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Alternate Spankings by Monica Vale is a completed story. It is five chapters in length and is currently available in its entirety in the Members' Area of Bethany's Woodshed. It is available both as an "HTML" file for online reading, as well as in a downloadable PDF format. It is also available as a file that can be transferred to your Amazon Kindle, Barnes and Noble Nook, or Apple I Pad, as well as other brand eBook readers. Each completed book that you obtain as a member of Bethany's Woodshed is yours to keep, even if you are no longer a member.

Chapter One - Charlie Victorious




       “OW! OW! OW!” Felicity Arnold D’Angelo cried, while her bare bottom turned almost as red as her curls beneath her husband’s punishing hand. He did not seem to have heard her, as his hand kept rising and falling in a swift, steady rhythm.

         “But this isn’t fair!” she finally managed to wail. “I didn’t really try to change history this time, I only said it was too bad that Bonnie Prince Charlie’s rebellion failed. Lots of other people feel the same way.  They even have Alternate History clubs, where everyone talks about how things could have turned out differently.”

         “But they aren’t in any position to make them happen,” he pointed out, without missing a smack. “You are, thanks to that time machine of yours. Sure, the Time Police smashed it to pieces…but you had used it so often that its power infected your body, so now you can visit the past just by wishing hard enough. And you still haven’t realized that you can only make things worse that way.”

         “OW!” she howled in response. “But I never said I would try to change the past again, even though I could. I only said it was too bad the Bonnie Prince lost, after watching that History Channel special…and the next thing I knew, you had turned off the set and I was lying here over your lap, staring down at the Persian rug, with my skirt pulled up and my panties dragged off and your hand coming down on my bottom, hard.”

         “Obviously, it was not coming down hard enough, since you can still keep arguing. So this is a job for my belt.”

         “Not your belt, please!” she howled, as she squirmed desperately to escape his restraining left hand as the tears poured out of her eyes. “You don’t know how much that hurts!”

         “Enough to keep you from talking and start you screaming instead.”

         “OWWWW!”

         “Good, that’s what I was aiming for.” In a resentful tone, he added, “And may I remind you that I was hurt pretty badly too, the last time you tried to alter history and I had to change it back again.

“Anne Boleyn, for instance…you convinced her fiancé Henry Percy to paddle her until she agreed to marry him instead of giving in to Henry VIII, who would have cut off her head.”

         “Well, King Henry would have killed her, and…OWWW!!!”

         “Yes, and their daughter Queen Elizabeth would never have been born, to be the greatest ruler England ever knew. So I had to do my duty as a captain in the Time Police and change history back again, which meant causing that poor woman’s death.”

         His voice grew harder, as he went on, “Remembering how I felt then, I think I owe you ten more smacks right now.”

         “No, no, please, please…OWWWWWW!!!!!”

         When he finally let her stand again, she stood with her head lowered as she carefully stroked her bruised bottom. Her eyes filled with fresh tears, as she remembered what the part of the punishment that was yet to come.

         “Now you can march yourself into the kitchen and sit on one of those chairs for a half hour, thinking about the harm you might have done,” he told her, just as he so often had before. “As I’ve told you a thousand times…”

         “Yes, yes, I know,” she sighed. “It’s called ‘The Butterfly Effect,’ only for us it was The Spanking Effect instead. It means that you never know when anything can make anything else happen…like a South American butterfly flapping his wings and causing a storm in Texas. But I could never see how that could happen…”

         She flinched as he raised his hand again. “No buts,” he warned her, “except for your own butt, which will hurt even more than it does now if you argue with me again.”

         That threat was enough to send her scampering into the kitchen, where she sat squirming on the hard vinyl seat. Following his other order, she tried to think of the harm she might have caused…

         And soon decided that there was none. The Bonnie Prince would have entered London at the head of his Highland clan chiefs and his Irish rebel officers, who had just won their freedom from England. How in the world could that harm anyone?

         And how could she make it happen without her husband finding out what she was up to and meting out an even harsher punishment for it?

         As she searched for a way to answer that question, she almost forgot her bruised bottom. Almost, but not quite, she realized, as she squirmed with excitement, bringing on another flash of pain.

