Calendar Girls

by April Hill

  Calendar Girls

  Nine Heart-Warming Bottom-Warming Tales

  By

  April Hill

  ©2015 by Blushing Books® and April Hill

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Blushing Books®,

  a subsidiary of

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  is registered in the US Patent and Trademark Office.

  Hill, April

  Calendar Girls

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-62750-701-1

  Cover Design by ABCD Graphics & Design

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

  Table of Contents:

  January—Julie in: Snowbound

  February—Emma in: Red Roses For A Blue Lady

  March and St. Patrick’s Day—Cathy, in The End of the Rainbow

  March—Lisa, in an Easter story, The Tale of Peggie Pie

  April—Callie in: The Last April Fool

  May and Cinco de Mayo—Carrie in: Maxed Out In Mexico City

  May and Memorial Day—Hannah, in: All Quiet Along The Potomac

  June—Karyn in: Bailing out the Bride

  July—Libby in: Under The Boardwalk

  About April Hill

  Ebook Offer

  Blushing Books Newsletter

  About Blushing Books

  January—Julie in: Snowbound

  At the age of thirty-nine, after working for wages since the age of fourteen and running his own cattle for the last fifteen years, Russ Warren was finally a contented man. He had money in the bank, no unpaid bills, and an ex-wife he’d left when she began cheating on him. He had a nice little spread where he ran several hundred head of polled Herefords, made enough to take care of his needs, and pretty much minded his own business. Jolene—the ex-wife— had found herself another sucker and hooked up with him a couple of years earlier, which meant that Russ was finally free of alimony payments and the need to worry about Jolene’s extravagant shopping habits.

  On the day their divorce was final, Russ had asked his new ex-wife out to dinner—for old time’s sake, he explained. After dinner, he’d driven her back to the ranch, where he took his time in administering the all-out, hell-bent for leather, bare-assed blistering he’d been planning since he learned about the eighteen-hundred dollar post-settlement shopping spree Jolene had secretly charged to his credit card. Not surprisingly, Jolene hadn’t taken the spanking well, splayed over his knee with her black thong panties down around her ankles and howling like a banshee at every noisy thwack of her own Bed, Bath, and Beyond bath brush.

  Having never spanked a woman before, Russ hadn’t been sure what to expect, especially from a lady of Jolene’s size. She’d been putting on weight steadily since their wedding day, and now outweighed him by a good forty or more pounds. Demonstrating her outrage, Jolene had struggled like a wildcat, spitting, hissing, and cussing like a drunken muleskinner. In one last, final fit of temper, she had kicked hard enough to hurl one of her purple spike-heeled shoes across the room, shattering a fake Tiffany lamp that Russ had always hated.

  Afterward—alternating between blubbering and screeching—Jolene had threatened to have him arrested. He’d expected this reaction, of course, but he also knew that for all her hysterics, she would be more than amenable to a reasonable cash settlement. The sight of Jolene’s red, runny nose, and of Jolene’s ample buttocks glowing the color of a flaming desert sunset was worth every penny of the extra seventy-five hundred dollars he’d presented her as a parting gift—or a payoff. Either way, Russ considered the money well spent. Spending time with Jolene had always been expensive, and this was easily the best ten minutes he’d ever spent in her company—at any price.

  Happily single now, Russ had a forty-two inch flat screen TV, a six-year old Ford pickup fully paid off, and a warm-hearted lady friend in Denver he visited regularly. And since the lady in Denver had no interest in anything more permanent than their occasional weekends with pleasant dinners in good restaurants, cheerful conversation, and vigorous, uncomplicated sex, Russ’s life seemed perfect.

  Eight months earlier, he’d accepted a very generous offer on the ranch, which meant he could stop being a working cowboy and do what he’s always wanted—hunt, fish, and live off the land for a few years. When the sale was final, he deposited the money in the bank where he’d done business for most of his life. His plan was let the interest accrue while he retreated to the mountain cabin in the high country he’d spent ten years building with one thing in mind—peace and quiet. When people pointed out that these were really two things, Russ had only smiled. To his way of thinking, peace and quiet were two sides of the same coin.

  Russ had always been a thrifty man, and he knew cattle ranching like the back of his hand, but investments were something else—another kettle of fish, his grandfather had called it. So when the assistant loan officer at the bank suggested that the money he’d made from the ranch would be better invested with a good financial counselor, Russ was a bit skeptical. When it was explained to him that such an investment would be vastly more lucrative than a simple, interest-bearing savings account, though, the idea began to sound more appealing.

  “Let your money work for you, instead of the other way around,” the assistant loan officer had advised. And then, the helpful assistant loan officer went even further, by providing the name of a well-known and highly regarded financial advisor in New York City. After leaving the bank, Russ stopped by the library and checked the financial advisor’s name in some old copies of Fortune magazine. It was a name with which he wasn’t familiar, but after verifying that the assistant loan officer’s glowing references had been accurate, Russ agreed to put the lion’s share of the proceeds from the sale of his ranch in the experienced hands of a man whose name he had never heard before—a name that was about to become even better known than it already was.

