. At least that’s what Michael Sanderson renamed it when he took over as drama department head when the Angels of Mercy School for Girls finally united with St. Patrick’s, its male counterpart.

"‘Pageant’ sounds so stuffy," he’d told her at the meet-the-new-faculty tea. "I’m sure we’ll get a much better production by jazzing it up...”

Unfortunately for Michael’s directorial vision, both Mother Superior and Father Thomas insisted the traditional religious story be included. He planned to sandwich it between the sprightly "Tapping the Christmas Blues Away" and the bagpipes rendition of "Auld Lang Syne".

"You know, I could use some help," he confided when they ran into each other at the announcement board. "I don’t know what carols HAVE to be included. Besides, it’s going to take most of my time getting the dance numbers in shape."

She handed him a thumbtack so he could post his audition notice next to where she’d just put up the final conference standings for her field hockey team. As always she’d been completely aware of him, starting with his jet black hair and earnest glasses down to the slim legs and rear end filling out his tight trousers. Even with the St. Pat’s merger, the number of male lay teachers, who were neither married nor mundane, lay below critical level, and she wasn’t the only one with an eye on the new man in town.

Getting an advantage over the other female instructors appealed to her. Besides, after five years of coaching at the school, she knew exactly what carols the religious staff expected to see. "I’ve got some time before track begins," she volunteered. "What do you need me to do?"

He grinned and patted her on the arm. "Usually A.D. stuff. In addition to handling the Christmas tableau, help me with casting, keep track of our actors, and run the rehearsals if I have a conflict. You’ve done the show before?"

"Oh sure," she told him, mentally crossing her fingers. Actually she had worked lights several years ago when Josette Morgan broke her ankle the night before dress rehearsal. She’d managed easily given that Sister Anne Therese directions were of the "lights go up – spotlight on manger – lights go down" variety. But even though she knew Michael’s ideas were far more ambitious, she figured by following his instructions she could get by.

Audition day brought second thoughts. She didn’t know what the turnout had been the previous years, but she doubted Sister Anne Therese ever confronted an entire auditorium filled with giggling teenagers.

Fortunately Michael took the center stage mike immediately. "As you may have heard," he boomed, "we’re doing things differently this time. Not only will this be the first co-ed show, but it will be the biggest and most elaborate. I hope to have a lot of solos and other specialty numbers to give us a more contemporary sound."

Almost immediately the "contemporary sound" of young people chattering filled the hall. Michael raised his hand. "Quiet! I’m only going to tell you this once. A large cast has to be a disciplined one. Unfortunately that means rules. I know this is a voluntary activity, but I take it seriously, and you can expect me to enforce those rules so that a few people don’t destroy the show for everyone else."

Taking the mike off of the stand, he jumped down from the stage and headed to the first row, where he picked up something lying across the seats. "I’m sure the St. Pat’s boys are familiar with it, but maybe not the girls." As he held it up, the room fell completely silent. Even Alicia held her breath as she recognized the wooden paddle Father Thomas used on recalcitrant students.

"If you’re late to rehearsal, or skip it entirely without good reason, you can expect to feel this on your behind," he continued. "I’ll also be using it to improve the memory of folks who don’t memorize their parts on time or who miss cues. Plus I’m sure a few good swats will keep backstage noise to a minimum."

He put the paddle back down and moved back on the stage. Alicia noticed a few girls sliding out the door and others glancing apprehensively at the front row, most stayed put as he discussed the rehearsal schedule. She helped him collect the sign-up forms and pencils, then lined the hopefuls up for their song presentations.

Just What She Needed by Polly Carter (sample)

The ride home in the car was quiet. Deathly quiet. Christmas night and it was indeed a silent night, Molly thought miserably. But this silent night contained no joy for her and her husband, Kevin. His jaw had been angrily clenched when they'd left her in-laws' Christmas party; clenched so tight, in fact, that it had set off the pulsating tic at his temple. Molly hated that tic. It only happened when he was angry, and when he was so angry he didn't speak. It was going to be a very silent night.

One solitary large, sad tear escaped from her eye, slithered down her cheek, dripped off her chin and splashed against the back of her hand. She kept her face averted, pretending to look out of her window on the passenger side of the car, but really seeing nothing. The roads were quiet.

