A Wild Night On the Island & Other Stories

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  "Well," he paused for a moment before he continued. And then he had a whole mouthful to say. "I think you're going to have me move back in here where I belong. And I think you're going to start behaving like an obedient wife. And I think I'm going to start being very attentive to all your needs. And when you start getting a little too anxious, and a little too mouthy, and much too bratty, you're going over my knee, or the most convenient chair, or against the wall—anywhere that suits me. And I'm going to paddle the living daylights out of your ass until it's so hot you're screaming and crying like a baby, and ready to behave yourself. Does that make my plan clear enough?"

  Brooke was astounded, and tongue-tied once more, feeling a host of tingling sensations rising all through her, an incredible rush mounting like a wildfire the more he spoke.

  "You, my dear Brooke, are going to get exactly what you want and what you deserve. We're going to turn this relationship into an honest marriage. And I'm taking charge. Is that clear?" he asked again.

  Brook shook her head, still too dumbfounded to speak.

  "I want your answer, in plain English," he said, as if he was reprimanding her for not replying.

  "Sure, it's clear," she finally said. She was shaking like a leaf. "You suppose we could just go to bed now?" she asked without thinking. She was suddenly so awed, in love, and horny that she could hardly stay in her seat.

  "Only after another go round over my lap?"

  The stunned wife trembled even more, this was all too much for her to fathom.

  "Is there some particular reason I deserve this one?" she wondered.

  "General principles, that should be enough. And because it might take a number of weeks paddling your butt to get me over your infidelity. You want me back, those are the conditions."

  Finished with conversations, Travis rose from the chair and pulled Brooke up with him, leaving her half eaten dinner on the table. Thinking they would go to the living room as they'd done before, she was surprised to find Travis leading her upstairs to the bedroom.

  "Up here?" she wondered aloud.

  "This time," he replied. Though once they arrived in the bedroom, he looked around. She could see that he was annoyed. "Damn this is a mess!" he remarked.

  She smiled chagrined. "I guess I haven't had the heart.

  "Well, you damn well better start. Because taking care of things around here is your job, and a punishable offense when it's not done."

  Abruptly catapulted into another world, Brooke was completely bewildered. But still too horny to consider all the implications at that moment, she followed dutifully along.

  "Go get my work belt," Travis ordered.

  "Your work belt?" she repeated.

  "You heard me."

  The sternness in his voice was exhilarating, something out of her wildest dreams and fantasies. Brooke scooted quickly to the closet to retrieve the belt in question. Returning to her husband, he was ready for her, sitting on the edge of the bed, his lap just waiting.

  Holding the belt, Travis was more breathtaking still, the way he doubled the two inch wide leather in his hand, the way he grasped it with such a manly grip. He'd rolled up his sleeve on his right arm so Brooke could see his tanned forearm flex before the event even took place. The vision of his bringing the belt down on her bottom made her whole body surge with the most powerful rush.

  Travis didn't speak again, but guided Brooke over his knees and pulled up her skirt, to see her pale pink panties covering her soft round globes of flesh.

  "We'll have to prepare a little better next time you get spanked. I don't even want to deal with these," he said, as she pulled the panties out of his way.

  No time to comment, Brooke simply waited for the first smack to land, and it didn't take long. The crack of the leather against her ass end was fierce and stung like crazy, though not as fierce and stinging as the smacks that followed.

  Wasting no time at all, Travis pelted her rear with a quick dozen strokes. The response was nearly instantaneous, the leather producing a fine pink blush. The wide width of the belt made certain that her entire ass end was well covered. Such a sight! Travis wondered to himself for the hundredth time in the last week why he hadn't thought of this solution before. Obviously it was just what his naughty wife needed. And oh, she'd be getting it now!

  "Oooo, ouch, ooo, please!" she cried.

  "You think this is bad, just wait!"

  "Ouch, oh no!

  "You're going to have such a sore butt, you'll be thinking of it every time you sit down!"