         But it would be worth it, if she could only find a way…

         A few moments later, she realized that the answer was very simple. A few moments was all it would take in her own time, to go back to Derby, where the Prince had made his disastrous decision to retreat back to Scotland, rather than advancing on London. She could spend weeks with him there, before returning to her own time…a minute after she had left.

         Now her only problem was to keep from smiling, thus warning her husband what she was up to.

***   

Living in Washington DC, Felicity had had no idea of how cold December in Scotland would be. She has brought a fur cape to wrap herself in, but still shivered in the wind.

         It was small consolation to see that the kilted men were shivering, too. So were their leaders, as they led their ragged army by twisted paths back to the Highlands. The routes had been carefully chosen, she knew, to keep the men from realizing that they were retreating from their victory, rather than advancing towards it.

Well, she had come here to change their fate. With this thought firmly in mind, she urged her horse towards the three men who rode in front of their army. One thing time travel had done for her was to make her a skilled rider, and she was more grateful than ever for that knowledge now…even if her bruised backside was not.

“Your Royal Highness!” her voice rang out, as she galloped towards them. For a moment she could say no more, when she realized that she was riding beside Bonnie Prince Charlie himself and he was gazing down at her.

In his Royal Stewart plaid kilt, he was just as handsome as his portraits, with his curly red-gold hair, his perfectly chiseled features and the great, compelling brown eyes that stared into hers as though she were, for the moment, the only person in the world.

Behind him, she could easily recognize his main allies, since she had studied their garments carefully enough to do so. Captain Felix O’Neill wore the uniform of Lally’s Irish-French Regiment, with his red woolen jacket lined with green silk, and Ran MacDonald of Clanranald, in his MacDonald kilt.

“Your Royal Highness…Captain O’Neill…Laird MacDonald,” she told them, bowing her head briefly to each in turn. “I bring you an urgent message.    “

         “Well, what do you have to tell us, lass?” the Prince asked her.

         For a moment she could not answer, as she realized, once again, that he was really gazing up at Bonnie Prince Charlie himself.

         “She has nothing to tell us,” the hulking Highland laird growled down at her, from beneath his shaggy brown mane. “She merely wanted to look at you, as so many other girls did, when they lined the streets to cheer as you went by. Well then, Lass, you have seen the Prince, so be on your way.”

         “I have everything to tell you!” she cried. “You are marching back to Derby, are you not? But when you do that you are heading only for swift and sure defeat, followed by the cruel murder of the men who survive the Battle of Culloden.”

         “And how could you know that?” O’Neill demanded, with a warm smile beneath his cold blue eyes and tangled black curls. “Have the British sent you here as a spy to deceive us, perhaps?”

         “A spy was sent to deceive you, but I am not the one! Your Royal Highness must have sensed that, did you not? You begged your generals to march on towards London, but they refused you and believed that scoundrel’s word instead. ”

         As they continued to stare at her with doubt, she raced on, “I overheard him bragging about it at in a London inn, where I was serving as a tavern maid. He was saying that King George was ready to sail back to Germany, when his own report saved him from having to that, so I hurried here to tell you.”

         Not a word of that was true, of course. She had learned the story from the history books…but what she had told them was a little white lie, since the end would certainly justify the means.

         “I never believed him!” the Prince cried. “And neither did you two gentlemen.”

         “But two poor Irish and Scottish lads like ourselves…we could do nothing against his noble English advisors, like that fine Lord George Murray,” O’Neill replied, with his charming smile, as MacDonald nodded in agreement.

         “Well,” she answered happily. “We can do a great deal now…just by turning your horses around and signaling your men to follow you south, to London. They should follow that order cheerfully enough…especially since they know they will probably win without firing a shot.”

***   

         “London!” Felix O’Neill exclaimed, as he lay beside Lady Violet, with his arm around her shoulder, staring up at the white plaster ceiling.  It showed the four seasons, represented by wreaths of  spring buds, summer blossoms, autumn fruits and winter snowflakes, all obviously carved at great cost.

         “Sure, and isn’t this city even grander than I had imagined?” he crowed. “And isn’t this place the grandest of all, and right in the heart of Stuart Square?”

         “Some would say it is too grand for the likes of two Irish peasants like us,” she replied, as she snuggled against his hard, broad arm.