It was only 7:00pm and still light. In many backyards all over Western Australia, families trapped inside by the day's heat were now venturing out into the slightly cooler evening. Under strings of multi-colored fairy lights, meats, prawns, fish, onions and, in some cases, other vegetables such as potatoes and capsicums, were sizzling on barbecues and, on long wooden tables covered in festive tablecloths, bowls of coleslaws, and garden, rice and Greek salads were being arranged next to piles of bread rolls. Children, many of whom had been up since five or six o'clock that morning eager to open their presents, were still splashing noisily in pools, teetering down driveways on new roller-skates or skateboards, or sinking basketballs into newly-erected hoops, exhausted but unwilling to let go of the day they wanted never to end.

Not Molly. For her it couldn't end soon enough. It had been a total disaster and it was all her fault. Well, she was going to pay for it. Already Kevin had distanced himself from her as efficiently as if they were separated by a wide gulf. It would take days, at least, for the truce to be signaled, the emotional no-man's land to be tentatively crossed and communication re-established. Lonely days. The kind of days she hated where conversation would be restricted to "Hello", "Goodbye", "Dinner's ready" and other meaningless trivia. If they watched television in the evenings, they would each sit in their own armchair instead of sharing the couch which separated them. Nights would be the worst, though, as they carefully ensured they didn't go to bed at the same time and then slept with their backs to each other.

Eventually the cold war would end. It always did, but it seemed detente was harder to achieve each time it happened, and a tiny chip of their original closeness was destroyed with each successive rift. If this continues, Molly thought unhappily, we'll drift further and further apart until the way back will be lost forever. She glanced across at Kevin, wanting to say she was sorry, to ask him to forgive her, but the throb, throb, throbbing of his temple told her that her protestations would be useless. He'd heard them before; they hadn't changed anything then, he couldn't imagine they'd change anything now.

She turned back to the window. This was not how their marriage was supposed to be. She would never have married him on that sultry March day nine months earlier if she hadn't been certain that their love was unlike any the world had ever known before. Sure, people had spoken of love, written and sung of it for centuries, but the love she and Kevin shared just seemed more special, more wonderful, more everlasting than anything she had ever believed possible. And yet so soon, less than a year later, and on what was supposed to be the happiest, most blessed day of the year, they were reduced to this.

Kevin turned the car into the drive and came to a stop, leaving the engine running.

"I'm going back," he said flatly. "I'll see you in the morning, I guess."

Molly thought about asking, begging, him to stay with her, to forget the mess she'd made of Christmas and to be as happy and as in love as they'd been the day they were married. But she didn't. There was no point. She just opened the door and got out.

"Okay. See you."

And he was gone. She watched the Falcon disappear back down the road, and then let herself into their home. Her heart ached as she looked around the renovated Federation cottage they'd chosen so carefully before their marriage. Nestled on quite a large block which would be perfect for the planned children when they came along, the two-bedroom and one sleep-out cottage had been structurally sound but run-down from years of neglect. They'd fallen in love with it immediately, and had been delighted when the offer they'd submitted, which was well inside their budget, had been accepted. This had allowed them to start on the extensions and renovations immediately and the result of their hard work and creative vision was what now greeted Molly. She wandered into the lounge room, with its polished jarrah floorboards and marble inlaid fireplace, and gazed sadly at the decorated Christmas tree in the corner.

How on earth had all this started? she wondered sadly to herself. As usual, when they arrived at this impasse, it had begun with little things which had eventually combined to become one giant insurmountable mountain towering between them. Molly couldn't remember them ever having a really important argument; it always began with a small disagreement which caused tension between them which led to more bickering and more tension and so on until Molly finally blew up and caused a scene and then Kevin would get angry and not talk, and then there they were, right where they now found themselves.

This time it had been worse, of course, because not only had it happened on Christmas Day, but also because Molly had reached the point of losing control at Kevin's parents' house and in front of his whole family. Generally, Molly got on extremely well with Doug and Liz Travers, but she wouldn't be surprised if they were right this minute telling Kevin he should ask for a divorce. In fact, she probably wouldn't blame them, and maybe they would be right. Maybe she and Kevin were never going to able to work out a way to stop this from happening. Maybe they should never have been married in the first place.

She went into the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea. Her mind tracked carefully back to see if she could see where things had started to go wrong. She sighed as she sat down at the pine kitchen table and sipped her scalding tea, acknowledging that it had been building for a few weeks. The pattern was always the same – it began with something apparently trivial, and this time it was Christmas; it was the first time Molly would be involved in the Travers' Christmas as a real member of the family and she was feeling insecure about being fully accepted.

"Of course Mum and Dad think of you as a 'real member of the family',” Kevin had assured her, but she wasn't convinced.

"Well, maybe they won't like my dress," she'd replied, the irritating little whine in her voice audible even to her own ears.

"Don't worry so much," he'd told her. "They will think you're as beautiful as I do."

