‘Fantasy Island’ Story Contest Winner

I think you’ll all agree that the ‘Fantasy Island’ Person, Place, and Thing spanking story contest has generated some very detailed, thoughtful, and imaginative tales. I will post up all entries throughout the month of September, and you’ll be delighted at the island spankings taking place in each. 

While all of the entries were really quite remarkable, I was particularly taken with one titled “Tropical Island” – this month’s winner. Twisty and magical, this is a spanking story with a literary imagination of it’s own. 

You’ll be happy to read that the author will receive, for his hard work and creativity, a very sound spanking.

Enjoy!

PS. My sincerest thanks to the wonderful writers who continue to populate these contests.  Even though not everyone can win every contest, these talented people take the time to imagine, write, edit, and share their spanking fantasy stories with us all. 

–  Dana

It was all very strange – she couldn’t remember getting here – wherever ‘here’ was, or indeed anything that had gone before, yet she knew she was wearing an exclusive yellow shantung dress and £275 Christian Louboutin shoes. She also knew, without knowing how, that she was wearing a matching set of What Katie Did lingerie and a pair of almost colourless – and extremely expensive – seven denier Gerbe Voile stockings.  

In front of her, the sea was that wonderful Mediterranean blue that only ever seemed to exist in films, while spotless white sands disappeared into the horizon both left and right. Behind her were palm trees and a narrow road leading to a large, white, colonial-style building, which she just knew she was staying in.  
Quite why she was here, at the beach, in such unsuitable clothes, she couldn’t begin to imagine – and why, despite all she did know, she couldn’t even remember her own name. ‘This is curiouser than Alice,’ she thought – or perhaps even said out aloud. It was difficult to tell as everything felt so unreal. She didn’t feel any pain or discomfort and couldn’t remember being in any kind of accident that might have caused amnesia – and if she had been in one, why was she here, rather than at home – assuming, of course this wasn’t her home …?  

Her thoughts were interrupted when a middle-aged man appeared, almost like a Demon King in a pantomime, at her side. He, like her was not really dressed for the beach, although his white linen suit, his Sea-Island cotton shirt and his panama hat (Did anyone wear panama hats any more? she wondered) were of the very best and his sandals, while not new, looked beautifully-made  – and probably hand-lasted. He carried a walking-cane of yellowish-brown bamboo but didn’t seem to need its help – it just went with the whole picture so well.  

‘Good day, young lady,’ he said, doffing his hat to her and bowing ever so slightly from the waist, ‘How nice it is to see you again.’  

‘I’m sorry,’ she replied, ‘but I don’t seem to remember you – or anything else very much, to be honest. Are you sure we’ve met before?’  

‘Oh, yes, Miss, indeed we have – on several occasions. We don’t always look the way we do today, however, and that’s probably confusing you somewhat.’  

‘Well – who did we look like? The last time we met, I mean.’  

‘Hmmm – let me think …. It’s more than just looks, to be quite honest with you; we are sometimes quite different people, yet underneath all that, always the same people, if you follow … but I can see you don’t, Shall we sit down on this nice little bench seat here and I’ll see what I can do about telling you all there is to know.’  

She hadn’t noticed the delicate, wrought-iron and painted wood bench seat – or the little table, along with two glasses and a jug of something that looked deliciously cold. Was she going mad – or had she been out in this lovely sunlight for too long? Oh, well ….  

He poured a drink for them both and settled back, saying, ‘Now let me see – the last time we met – you were a schoolgirl – your name, if I remember correctly, was Erica Bradshaw, and I was Miss Helen Byrne-Jones, the head teacher of a 1950s English girls boarding school called St Walpurga’s – and I had just given you twelve strokes of the senior cane on your pretty little bare bottom, with your knickers around your knees.’  

‘Y-you were a woman – a teacher …?’  
‘Yes, my dear – and you were a naughty, eighteen-year-old minx who had pushed her luck once too often and a little too hard. I can remember it as if it were yesterday. The time before that, I was an over-worked and overwrought business woman and you were my lazy Lesbian lover. I had to give you six good ones with the Lochgelly tawse to encourage you to pull your weight around the house instead of spending all your time reading BDSM fiction on the internet and -er – playing naughty games, if you get my – anyway, happy days.’  

