Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him.” — Proverbs 22:15

Born neither rich nor poor, I have had to fight for what I have. Proudly I wear my Iron Cross Second Class; they are hard to get these days. Back in Capital City returning from campaign, people now see three stars on my lapel, where before there were two. I am a captain in the Space Force of Spartania.

I have won a place on the general’s staff where I am the only unmarried officer. I love the old man; we all do. I would follow him to Hell and back; we all would. But then there is the old man’s daughter.

Madeline: how I dream of her! She is here, but doesn’t notice me; she pretends not to notice me. A beautiful girl with long brown hair, flush cheeks, a curving figure, and generous bosom (which denotes a kind heart).

She has magical eyes and a delightful laugh. Whenever I think about making her mine, I can feel the hot glare of her mother down the back of my neck. Lady Cunningham is a tough old gal who requires the best for her only child.

She deserves at least a major, or better yet, a major with an Iron Cross First Class.

Maybe then?

It was another beautiful spring day with sun-showers. We Spartans are born agrarians, so naturally, our cities are small and green. “Good morning, Captain Scarlet,” waved the merry old widow Jones.

I walked past the single room schoolhouse where Madeline teaches. The children love her; I saw them through open windows in the morning sun, laughing with her. Did she aim her smile at me? Madeline knows I pass by on my way to HQ.

I arrived for the staff meeting and took my place at the far end of the table. General Cunningham is excited today. Maybe another campaign with opportunity for glory is on the way?

“Gentlemen, no doubt you are hoping for battle. I can see it in your faces.” The general was proud of us, and we of him. He paused, then continued. “Our empire has now expanded to the point where we are having direct contact with the Amazon planet.”

We were all ears.

“No one has ever talked to them, General;no contact at all,” observed Colonel Stumpf, the chief of staff.

“They have asked us to come to planet Amazon, asked us to visit. It is to be a grand celebration; they hope to make a treaty. We have been invited to bring our wives along.”

There was a silence in the conference room as the general’s staff exchanged worried looks. As the only man without a wife, I was left out of this dilemma.

“We have no idea what kind of men they are. Sir, is this wise?” burst out Major Mason the worry-wort.

“We are Spartans, and so are our wives; we fear naught, so it is settled.”

In case diplomacy failed and things went south, we took a military ship, instead of a commercial craft. The ladies had never been on one before. Instead of comfy seats in rows, we sat buckled in on the hard benches which ran the length of the ship’s interior.

The mood was gay! There was a sense of adventure, and of novelty, with a dash of nihilism, for there was no reason or precedent for females in outer space!

Once the atmosphere was cleared, and we had left our home planet Spartania, out came the brandy flasks. The laughter of our ladies was infectious. They had such a sweet variety of pleasing voices.

Across from me sat the object of my desire Madeline, between her proud and happy parents. Dressed up in a crushed velvet gown which highlighted her curves, her outfit was completed with a snow-white, baby-seal fur cap, ermine shoulder covering, and furry mink hand-muff. She looked good enough to eat, my Madeline!

Mrs. Cunningham, slightly pudgy with a sharp face, was bedecked in pedigreed jewelry. I do not think Madeline will age like she has. We had on our parade uniforms, rainbows of ribbons, shoulder epaulets, piping, and shiny boots. The General wore gold brocade and many medals. I had my Iron Cross Second Class with several campaign ribbons, a purple heart and some marksmanship awards.

There was predictably some turbulence and Major Mason’s wife took ill, vomiting into a space sickness bag. I had never seen a lady throw up before. Then we hit light speed, and before you could say “Bob’s your uncle,” we were approaching the planet Amazon, which looked surprisingly similar to our own.

Our ship glided into their atmosphere and steered towards their capital. Docking at the appointed terminal zero, which was a gaping hole in a mountainside, we could find no delegation to meet us. What there were was females; a mob of them, and not a lady in the lot!

They had on tacky, weird uniform costumes and were of all shapes and sizes (as women tend to be), but there was something off about them. Some sported thick overgrown grease-stick eyebrows, others plucked bare with pencil lines. Some of these bizarroes were attempting to grow mustaches! The Amazons had myriad hideous unnatural electric-dyed hairdos, some quasi-feminine, others mannish, even to crew cuts! Painted up as they were, like whores and scary clowns, none appeared normal.