But his gentle patience, instead of calming her, had only made her edgier. She didn't know why she was like this, didn't know why she refused to allow him to reassure her, didn't know what he could say which would reassure her…

Naughty or Nice by Vicki Blue (Sample)

"I don't even want to think about how many calories are in this stuff," Karen said as she ladled another dollop of eggnog into her cup. "Shot of brandy?" she said to the bartender, pointing to her cup as she strolled from the buffet table to the bar.

The holiday party thrown by Tyndall, McLean & Associates was shaping up to be one of the nicest affairs I'd ever attended. Besides the food the best-catered office and drink, though, the holiday spirit had displaced the usual manic atmosphere of our busy auditing firm, and as the proverbial new kid on the block, the event gave me a chance to see my co-workers in a more relaxed light.

Senior partner Norman McLean, who usually rushed around with a furrowed brow and stacks of papers stood in a corner yucking it up with pretty Selena Martin, a sharp forty-something office manager with long black hair and dramatic Betty Boop eyes. Amanda Halston, whose name everyone predicted would be added to "Tyndall" and "McLean" before the end of next year, was genuinely laughing for a change, obviously rocked out of her home in Seriousville by some witty remark delivered courtesy of Forest Miller, a balding, middle-aged accountant secretly called Dilbert by the rest of us.

My eyes drifted away, though, to scan the crowd for the man who was the object of my secret crush – a word that sounds so much more innocent than "obsession". Where was he?

"Looking for You-Know-Who?" a tipsy Karen asked as she almost sloshed eggnog onto my burgundy velvet dress. I took her cup.

"You're drunk," I said, as I held what I realized was yet a fresh cup of laced eggnog. "I'll take this one."

"Fine by me," said Karen. "I've got to pee, anyway."

As I watched my friend lurch off to the lady's room, I smiled as I considered how amusing tipsy people always look when they try to walk as if they are sober. Then I took a sip of the eggnog and continued to scan the crowd for signs of my handsome 6'3" boss, Ethan Tyndall.

I hadn't spoken to him much since he had hired me, and felt more often than not like a cog in a wheel in our busy workplace. But never did he pass my desk without my taking notice. He would drop a smile and a kind "hello" and I would respond as casually as I possibly could. At the time I couldn't put my finger on what exactly I found so attractive about him. He was good-looking, yes, but there was something more. He had an authoritative air - the air of a man who commanded respect. The air of a man who commanded obedience.

My favorite word - obedience - especially when in the context of something demanded, required or even forced from another.

I had admitted my crush on Ethan to Karen, but had never divulged that I found him so attractive because he exuded such a dominant air. And I never divulged my spanking fantasies to her or anyone else. I figured when I eventually found the right man - a man who I believed would be the dominant yin to my submissive yang - I would tell him. And for some crazy reason, I had it in my mind that Ethan Tyndall was just the kind of man I was looking for.

Not that I stood much of a chance, I thought at the time. Sure I was attractive - short and compact but with a knockout "girlie" figure that had men half my 38 years giving me regular wolf-whistles. I was settled financially, too, pulling down a good salary that afforded me such luxuries as a fashionable brownstone and a sporty Saab.

But Ethan Tyndall was five years my senior and one of the area's most eligible bachelors. To go after him would mean competing against a host of 20-year old Barbie dolls with fake tans to go with their fake boobs.

I looked around for Karen and noticed her in the corner, working off her buzz by exchanging jokes with the husband of a co-worker. I went back to the bar and ordered a pina colada and had just taken the first sip when I heard a loud "Ho, Ho, Ho!!"

The sound was coming from an unusually tall Santa with an unusually bad fake belly, and I smiled as I realized it was none other than Ethan. The others in the room caught on at about the same time, and laughter soon drowned out the strains of "Winter Wonderland" being piped in through the speaker system.

Carrying a bag through the room, Ethan slowly made his way from one employee to another, handing out envelopes that contained Christmas bonuses for the workers and gift certificates for their spouses. I stood rooted to my spot, biding my time and hoping - if nothing else - for the inspiration to say something witty when he reached me in my isolated corner by the bar.

"I think we have something left in the bag for a good little girl," he said as he approached. Reaching into the bag, he pulled out an envelope and handed it to me.

"Thanks," I smiled, but when I reached to take it, he held fast and moved in closer.

"You have been a good girl this year, haven't you, Virginia?"

I felt my knees go weak. I had never heard Ethan use my first name. Usually I was only "Ms. Klein" to him.

I stammered a little, "Y-yes, of course I've been good."