  "Ouch! Travis please!"

  "You may protest, but you know this is exactly what you want."

  "Ouch, Travis stop!"

  "Stop, never!"

  And Brooke believed him.. The way he seemed to be going on forever. The nasty belt kept coming down, over and over and over and over, until her bottom was no longer pink but a wild shade of red.

  Suddenly, without any warning at all, Travis dropped the belt and laid his hand on her warmed bottom as he'd done the first time he spanked her. But unlike that other time, he dove into her punished rear, eagerly squeezing the two roughed up mounds so that the pain was freshly felt.

  This was no punishment at all however. Pulling her up on the bed, they quickly flung their clothes aside, and explored each other at will, with more passion than they had had in years. Like a man taking his bride for the first time, he surrounded Brooke with forceful arms, and entered her with a demanding erection that like the spanking, took charge of her body's desires. He brought her to the climax that she'd been yearning for all these weeks as she'd fantasized about her husband's renewed intensity.

  When the two finally collapsed in each other's arms exhausted from nearly an hour of vigorous love play, Brooke felt more whole than she ever had.

  And for the first time in the wild foray, Travis smiled with a genuine affection.

  Brooke smiled back. "Welcome home," she said.

  "Glad you've been conquered, my dear wife?" he asked.

  "Glad? I'm elated and relieved. Can you ever forgive me for me being so reckless?"

  "Oh, I might," he replied. "Though I don't think I can without making this bottom of yours pay a few more times."

  "Ooo, I don't know if I can take it," she replied.

  "Well, I guess you’re just going to have to, if you want me around." And with that, Travis gave her bottom a rude smack, that warmed her everywhere that mattered. And the two rolled over and began loving each other once more.

  Over The Professor’s Knee

  He was German and taught mathematics at the University. Not making much of an income, he was also the landlord of the quaint, brick apartment building, where the budding actress/writer/dancer/and all around dilettante of the arts climbed the worn cement steps and rapped on the door that said "room for rent."

  "I'm afraid it's not much," Hans Gustafson told the pretty young woman. She had short dark hair, a little pixie nose, small red painted lips, and a sassy cock to her head.

  "I'm Louisa French," the girl told him, holding out her hand for him to shake. "I'm going to be famous some day, and this place will make a wonderful memory for my published diary, I'm sure."

  Hans wanted to laugh, instead his eyes just twinkled with delight.

  "I'll show you upstairs," he said, as he led the way up the well-worn flight to the second floor.

  "Oh, my! It's perfect," Louisa exclaimed gleefully, as she danced around the empty room.

  "This is all it is," Hans said. "I did advertise a studio."

  "And that's why I like it. I hardly have anything anyway. I suppose I'll have to sleep on the floor for the first few weeks, until I have money for a bed."

  "On the floor?"

  "It's bohemian, don't you think?" Louisa moved to the large bay window at the far end of the room. "I'll get a desk and write here. I'm an incurable romantic, you know."

  It was not hard to guess.

  "Are you sure you're ready for this, miss. I mean, you look awfully young.
You're a student at the university?"

  "Of course. I'm already twenty, and that's getting really old, I know. I may look young, but that's just my hair, and my skin. I have perfect skin. I think I was blessed, actually. Of course in my line of work, it's a good thing, don't you think, to look young?"

  "Perhaps. What line of work is that?" He was in awe of the girl's charm.

  "Well right now, I'm a waitress. But that's only temporary, since I'm going to be in the theatre, and writing plays, and dancing and singing like a bird on stage."

  "Ah, I see," Hans said smiling. "An artist."

  She looked at him. "Yes," she nodded happily at his acknowledgment. "An artist."

  "You're a new student at the University?" he asked.

  "Transferring in. I'm practically in my Junior year, you see I have this little problem with math, but I'm sure I can get over that with a few well timed theatrics." She giggled delightfully for him, and then said with a whisper, "I hear the basic math Prof. is a real darling, and a pushover for young women."