‘Hmmph – for you, no doubt. Do you always get to whack girls? Are you some kind of pervert who gets his kicks from another’s pain?’  

‘As a matter of fact, I don’t – always whack girls, that is. Now, that’s taken you aback, hasn’t it? I was once – no, twice – a fearsome lady, a Head of Household by the name of Mistress Karen, who kept her husband Ron very firmly in his place with frequent application of a Lexan paddle to his bare backside. You were, of course, Ron – in those particular cases and I – well, I’ll leave that to you to work out.  

‘So – you are telling me ….’  
‘Yes – that I am Spanker and you, my dear, are Spankee; those are our fixed roles which can be moulded as our creator thinks fit.’  

‘Our C-creator?’ she said, involuntarily looking skyward as if to catch a glimpse of the same.  
‘Oh, no – not ‘Creator’ with a big ‘C’, just creator – our author, as he likes to think of himself; others might disagree with the term.’  

‘W-we are characters in a story?’  
‘That’s right. May I get you another drink – it will stay at this amount and perfect temperature until our creator remembers to do something with it, so we may as well enjoy it while we can.’  

‘Er – thank you, I will have another. W-where are we – and why are we here, do you think?’  
‘I would say we are on some idealised tropical island, probably a semi-prepared scenario for a competition of some sort; this isn’t his usual kind of thing, and I am assuming he is setting the scene with us. That’s probably why you are dressed for a night at the opera when a swimsuit, a sarong and a sun-hat would have been much more suitable attire.’  

‘Swimsuit, sarong and sun-hat – lazy Lesbian lover … they are both examples of  – what is it – alliteration, aren’t they? A writer’s trick?’  

‘Quite so, my dear – O.C considers himself very literate and loves to indulge in a little wordplay; sometimes he even drags in some portentous but often not quite appropriate Latin phrase to show how smart he is; he can’t seem to help himself. Sadly, these little tricks often displace much idea of a good story, apart from when we get to a list of “Whack!”s, followed quickly by “Ouch!”es, which is what all of his stories are about, really. That, and a half-hour in the corner with your bare, bruised bottom on display.’ He almost winced as he trotted out yet another clumsy alliteration.  

‘And I – I am here to be whacked – is that it?’  

‘You have it in one, my dear – spanked, caned, tawsed or paddled – or any combination of the four. He did have a minor flirtation with dressage whips, but that was a long while ago – in fact, he hasn’t written anything at all in quite some time, although what he calls “impact play” occupies his thoughts an awful lot.’  

‘So, what will happen, then – if you don’t mind telling me. Will you just put me over your knee and spank me – is that it? Will you be using that wicked-looking walking cane on me?’  

‘Oh, no, my dear, I wouldn’t think so for a minute. Our creator isn’t very good, but he isn’t a brute; this cane is merely a prop, and almost certainly part of the scene he is setting. And even he has to have some kind of reason for me to spank you.  

‘What kind of reason?’  
‘My, you do ask a lot of questions, young lady – you are making me quite thirsty again,’ he said, pouring another drink from the jug; the level of liquid didn’t change by as much as a millimetre.  

‘Essentially, there are only a few distinct stories in all literature. Some authorities – if that is a suitable word – claim there are twenty. Others, Booker, for instance, maintain there are only seven, while there are those who have identified – or at least claim to have identified, thirty-six. It seems to be very much a case of “paying your money and taking your choice”, but there are generally acknowledged to be nine sub-plots involving spanking, if that’s any help to you.’  