Still Ethan held the envelope, and above his fake beard his eyes glittered a steely gray.

"Well, I'm a little surprised, because I recall seeing your name on my 'naughty' list," he said. Then, releasing the envelope into my grasp, he leaned forward. "What would you say to a ride in my sleigh? It's parked outside."

Christmas, Past and Present by Joey Chandler

"You turkey! What the hell are you doing here at eight o'clock in the morning?"

I'd been up since before six, bustling around the kitchen, setting the dining room table, enjoying, if you could call it that, a cup of coffee, while fretting about the rest of the day. Today would be a "first" in many respects: this Christmas dinner was the first I'd hosted since the death of my husband almost three years before; my cozy apartment was being inspected by my family for the first time since I'd moved in; our dinner would be the first elaborate meal I'd ever prepared solely by myself. The most important first, however, was that it would be the first time my family would meet Ryan.

Of course that wasn't supposed to happen until four o'clock this afternoon. I couldn't believe he'd appear, unannounced and uninvited, at this early hour.

"Go home," I snapped, as I started to close the door.

Now, you might wonder at my rudeness, but I felt it completely justified. We weren't strangers, after all. I don't want to tell you how many years we'd known each other, but believe me, it's more than enough for both of us to get used to being called a turkey.

"No way," he said, as he leaned his elbow against the door and gave a shove. I almost fell over with the force of his push and ruefully reminded myself that I'd always underestimated his strength.

"Get out of my way, woman. I'm carrying too much stuff to argue. Which way's the kitchen?" Not waiting for an answer, he wiped his shoes on the mat inside the door, brushed past me, and simply followed his nose.

I hurried behind, following him into the spacious kitchen. Daylight poured through the picture window above the sink and for a moment my gaze rested on the snow-covered woods behind the townhouse. I'd chosen this unit because of that view, and a similar pause accompanied every entrance I made into the room. This morning, with the sunlight sparkling on the ice-tipped evergreens, the woos were breathtaking, a Thomas Kincaid winter panorama come to life.

I again demanded an explanation of Ryan's intrusion. He placed bags and gaily-wrapped packages onto the wood-block counter top and took the time to appreciate the scene. He then slowly turned to face me, resting his bulk against the counter.

"Merry Christmas to you, too," he grinned, as he quirked an eyebrow at me.

I loved that eyebrow. I envied that eyebrow. As an adolescent, I tried to determine which muscle to use so mine would lift in the same way. Ryan could say so many things with that expressive swath of hair, and I was frustrated with my lack of similar communication. I never did figure it out.

"Ryan," I said, drawing out his name, "I told you to come at four. I'll have prepared them by that time. Everyone else is to arrive about three, and I thought...”

He cut me off. "I know what you thought, and it's a lousy idea. You'll have yourself in such a state, by the time they arrive, we'll be lucky if we sit down to dinner much before midnight. The turkey will be dry, the potatoes lumpy, the gravy nothing but flour-water and..."

"Stop it," I laughed. "My cooking isn't that bad, despite what you may remember. I've had a few years experience, or did you forget?"

"I remember," he said quietly. "I also remember you telling me how much help John was on holidays. I want to help, too."

"Thanks, Ryan," I smiled, "but everything's under control. I appreciate it. Really I do. But I don't need your help."

With arms folded he stood staring at me. Silently. Then, without a word he reached into the bags he'd brought and pulled out several bottles of wine. Next followed a variety of cheeses and assorted crackers. Still silent, he opened the fridge, rearranged the mess inside and made room for his contributions.

I said nothing, part of me irritated by the way he just took over, and part of me comforted by it. Since childhood he'd done precisely that: taken over. As a little girl, I expected it; as an adolescent, I resented it; as a married woman, I missed it.

When he casually started opening cabinets, finding and then filling a coffee mug, I realized he wasn't going anywhere. I stalked across the room and grabbed the mug. Hot coffee went flying.

"Damn it, Laura! By now I'd have thought you would have grown up, at least a little." He took the cup from me and set it down, reached for a towel and blotted the stains on the front of his hand-knit white sweater.

"Here," I said, contritely. "Let me do that."

"I suggest," Ryan spoke through gritted teeth, "you sit your butt down in that chair and cool off. And you better hope I can get these stains out. This sweater was a gift, and it's one I cherish."

"What, did one of your bimbos knit it for you?"

He didn't dignify my childish question with anything more than a twitch of the eyebrow. I shut up. As he continued dabbing at the brown splatters, I pondered what it was that made me act like a preschooler whenever I was with him.