         “Peasants, is it?” he cried, lifting his head to glare down at her in mock outrage. “And wasn’t I raised in Paris, as the son of an officer in Lally’s Irish-French Regiment, who came here with the Bonnie Prince’s grandfather, King James Stuart, when the English drove that good king away and his Irish supporters along with him? The Wild Geese, they called us, and we were proud of the name. And wasn’t your husband an English viscount himself?”

         Now it was her turn to look outraged.  Hastily, he added, “but, for all that, he was as loyal a supporter as we are, of the Stuart family.”

         “They have many loyal British supporters, including myself,” she answered quietly. “And we all risked our lives every day, living in fear of being tried for treason.”

         “I know that, my darling,” he crooned. His voice grew as serious as hers, while he answered, “I can only hope that the Stuarts are as loyal to us as we have been to them.”

         Sitting straight up, she glared down at him in outrage. “And what do you mean by that?” she demanded.

         “I mean,” he answered, “I hope that they will give us our freedom.”

         “And how could he fail to do that, after we gave him back his throne?” she demanded. “And after he had proclaimed to his Highland followers that  he had drawn his sword and thrown away his scabbard, to make their country happy and free.”

         Sitting up beside her, he answered grimly, “He did say that indeed. But he is the Prince Regent of England now. When he made his speech to Parliament, that was all he talked about…how proud and happy he and his family were to be their rulers once again.

         “As though there were anyone else to do the job, since George the Second had fled back to Germany. But not a word did he say about Scotland and Ireland and giving us back our liberty.”

         “And if he will not give it back to us?”

         “Then we will have to take it.”

         For a long moment, she could only stare at him in shock. “You mean…revolt against our rightful Prince?” she gasped.

         Seeing the horror in her eyes, he laughed and fell back on his pillow. “Against the English Army? They would make short work of us poor Irish peasants…and make us feel like fools, too. But speaking of Irish peasants…I must punish you severely, for miscalling us by such a name.”

         “And how will you do that,” she asked him, smiling an eager invitation.

         “The same way I have done it so many times before. Like this…”

         Her smile turned into laughter, as he climbed to the side of the bed and sat up with his feet touching the floor. Dragging her after him, he pulled her over his knee and raised her lacy nightdress to her waist. Raising his hand high above his head, he made them both wait in delightful anticipation until he brought his palm down again with the first sharp smack.

         It was rapidly followed by the second, third, fourth and fifth smacks, until he lost all count. By then her creamy white buttocks had turned bright red and her laughter had given way to cries of pain. “That’s enough!” she gasped. “Please stop!”

         “Not until you promise never to call us Irish peasants again.”

         “I promise!” she howled. Once he had paused, though, she added in a teasing tone, “But if I call us Irish rebels instead…OW!” Before she could finish the sentence, the spanking started again.

         This time, he ignored her cries while the paddling went on...for what seemed to her to be lasting forever. When it was finally over, he asked, in a stern tone, “Are you ready to show me how sorry you are, for the naughty thing you have done?”

         “And how can I do that, Sir?” she asked, in a humble tone.

         “Well, you can start by taking off my trousers.”

         “Yes, Sir.” Kneeling by his side of the bed, she tugged them off and put them on the floor. Then she pulled her own gown to her waist, sat on his lap and spread her legs far apart, as she impaled herself on his thick, hard organ.

         They rocked back and fourth that way, faster and faster, until they both reached their climax with a cry of pleasure that was much more intense than her earlier wails of pain.

         As they lay back in each other’s arms again, they both started falling into the same sweet sleep they had shared so often before. This time, though, she opened her eyes again long enough to say, “But you didn’t mean that, did you, about revolting against our Prince?”

         “It was just wild talk,” he assured her. “Sure, and they don’t call us the Wild Geese for no reason.”

         His talk had been wild indeed, he told himself…and he had meant every word of it. He felt sure that the Laird MacDonald would soon be feeling the same way.

***

         Turning on the TV news, Nicholas D’Angelo saw that the Irish and Scottish were still fighting against the British together. And he knew why.

         His wife had only been gone for a moment in his time, but he knew perfectly well that she had been away much longer in hers…long enough to change the course of history, in her own reckless and thoughtless way.

         Her way was kind and caring and generous, too, he admitted…but it still caused complications that she could never have foreseen.