‘Well, it’s a good job we have somewhere to sit and a seemingly endless supply of this delicious drink to get through while you tell me about them – do go on – I am intrigued.’  
‘Before I begin, may I ask your name, Miss? It would make things much easier if I didn’t have to keep calling you “Miss”, “young lady” or “my dear”.’  
‘Why, of course – I should have said earlier. My name is … now that’s odd – all I can think of is [a].’  
‘Oh, the lazy bugger! He calls himself a writer? – why, he hasn’t even given us proper names yet and is still using place-markers – how ever he hopes to get this published, even on-line, is quite beyond me. It would appear that I am [b], by the way.’  
‘You were saying, Mr [b] ….’  
‘Oh, yes, the plots. Well, we aren’t in an office situation, so you probably haven’t been dipping in to the petty cash or using the company ‘phone to chat to your aunt in Saskatchewan in company time. Nor are you a schoolgirl – this time, at any rate, nor a frustrated but horny lady who just fancies getting her bottom warmed for the fun of it.’  

‘Well, that’s three out of the way!’  
‘Yes, so on we go. You haven’t been abducted by some whip-wielding wacko to be a plaything for his perverted pleasure – oh, my, here we go again! – yet more shoddy alliteration. We really must try to get a better author, or at least improve the one we have. Where did we get to?’  

‘Five’  

‘Oh, yes. Well, we don’t appear to be part of “the family that spanks together” or the blushing bride being “instructed in her new duties”. I may just be an uncle you have been sent to spend some time with in order for him to “adjust your attitude”, or your boss – “if you want to keep your job, Miss [a] …”. That leaves us with only one more option, the “professional spanking service”, but I think that one is best left alone, don’t you?’  

‘Yes – but I’m not crazy about any of them, to be honest. Then again, I suppose we have to be here for something – a competition, you said you thought it might be?’  
‘I think that’s the most likely reason, and that the wayward rich girl being sent to spend some time with an older relative, in a place she can’t easily leave, in order to “learn some respect” is probably the best we can speculate upon at pre ….  

***  

Ken Thompson closed the file named ‘Story 11 – Notes’, opened a new window on his laptop and typed in:  
‘Tropical Island Competition Entry’  
by saucy_scribe  

Part One – Coming to the Island  
The Cessna Caravan, belonging to the ABG Group of Companies, had been adapted from its normal, freight-only role to carry four passengers in addition to its monthly payload of supplies for the small tropical isle owned and inhabited by Raymond Gardner, among the richest men on The Times rich-list, and his hand-picked staff.  

Today, his niece, Caroline Andrews, was flying in to spend some time with her uncle Ray – not that this would have been her choice of holiday, however; her parents, scandalised by Caroline’s dropping-out of University and her subsequent wild partying that had cost a lot of money to keep out of the papers and away from the beady eyes of the police, had decided to send her to live with her mother’s brother for a month.  

He was a well-known businessman and had a no-nonsense reputation; if anyone could bring Caroline around on to the right track, it was Raymond Gardner – and, for a month, Caroline would have  nowhere else to go ….  

The Captain announced the narrow runway was in sight and that the passengers, Caroline and Norah Phillips, her governess/nanny/minder/prison-guard – Caroline was never quite certain which of these hats she was wearing at any particular moment – should fasten their seat-belts and prepare for landing.



Norah touched Caroline’s arm gently, saying ‘Wake up, Caroline – we are almost at your uncle’s island. Did you have a nice little snooze?’  

‘Er – yes, thank you, Norah, but I had the strangest dream ….’  

The chunky little turbo-prop with its large, soft tyres, came to a stop on the white, sandy runway and suddenly hands were quickly unloading the supplies and refuelling the small aircraft. A middle-aged man wearing a white linen suit, a Sea-Island cotton shirt and hand-made sandals was waiting, just outside the landing-area, for the two women who would be his guests for the next month. He waved to them with an ornate bamboo walking-cane ….  

‘Now come along, Caroline, and stop day-dreaming! We have to see about getting our things taken up to the house and then I think we could both do with a good long soak and a rest before dinner. Why don’t you wear your lovely new yellow dress and those fabulous CL shoes and wow your uncle Raymond? Tomorrow, we’ll put on our swimsuits, sun-hats and sarongs and hit that gorgeous beach! Caroline – Caroline …?’  

END