Their ill-fitting men’s uniforms, which tightly clung to the hips but were loose around many waists, did them no favors. Many were flabby, and all appeared flat-chested. They banged their boots, making as much noise as they could.

As we emerged slowly from our ship, they took endless selfies.

Instinctively, we formed a rectangular with our women on the inside. We began to march through these harpies when two dumpy creatures blocked our paths with crossed halberds. From behind the guards, we were addressed by their leader.

She was tall, dare I say powerfully built? She had a dueling scar and a blue crew cut.

“I am Queen Blackhole II of Amazon. Welcome to our capital city, Vaginopolis.”

Slowly, our leader responded. “I am General Cunningham. I represent planet Spartania.”

Their Queen took several steps forward, stomp, stomp, stomp. She thrust out her hand.

“How the fuck ya doing, General?”

We couldn’t believe our ears! I was standing directly behind the general, the air left his chest, and he would have fallen down had I not held him up. We were stupefied, except for Major Mossberg, who knew about everything he shouldn’t, and didn’t give a fuck. He laughed and said quietly, “They’re dykes!”

A number of us exclaimed “Dykes!” There was no water around; what was he talking about? We hesitantly followed our hosts into their dank cave.

“You’ll have to excuse the mess, we’re fixing stuff up and stuff,” wxplained Queen Blackhole II as spider crabs retreated into the shadows. “Our shock troopers kill the bugs.”

“Did you build all this yourselves?”

“We don’t build, we redecorate.”

So this was our reception; it was done up like a discount toddler’s birthday party. They had hung banners with the names of both our planets with hearts and rainbows. Toilet paper streamers? The Amazons beamed arrogantly at this mess.

“Observe, Spartans, our Amazonian superior domestic engineering skills!” The queen waved her arm. There was some choking on our side, but we all too stunned to laugh, except for Mossberg who let out a wail and slapped his knee.

“You should hang your decorator!” he laughed.

Their queen was not pleased at this, but our aged general explained that on Spartania, what the major said means to “hang a medal on them, nothing to do with rope…” The anger left her eyes and she made her diplomatic speech:

“We women warriors have diverse and vibrant voices, new and more equal and better ways of doing everything, like super-modern stuff! You know we have made many advanced and marketable innovations here on planet Amazon since our liberation, which maybe we intend to share with you, our new friends; assuming, of course, you are agreeable.” She swaggered.

There was an odor of rancid seafood.

“Spartanians, I propose that you lend us your women for three hours, so that we may teach and instruct them.”

Our women let out a collective gasp at this intrusion. Madeline, who had always made a point of pretending I didn’t exist, now had me around the arm like an anaconda! No, no, no, no! She shook her beautiful head, magical eyes looking, pleading straight into mine!

Our general, who had never looked so old, turned around and silenced us all with his patriarchal gaze.

“Of course the ladies are delighted to go with you, for three hours?” he replied graciously, with only a hint of trepidation.

“That’s all the time we need.”

Unsurprisingly, the socializing was awkward. I’ve been on a few diplomatic missions in my time, but females!?! To top it off, all freaks and phonies, head-cases to a woman! They played at being men, but to what end? Honestly, I felt no curiosity, certainly no desire to get to know them better; I was repulsed. We just wanted to leave. The universe was not big enough for our two planets!

Predictably, they plied us with alcohol, which we, all of us, instinctively drank slowly, and very little of, except for Major Mossberg, who had not brought his missus along and didn’t give a fuck! He would tell anyone who would listen just why he would never be promoted above colonel.

“I want to propose a toast to the women of Spartania!” Then to us he turned and confided, “I keep my little wifey barefoot and pregnant, and I always know where she is.”

“You guys are suckers for letting these Amazons at your wives.” He put his arm around my shoulder. “Captain Scarlet and myself are the only guys here with nothing to worry about!”

He howled with laughter while I distanced myself. I started to worry.

A terrible three hours it was, three uncertain hours of waiting. It seemed much longer than three hours! Our old general aged and grew weaker, and we formed a protective cordon about him.

“Planet Amazon is number one in the galaxy for sex toys!” explained one Marshal Spider Muff, the Minister for Sexportation. She strutted around dressed in leather, hippo-hipped and long-in-the-tooth.