  "Oh, I see," Hans said, continuing to smile with delight. "So you'll take the room?" he asked.

  "Of course," she replied exuberantly. "I'm an artist, just like you said. And an artist needs a studio."

  ***

  There was a rush for the door at eight o'clock the next Monday morning, as students came pouring through the doors of room 362. First year math. Professor Gustafson was sitting calmly at his desk in the front, peering out over his spectacles at the clamoring throng of new faces.

  Gustafson was over thirty, his dark hair just beginning to gray around the temples. An average medium build, with a handsome unassuming face, he was considered the mild mannered professor to look at him. Quite charming in a reserved and perhaps shy sort of way. He was pleasant as he could be to his students, and really very helpful, though his tests were notoriously tough. That particular reputation made Hans Gustafson wonder, as he watched his students fall into their seats, how his new tenant got the idea that he was a "pushover."

  The class began as a first day class usually does, with lots of confusion and introductions. When the door rattled at quarter past the hour and a tardy student made a mad dash to find a seat, the entire room turned to watch until the somewhat chagrined young woman was settled.

  "Glad you could join us, Miss French," Prof. Gustafson said smiling graciously. "Now where were we?"

  Exchanging a meaningful glance at her landlord, now math professor, Louisa blushed to her temples before she broke out into a cocky grin.

  The class proceeded to the end of the hour, Hans giving his usual first day assignment. Three chapters reading and sixty problems, it was an extensive one. A tactic he used to see what students were going to treat his class seriously. He preferred higher mathematics, trigonometry and calculus. By the time a young person was in college they should be well beyond this introductory level. These young people were often marginal students, either too interested in partying, or perhaps, like his young tenant, Miss French, too wrapped up in other aspects of their education to care about such mundane basics.

  When the class filed out the door at the end of the hour, Hans noted that Miss French was one of the first to leave.

  ***

  It was a week later before Louisa French was close enough to Hans Gustafson for a personal conversation. This one was initiated by the professor when he noticed her leaving the apartment one evening.

  "Miss French," he called to her from his doorway.

  At the front stoop, the girl turned around. "I'm really in a hurry," she said, trying to move on.

  "Not in such a hurry to listen for a minute," he said kindly.

  "I really do . . ."

  "Come here," he said, stepping back, opening the door wide. "I'm not going to bite."

  She blushed, but consented, following him into his quarters. She was really in no hurry at all.

  "I don't see much of you around, except in class," Hans initiated the discussion.

  "I'm very busy."

  "I was thinking that I should have seen you in my office by now, since there was a problem on the test."

  "Oh, yes, I know you suggested that we see you, but I'm sure the next test will go just fine. I was at the theater the night before, didn't have much time to study. I'll do better next time." Louisa started to rise.

  "Sit down, Louisa," Hans countered her move, and she complied. All that calm reserve was really quite commanding. "You need some tutoring or you're not going to pass this class. And I gather it's important to you."

  "Of course, I have to pass it," she declared, anxiously.

  "Well, Louisa, since "well-timed theatrics" don't really help your grade, despite what you've heard, you're going to need to learn the material."

  Louisa blushed. "I guess that was a stupid thing to say, wasn't it?"

  "I really haven't dwelled on it," Hans replied smiling. "Though I would like to know who thinks I'm a pushover. I've never heard the term applied to me before."

  "Actually, I had the wrong professor," Louisa admitted. "I've heard other stories about you since."

  "I see. Well, the fact remains, you have a comprehension problem with this subject. Perhaps I could give you some extra instruction? Or maybe a tutor?"

  "Oh, I don't think that's necessary. I know my grade will improve. But I do appreciate your concern. You're really very sweet."

  "Thank you," Hans replied, noticing what a lovely light danced across the girl's face. He only hoped that she would succeed as she hoped. With all her daring and her sensuous allure, she might well have that fabulous career ahead of her that she wanted so much.