  Russ sold or gave away most of what he still owned, then piled what was left into the back of his pickup and moved it all up to the cabin, prepared to spend his first tranquil winter as a retiree, watching the snow and reading his way through all the books he’d never had time for before. There was no mail delivery or phone at the cabin, so the stunning news of the collapse of Bernard Madoff’s epic Ponzie scheme took a while to reach him. When it did, Russ tried to take it as he did most things—philosophically. It should be pointed out that between the arrival of the bad news and its philosophical acceptance, there was a lot of swearing, kicking of table legs, and the consumption of a large amount of good bourbon. But in the end, Russ concluded that all he’d really lost was money. He still had a few bucks in the bank, good health, all his own teeth, and a cabin and vehicle he owned free and clear. His retirement wasn’t going to be quite as comfortable as he’d hoped, but if he was careful, life could still be damned good.

  At the beginning of January, with the first major snowstorm of the season predicted, Russ drove into town to stock up on what he’d need to spend the remainder of winter holed up at the cabin. With that done, he wandered down to The Bee Hive Café for a final cup of Marva’s strong, barely drinkable coffee. As he came in the door, Marva waved to him.

  “I was hopin’ you’d drop by,” she c
alled. “There’s a woman been askin’ about you. Down there in the last booth—name’s Julie Somethin’ or Other. Says she’s come all the way from Los Angeles to talk to you.”

  A quick glance revealed that Julie Something or Other was maybe thirty-two or thirty-three, pretty, but a little too thin for Russ’s taste. Everything she was wearing had come right out of an L.L. Bean catalogue—yuppie, all the way.

  He chatted for a couple of minutes with Marva, then walked over to where the woman was sitting and introduced himself.

  “I’m really happy to meet you, Mr. Warren,” she said, a bit breathlessly. “My name is Julie Downing—Julie. I’ve read a good deal about you, and I’d like to hire you—if you’re available, of course.”

  “Hire me?” he asked, puzzled.

  The manila folder she handed him contained two laudatory and mostly dishonest articles cut from the local paper, all of them discussing his days as a trail guide.

  “These are close to twenty years old,” he observed, pushing the clippings back across the table to her. “My time in the guide business was over fifteen years ago, before I took up ranching full-time.” He decided not to mention that being a rancher was just another fading line on his resume, now. The news had apparently already gotten around, though.

  “I understood you’ve had a recent…well, that your…uh…circumstances had changed, somewhat,” she explained awkwardly. “And that you might be available again as a guide.”

  Russ shook his head. He hadn’t enjoyed the years he’d wasted being a trail guide for a lot of ignorant hikers and inept hunters, and he had zero interest in taking it up again, no matter how broke he got. “Sorry, but I’m planning to spend the winter up at my cabin, around sixty miles from here, in the mountains.”

  “So, you’ll be trapping and hunting, right?” she inquired eagerly.

  “Not unless the canned goods run out,” he replied amiably. “If you’re looking for large game, though, I can probably give you a couple of names.”

  She made a face. “No hunting, thanks. Just pictures.”

  “Pictures?”

  “Wildlife. I’m a professional freelance photographer—or trying to be, anyway. I was hoping to do a whole winter spread. You know, a survival diary thing, something like, Wintering Alone in the Untamed Wilderness.”

  He chuckled. “More like freezing your ass off in the untamed wilderness. You ever spent a whole winter without indoor plumbing and central heating, Miss Downing?”

  “Well, no, but that’s why I need a guide. Someone to show me how to survive and get some terrific pictures at the same time. You know, photo studies of animals in their natural winter habitat.”

  “What kind of animals?”

  She thought for a moment. “I thought grizzly bears might be interesting, as a beginning. Feeding, mating. Some really good, close-in shots, you know?”

  “Close-in, huh?” he repeated, shaking his head. “Well, Miss Downing, I never met a bear crazy about having his picture taken, a grizzly in particular, and never when he’s got his mind on the ladies. You might want to start with something a little smaller and better tempered. And even if I can find ‘em, you’re not gonna be able to get real close. Not at this time of year.”

  “What’s special about now?”

  “Most animals have the good sense to hole up in the winter, as much as they can, anyway, which means that you’ll be lucky to get much in the way of pictures. Not without a lot of luck. If you’re looking for pictures of animals, spring’s better, and summer’s better yet. At this time of year, most bears are already beginning to den up for the winter. They’ve been on the prowl for food pretty much non-stop, trying to fatten up. It’s been a lean year, with a lot of competition for what food there is, and that’s likely to make them real short on good manners. The spring’s not a lot better, because the sows will have new cubs, and they’re all half-starved after the winter. Like I said, summer’s best.”

  “I’ll be diving in the Bahamas during the summer months,” she explained. “Looking for sharks. The big man-eaters, I hope.”

  “You ever thought about taking pictures of things that can’t eat you?” he inquired affably.