         If he had any doubt of that, he had only to remember that she had prevented the Trojan War, by convincing Menelaus to give Helen a thorough spanking. Felicity had failed to realize that, if the war had never been fought, a handful of refugees would never have founded Rome. And a man named Nicholas D’Angelo would never have existed. So he had had to make sure that Troy fought the war and lost it, leaving his hands soaked with innocent blood. That had led to the first punishment he had ever inflicted on her…although it had hardly been the last.

         For once, he was glad she was not with him. He needed time to calm down before she came home, or he would have strapped her within an inch of her life, rather than merely meting out a spanking that she would remember all her life, with a shudder.

         He was clutching his belt as she walked through the door. It was his special punishment belt, of course…made of thick leather a half inch wide.

         When she saw it, she started to back out again…but realized, with a sigh, that she had to face him and take her punishment instead. And if would be a small price to pay, she assured herself, for making Bonnie Prince Charlie victorious.

         “You are just in time to watch the news with me,” he told her. “But I don’t think you will like it much.”

         “Why not?” she asked, with growing fear in her voice. “What news do you mean?”

         “The latest from the Highlands, of course…where the Scottish and Irish rebels have launched yet another guerrilla attack on the English army. The announcer has already told us that this has been going on since they won Bonnie Prince Charlie’s throne for him…but he refused to give them their freedom in return.”

         He would have said more, but he was stopped by the look of sheer horror on her face. More calmly, he added, “Haven’t you learned yet that you can only make things worse, when you try to make them better in the past? What made you think this attempt would be any different?”

         “But Bonnie Prince Charlie…he seemed so gallant and brave.”

         “And handsome, too,” he dryly reminded her. “He was all of them, too…but he was faced with a problem that no one could have solved. He did his best to unite the three countries, but no one could have done that…not at that time, anyway.”

         “So you must go back and make sure he loses again,” she replied, as her eyes filled with tears at the thought.

         “Yes…and that means I must go back to Derby and help convince him to retreat, one day before you arrive with your much more encouraging words. That will make me one of the great villains of history, even if no one will ever know it. So wait for me here…” with a bitter laugh, he added, “…I won’t be a minute.”

         It was less than a minute, before she got up her nerve to turn on the Internet. Searching under “Culloden,” she read about the Prince’s heartbreaking defeat there, followed by the English massacres throughout the Scottish Highland. Of course, the article went on to explain that he had made the fatal mistake of returning north to Scotland, rather than advancing on London. She could not read any further.

         Seeing her weeping as he walked through the door, he was about to tell her that she had been punished enough, by her own dismay and shame. But that would only make her feel more guilty…and it might even make her more likely to meddle with history again. So instead, he sat down on the black leather couch and quietly told her to turn herself over his knee.

         She obeyed without an argument, as she clutched the arm of the sofa for support. As always, she closed her eyes when she felt him lifting her skirt to her waist and pulling her pants to her ankles. Her eyes flew wide open, as he brought down his belt with all his force, and she answered with a scream.

         Her cries grew louder and wilder, as the leather struck again and again, as she struggled desperately to escape. She felt sure he was setting her backside on fire, and glancing back she saw that it was indeed turning from bright pink to angry crimson.

         Soon her screams were mixed with helpless weeping, as she realized what was coming next. Although she had promised herself to accept this well-earned punishment, she could not stop herself from wailing, “Not my thighs…PLEASE not my thighs.”

         As always, he did not answer while he brought down the belt on the back of her legs. Now it took all of his force to hold her down with his left hand as she struggled even more frantically, while his right fist clutched the implement that kept striking her.

         When he finally let her up again, she stood before him with her head lowered, still weeping openly, knowing that the worst was yet to come. And, once more, it did.

         “Now you will march yourself into the kitchen and sit on a chair for an hour this time. “

         Having promised herself that she would not object, she could not help crying, “No, please, that’s much too long, I won’t be able to stand it!”

         As always, he ignored her pleas. “That should be long enough to make you truly regret what you have done,” he told her.

         More softly, he added, “…and to forgive yourself for it. I am well aware that you had only the best intentions…but we all know that the road to Hell is paved with them. Or in your case, the road to a good sound spanking, at the very least. I just hope you will never follow that road again.”

         “So do I!” she exclaimed. He nodded, with a faint smile…but they both knew that that particular wish was not likely to be granted.