  "Now, really, I have to go," she told him. Giving him one of her most endearing grins, she left the room.

  ***

  It was several weeks later that Hans heard the mind boggling crash of glass from Louisa's upstairs apartment, and he rushed up to see what had happened.

  "Are you all right?" he asked her, as he charged into her room, seeing the door open and a porcelain vase lying in thousands of tiny pieces on the floor.

  "No, I'm not all right," Louisa snapped at the man.

  "Can I help?" he asked.

  "Yes, you can help," she assured him. "You can change my grade."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Look at this!" she ordered him, shoving a grading report in his face.

  "The numbers don't lie, Louisa," he reminded her, seeing the failing report he'd given the dean's office earlier that week.

  "You can't do this! You know how much my career means to me. You go failing students willy nilly because they can't master some obscure mathematical language that will do them positively no good for the rest of their lives! It's absurd!" She was shouting angrily.

  "It's a simple class, Louisa. If you did the work, I'm sure you'd pass," he said her sternly. "Did you throw this vase?"

  "Yes!" she snapped again.

  "I'd suggest you get control of yourself," he warned. "And get your work done."

  "Or what?"

  "Or maybe your grand career will fall at your feet in rubble, just like your pretty vase." Enough said, Hans left the room.

  ***

  Later that evening, the sheepish Miss French knocked on the Professor's door.

  "I'm sorry, sir, that scene upstairs was really childish of me," she said, when he answered.

  He looked at her a moment seeing a much softer expression on her face than had been there earlier. "Apology accepted," he said. "Did you clean up the mess?"

  "Yes, I did."

  "No cut fingers?"

  "No cut fingers," she replied.

  "So, is there some purpose for this visit other than your apology?" he asked. She wasn't moving and looked very nervous.

  "Yes, there is. I thought, I mean if you're still willing, that I'd better take you up on your offer to tutor me in math."

  "Oh?"

  "Yes. Maybe you could help motivate me. I can't afford to fail it."

  "I see," Hans nodd
ed as his eyes inspected the young woman. In spite of her temper and her less than sterling academic inclinations, she remained a irresistible joy to watch. "Sit down," he said, offering her a place on his sofa.

  "So, will you?"

  "It's a possibility, though I have my reservations."

  "Oh? You don't think I'm worth it?"

  "I didn't say that. But I doubt your sincerity."

  "Oh, sir, I'm absolutely sincere. Really I am."

  "That's easy to say, Miss French, but you haven't proven it to me at all. By the way you acted in your apartment, I'd say you wanted me to be easy on you because you're my tenant and I like you."

  "Oh, no!"

  "You expect me to believe that?"

  "Well?" She offered him a sweet sheepish grin.

  "What I think you really need is some heavy handed discipline. You're way out of control, and if you don't reign in a little, you'll never graduate."

  "I have to, sir, I really do."

  The Professor eyed her carefully, knowing full well that she was full of promises and little action. She did what she loved and little more, and right now her only love was her theatre.

  "Please, I promise. I won't disappoint you."

  "I'll consider tutoring you under certain conditions. You'll follow my rules to the letter."

  "And what are those?"

  He rapped his fingers lightly against the table next to him, as he considered the proper plan for this roguish brat. "Three tutoring sessions a week, forty-five minutes each. You complete every assignment, every day, and hand it in on time. You fail to do that, you pay the consequences."

  "Consequences? What are those?"

  "For you, Miss French, I think resorting to a time honored discipline would work the best."

  "Yes?"

  "I know it may be out-dated in the States, but there are many schools in Europe that still impose old-fashioned methods. I think in many cases they still work. And for you, given your lack of discipline, I think they'd work perfectly."

  "What is it?" She was anxious to hear.

  "You break our agreement, I spank your bottom."

  "What!"

  "Over my knee, pants down, old-fashioned spanking with that paddle." Hans pointed to a wooden implement hanging on the wall behind her. Turning around, she spotted the thing in wide-eyed horror.