It's A Wonderful Spanking by Monica Vale

Georgia Bailey had promised herself that she would not cry this time, but how could she possibly avoid it? She had been standing in the corner for 20 minutes already and still had ten left to go. Almost as bad, she had to keep holding her skirt at her waist with both hands, to stop her from stroking her bare, bruised, burning bottom.

She could only keep glancing down there, to see the angry red mass he had left…with his bare hand, his wooden hairbrush and his leather belt…counting out ten smacks with each one. As she had lain across his lap sobbing, howling and pleading for mercy, he did not even seem to have heard.

And it was Christmas Eve! The tree, with its gay, gilded decorations, seemed like a mockery to her, as she glimpsed it over her shoulder. So did the spicy cinnamon air spray, which was supposed to enhance the happy holiday mood.

And what was her crime, she asked herself again? She had spent too much for the Christmas presents…going over their budget by a mere eighty dollars. They could have been eight thousand, as far as her miser of a husband was concerned. Of course, she had earned a lot of the money herself, but he didn’t care about that, either. As he reviewed the charge receipts, he could only tell her that, “You agreed to the limit we set together, and then went above it anyway.”

“But it’s Christmas!” she had wailed, tears already filling her eyes, as she knew what his answer would be. “You were well aware that we were planning the Christmas gifts when we set the budget,” he said, his arms folded as he glared down at her from his six feet of height.

He did not have to remind her that she had also consented to let him spank her when she really had it coming, the night he had proposed.

She had been used to the playful paddlings that had always ended a petting session. They were so light-hearted…and light-handed, too… that even her sorority sisters did not object, when he carried them out in the parlor.

So when he had threatened to punish her that way after they were married, she had been glad to agree. After all, as he had told her, that system had worked perfectly well for his parents back in Tennessee, so there was no reason they should not follow it as well.

That had surprised her, since her parents had never even believed in spanking children. Still, he had been able to persuade her that it was worth a try.

Not that she had needed much convincing. Marv Bailey’s dark, curly hair, his dancing blue eyes and his teasing smile…looking at him, she could not refuse to do anything he asked for.

“I know it’s old-fashioned,” he had told her, when he made his strange request. Then he had shrugged those massive shoulders that had helped win him a football scholarship. “But I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy.”

What’s more, as the years went on, she found that she usually liked it that way…like his habit of always helping her on with her coat and holding the car door open for her. But when it came to those punishments…that was a different story.

They had not been at all like those playful paddlings she still enjoyed at bedtime. They had hurt and hurt and gone on hurting, long after she had gotten the message and was begging him to stop. Then he often made her stand in the corner or even sit on a hard chair, to further prolong the agony. She had it coming, he had always told her, and she had agreed to let him make sure that she got it.

And, as he had told her firmly, she certainly had it coming tonight. Since both of the children were out of the house, it was the best time to get it over with. Jimmy was serving dinner at the homeless shelter, so he would be there all night. Donna was at Phil Kenney’s house, and his family’s party would go on almost as long. That gave her plenty of time for her punishment.

“But I only agreed to the spanking!” she had wailed, the first time he had sentenced her to a half hour in the corner, with her hands far away from her bottom. “We didn’t say anything about corner time afterwards.”

For a moment, he had had to think about that, thus cruelly raising her hopes. Then he had dashed them with his taunting smile. “All right, then,” he had decided. “If you don’t stand in the corner, I will spank you again for that.”

So here she was now, with ten minutes left to go…and they were crawling by so slowly, they might as well have been hours.

Why had she ever agreed to this primitive plan, anyway? It wasn’t as though she were doing anything really wrong. They had been married for 23 years now, when so many of their friends were long since divorced…or close to it, like the Kendricks. Their sex life was greater than ever, too.

And look at how well her career was going, to the point where she had even gotten a glowing evaluation from Mrs. Potter, her supervisor at the savings and loan, who never seemed to get along with anyone else.

Above all, look at their children …one in college and the other on the high school honor roll. Donna deserved a new computer for her dorm room, and Jimmy rated the new video game machine.

Georgia admitted that their father deserved a lot of the credit for the way their son and daughter had turned out. Both parents agreed on the rules, and the children had always known they would do so. But Georgia herself was an adult now…it wasn’t right that he should still be enforcing his laws on her. On her backside, more particularly.

“I just wish…” she sniffled to herself.

“You wish what?” he asked, from the old leather easy chair beneath the tree. He had been sitting there watching her, to be sure that her hands didn’t stray downwards for a forbidden stroke of her sore backside.

“I wish I had never agreed you could spank me!” she cried.

She never heard his answer.

Because, after all, it WAS Christmas Eve…