Mossberg nudged me in the ribs. “She’s a cougar,” he drunkenly explained.

“We will trade sex toys with you in exchange for high-tech weapons. We have super-fast delivery!”

“Where are your tits?” blurted out Mossberg, addressing the Amazons as a group.

“Oh, we have them, most of us,” replied another of their generals, a six-starred thing called Field Marshal Cindy.

“We bind our breasts, see? You make it real tight, it can bring them down two bra sizes.”


“How would you like to get to know me better Major, if you know what I mean?”

“I do know what you mean.”

“I could teach you some tricks. I’m not a field marshal for nothing!”

“I’d rather spank my monkey.”

The discourse was dreadful. And yes, we did see some males of the species scurrying about, and a shabby pathetic lot they were. Cleaning up, some had 30-gallon garbage cans strapped to their backs. They were big and strong, but had no spirit. One could imagine kicking them out of the way, like a cow blocking a footpath.

Endless eternities passed until at last our women were returned to us. All marched in step and spoke in monotone. They did not look at us and had on scowls, if truth be told. They held their heads back, all of them—in indignation or to make themselves taller, I do not know—but the effect was chilling. Our Spartan women did not come over to us but stood by themselves, purposely ignoring their menfolk!

Just then, the special emergency ring on our general’s phone rang. He stood where all could see as he took the critical call.

“Yes, yes, yes? Oh, that’s very serious!” The old man’s bushy eyebrows rose and fell.

“Well, it looks as if we can’t stay for dinner. Trouble on Spartania, you know,” he sighed and turned, starting to leave.

“But we have prepared four star rooms, and there is the feast and entertainment,” protested Queen Blackhole II. Her protests were joined by our Lady Cunningham.

“We women shall stay; the men can take care of whatever emergency is going on at the moment.”

On cue, our small Spartanian Secret Service contingent bum-rushed the sullen Spartan women and herded them back to our spaceship before they could organize a resistance.

The wretched females of Amazon were downcast at our abrupt departure.

“And after dinner, we were going to have a farting contest!” lamented their queen.

We closed the hatch, took off, and flew away.

First, there was a sense of relief shared by all the men that we survived our retreat from planet Amazon. It now came out that in all the confusion and hullabaloo boarding our craft, the seating was mistaken. All the women sat on one side of the ship, and us men on the other.

The journey back was the opposite of the trip out. There was no laughter, no gaiety, no conversation; only the realization of rejection peppered with dirty looks. It was a cold and long trip home.

In front of all, Mrs. Mason gave her husband, the major, verbal hell; a tongue-lashing for the ages, unprecedented and humiliating. He should have defended himself, for she is a shrew of a woman.

Major Mossberg vomited loudly, with unnecessary display. Normally, the general would have had him stacked with the luggage, but he just sat there looking old and depressed. This summed up our feelings.

Flying at lightspeed, I reflected on what had occurred. Our Spartan women were hurt and their dignity had suffered. We men, whose duty it is to protect, had forced them into outer space, where they had no business being, dragged them off only to be handed over to those wretched Amazons!

They must have felt a terrible resentment at being pulled away from their natural habitat, from the things that are important to them, such as childrearing and crochet. I felt guilt, and a desire to put our ladies back on their pedestals and protect them, to shield them from the evils of the galaxy!

They spent three long hours trapped with Amazons. The worst three hours anyone ever spent anywhere doing anything! They took it hard; too hard, really, judging from their attitudes. Our women may be Spartans, but still they are delicate, the fairer sex, merely girls!

Still, there was something new and different, alien and hostile about our own Spartan females. My instincts told me to be wary. Who can say what goes on in the mind of a woman?

General Cunningham radioed ahead and had our celebratory return with military band canceled. We did not wish a public arrival to the tune of “Rule Spartania,” with reporters snapping photos.

It was good to be back home; or was it? There was a little something wrong with everything, every aspect of Spartan life. All was dull. There was sunshine, but it seemed a shade underpowered. It sounds crazy to say; the birds sang in the morning, but without enthusiasm. Even the squirrels were no longer bright-eyed and bushy-tailed! Everyone agreed; that is, the men all agreed. The women kept to themselves.