  Ignoring the remark, the woman pushed even harder. “If it’s the money that’s worrying you,” she suggested irritably, “I assure you that I can pay fairly well. I’m not rich, but…”

  “It’s not the money. I’m sort of retired. Well, I was sort of retired.”

  “At your age?”

  “I’ve been pushing a lot of dumb cows around since I was a kid,” Russ said. “I figured I’d take some time off to do what I like doing, and go back to work when the money ran out. The problem is, it’s running out a hell of a lot faster than I thought it would, thanks to some fella I’ve never met, by the name of Madoff.”

  “Bernard Madoff.”

  “That’s the one. You know him?”

  She laughed. “No, but you must travel in some pretty fancy company to have been invited to invest with Madoff.”

  “Are you telling me the fella was picky about who he robbed?”

  “Absolutely. You had to be referred by someone important, or someone he knew to get in.”

  He snorted. “Must have been my lucky week. I was referred by a sub-assistant manager at the Jasper Flats Corn Growers and Cattlemen’s Bank. This Madoff guy must have been scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

  “I don’t mean to pry, but did you lose a lot?”

  “Just about everything I had after twenty-five years of hard work. Probably chump change compared to what some folks lost, though; folks a lot older than me, and poorer. At least I’ve got a few years left to try to make some of it back.”

  “Cows, again?”

  “That’s about all I know how to do.” He sighed. “That and taking greenhorns into the high country. So, tell me again. How much were you planning to pay for these pictures of yours? Of grizzly bears?”

  * * *

  Even after he explained the Spartan accommodations she could expect during her stay at his mountain cabin, Julie Downing seemed more than pleased to hand over a check for the full amount he asked. As he walked out of the Bee Hive and headed down the street to deposit the check, Russ was already kicking himself. He had been hoping to spend the next few months sleeping late, going unshaven, and wandering around the cabin in his long johns. Now, he was going to be trudging through snowdrifts to annoy a lot of unsuspecting animals, and playing scout leader to a spoiled big-city greenhorn who didn’t know her ass from her elbow about anything other than shoe shopping.

  As it turned out, she wasn’t too good at bookkeeping, either.

  He walked into the Bee Hive the following morning, found Julie Downing at the same booth, and handed her back her check.

  Julie looked puzzled.

  “Bounced,” he said simply.

  “That’s ridiculous!” she cried. “I only gave it to you yesterday. Shit! I probably should have expected something like this, trying to conduct business in a town this size. Here, let me write you another check, and…”

  “Skip it, lady,” he said. “The one good thing about getting fleeced is it teaches you to be a little more careful about who you do business with. I figured the guy who hooked me up with this Madoff bum owed me a favor, so I had him give your bank in L.A. a call before I deposited your check. Seems you might just be the only person I know who is broker than I am.”

  She frowned. “It’s probably just a little mix-up at my bank.”

  He grinned. “Sure. And you were hoping I wouldn’t find out about that little mix up ‘til spring, right? You might want to be careful about trying that kinda scam around here. I know a lot of fellas who’d take a wooden paddle to a lady’s butt for a lot less.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Why is it the men in places like this always make crude, macho threats like that? Am I supposed to be intimidated?”

  “Well, now, that depends on what you call intimidating. Some of those fellas I mentioned have s
hort fuses and pretty good biceps, and they’re not above taking a lady thief down a peg or two. Call it frontier justice. A good walloping can keep things simple, and save on police and courts and what have you. Wilbur Harkins’ wife gave the grocer a rubber check last week, and Wilbur tells me she’s still got a couple of welts on her backside that make it hard for her to sit down to supper. Of course, Wilbur favors a belt for such things, not a paddle, but I reckon the effect’s the same.”

  “All right, Tarzan,” she growled. “I’ll be honest with you. I am just a little short this month, but I’m good for the money, I swear.”

  He reached across the table and slipped the check into her shirt pocket. “As it happens, I wasn’t too keen on this idea to begin with.”

  Julie pulled a pad of paper from her purse and started writing. When she’d finished, she signed the paper, then pushed it across the table to Russ. “Hold onto my check,” she said. “If it’s not good by the time we get back, this paper signs all my photographic equipment over to you. The still camera and tripod are worth double what I’ll owe you, and the video equipment is top of the line—worth a fortune. You’re used to taking risks, aren’t you? Being a mountain man and all.”

  “A what?”

  “A mountain man. You know, one of those guys who goes off into the woods and survives all by himself—by his wits. Taking risks; hunting, trapping, depending on no one but himself. A tough, wilderness-hardened man who needs nothing but his own company, and wants nothing that society can offer.”

  He chuckled. “Sorry, lady, but you’ve got me mixed up with some other half-wit. I’ve got a big flat screen TV with a Dolby sound system on it that I’m going to miss like hell while I’m up there. I never miss Monday night football or a good hockey match, and I’m a big Judge Judy fan, too. And there’s a lady a few miles from here I’m gonna’ miss a lot.”