The diner by HQ, which I as a single man was obligated to frequent, was now filled with my married colleagues, some of whom could not navigate a menu. Very sad, indeed. Overnight, divorce lawyers appeared on billboards.

One would see the women whispering to each other, growing silent as one got close, and resuming when one was again out of earshot. They had the air of conspirators. I thought I saw one wearing pants.

On my way to HQ, I tipped my cap to the merry old widow Jones, who yelled out “War criminal!” She must be senile! Cringing, I walked down the street, which in the past has brought me joy. I passed the single room schoolhouse where Madeline teaches. She angrily lectured the children who she regularly brought to tears. When I got close, she closed the curtains.

By this time, the women had all cut their hair short! I trust that this is something the reader has not been forced to endure in his own lands. It is a sight I would not wish on my worst enemy!

Committees, committees! It seemed like there was a new one each week which the women had started! Spartanian Damsels Against Cigar Smoking, the Grand Alliance to Ban Brandy and Brothels, the League for the Legalization of the Female Body (whatever that means), and the straw that broke the camel’s back: the Female Committee for Women in the Military!

For the first time, we dreaded the coming of Independence Day with its accompanying officer’s ball. Our annual celebration of the Battle of Radiation Ridge, when our heroic ancestors had won freedom from the barbarians, seemed inappropriate this year. Surely, we had let our ancestors down now that we were no longer in control of our own house.

So there we were at the beginning of the evening, the general’s staff at the general’s mansion, in our formal uniforms, feeling awkward. The aloof wives, looking un-ladylike despite rich gowns, jewels, and furs, snickered, mocking their husbands’ medals and ribbons. They kept to themselves.

The General appeared in good spirits for some reason. He made the announcement and summoned his staff into his study for a pre-ball cigar and brandy toast; the annual tradition. We grumbled, for that which we enjoyed before without a second thought now seemed unnatural.

He ushered us men in behind the large door, looked around, and asked the maid to get some brandy and cigars. He had to ask her twice, for she seemed reluctant to leave us alone. She tossed her head and left the room, short-haired and wearing butler’s pants. He told one of us to lock the door.

Colonel Burdock put voice to our concern. “General, sir, with respect, do you think that now is the time to be toasting and smoking cigars when we have lost control of our women as we have?!?”

“They are demanding to be let into the military!”

“Thank god we are not a democracy, or surely the women would want the vote!”

The old man came alive like I had never seen him. “Do you think that I am senile?” he demanded. “Do you think that I don’t recognize an emergency when I see one!?!”

He looked us over and raised his hands over his head dramatically. He had our attention now! This was the man of steel who had led us to past victories, the hero we would follow to Hell and back!

“Do you remember the battle for Radiation Ridge?” our commander inquired.

“Yes, General. Yes, yes,” we all replied.

“When our ancestors defeated the barbarians?”

“With but a single thermonuclear hand-grenade, the only one left!” added Colonel Wilson, the staff historian.

“This evening, we shall make our ancestors proud. We will reconquer our wives and restore the natural order!” General Cunningham had his thumbs in his belt as he looked around the room.

“We must have our dignity returned to us!” Whoever spoke did so for all of us.

“What is the plan, sir?”

The General took on a somber, serious air, and the room fell silent.

“Men, when we leave my study and enter the ballroom, pay attention to what I do and follow my lead.”

The General made eye contact with all of us; with me, he lingered and placed his hand on my shoulder. He then tiptoed to the door, turned, and put his finger to his lip to quieten us. Making as little noise as possible, he unlocked the door and whipped it open. No fewer than six of the wives had been trying to listen in! Red-faced but unrepentant is how they appeared. The shorthaired females scurried away as we men marched into the ballroom.

The room was lined with chairs, with a cleared marble floor for dancing. At the far end was a stage with a band. In front of the band, behind the microphone, sat a comfy chair. General and Lady Cunningham climbed the three steps to the stage; rather, he pulled her behind him, for she was making a public show that they weren’t getting along this evening.

With a tight grip on her hand, he welcomed everyone through the microphone. Then he did the unthinkable! The impossible! He showed why he was the greatest military mind of his generation, why he was the boss!

If I live to be a thousand years old, I will never forget!

I saw the vigor of youth return to the General as he manhandled his hefty wife, Lady Cunningham, in front of his stunned audience. Before you could say “Jack’s your boy,” he was in the comfy seat with the missus on his lap. She was protesting loudly when her determined husband gravely announced:

“This will hurt me more than it hurts you.”

The old gal wriggled and croaked away as he pulled up her gown, petticoat, and slip. Then the General pulled down her under-trousers and her underwear, exposing Lady Cunningham’s pale, wrinkled, potato-sack bottom, warts and all, for all to see!

Again and again, he brought his hand down on the aged hag’s behind! He spanked her up, he spanked her down! She shook like jelly and screamed like the Devil! He wasn’t kidding; he was all business and didn’t pull his punches as her pasty ass turned red. It was their finest hour.

All the wives were present, except for Major Mossberg’s perpetually pregnant missus, who was about to give birth. My married colleagues took the General’s cue and flew into action; they spanked their wives! It was a sight to see, and I dare say there were some attractive behinds to look at, even if their owners’ faces wore frowns.

The officers’ wives screamed and cursed. There was Lieutenant Lloyd pounding his palm into the pummeled patootie of his shrieking young bride. Not yet married a year, and you could see the hatred he had for her in his eyes. But all is fair in love and war.

The women screamed, some howled curses, some cried out for mercy, but today was not a day for mercy, but a day for holy retribution. I could feel a divine presence. Sad it was to see, though, Major Mason beg to spank his wife and get refused. Surely, this was his last chance. Last chance? Last chance!

Off to the side, I spotted my prey and target, my Madeline, she of many curves and rounded bottom. Quickly and silently, gracefully, fleet of foot, she was leaving the ballroom, slipping away completely unnoticed. Our eyes locked but for a moment, and the chase was on!

She was now mere feet from the door. Swift as a tiger, I bounded across three tables, with the tip of my scabbard breaking a champagne bottle, and I was in front of her, blocking her way. I grinned in anticipation and she looked horrified.

I faked to my left, and she dove to hers, and easily caught her around the waist. I whirled her around and carried her under my arm, as she yelled out, “Put me down, put me down!” I spotted an empty comfy chair.

Quickly, I said a silent prayer and began my work. I pulled up Madeline’s silk gown, then her slip, I yanked down her pantaloons, I yanked down her panties! The outside world vanished, focused as I was; it was only me and my Madeline. I no longer heard her complaining.

On my lap, before my eyes lay two perfect white mountains, with a forested valley between. Untouched by sunlight, untouched by man; untouched. Soft and silky, yet hard underneath, supple as kid leather, smooth as a baby’s bottom!

I raised my hand and brought my palm crashing down. She screamed like a vampire exposed to sunlight! Her ass sprung like rubber and my hand recoiled, shooting high back into position. Where before had been pure snow white now bore the pink imprint of my spanking hand.

I brought my hand down again and again. Madeline howled away, and I now know that Satanic possession is real, for the curses she spewed, the foul language Madeline shouted out, she couldn’t have known those terrible words!

I spanked her up, I spanked her down, I spanked her all the way across town! She was beginning to mix in sobbing with her screaming.

Spanking rapidly with an adagio marching signature, I mixed things up to be unpredictable. Some blows were hard, though none were soft. I would alternate left, right, left, right, with the occasional smack across the crack, getting some air in there. Left, left, right, go high, go low.

“Stop spanking me! I’ll be good!” she blurted out with many “boo-hoos.” False contrition; despite the lie, a first step. She continued to struggle, but had no chance against my steel-like grip; and to think I had been frightened by a mere girl!

My hand was beginning to get sore, so I spun Madeline around and spanked her with my other hand. Now came only crying; she no longer cursed or pleaded. I checked my work and saw pinpricks of blood appearing on her reddened behind. She would not be sitting soon! I released my grip, but she did not move or attempt escape while I gave her one more hard one, and one for good luck.

Then, as if on cue, my Madeline curled up into my awaiting arms. Turning teary eyes to mine, she whispered:

“Darling, I’ve been a bad girl, but I don’t want to be an Amazon anymore! Can you ever forgive me?”

I replied, “Of course, my love; it will be our secret!”