Tales of Pleasure and Pain

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  On this night however, Bryce was in a somber mood. Initially it didn’t seem to matter to Roslyn; her good humor made her indulge in some witty stinging comments. And no doubt a little wine helped shed her inhibitions, keeping her from accurately ready Bryce’s temperament. But the more the evening wore on, the more annoyed and caustic Bryce became. And when Roz had finally gone too far, there was no one, including Jack, to rescue her from the consequences. (In fact the whole time Jack stood back with a pleasant grin and a shrug to his shoulders, enjoying his wife’s sticky predicament and the results.)

  “You going to keep acting like a bitch Roz?” Bryce said, grabbing her wrist. He was holding it firmly.

  “I’m not being a bitch at all Bryce, you’re the one in a foul mood,” she purred to him.

  “Not tonight,” he warned.

  “Such a snit, you little ass,” she purred again.

  “You want to be spanked, don’t you?” he asked.

  Several around them were taking notice of the row.

  “You know I do, when the time’s right.” She batted her eyelashes coyly at him, her lips turned into a taunting grin.

  “Maybe the time’s right now,” he mused. He was eyeing her pointedly, contemplating his next move.

  “Hey, we’re just playing,” Roslyn said. His expression suddenly worried her. She tried to wrestle from his grasp.

  “You’ve been flaunting yourself all night, whining like a little bitch,” Bryce charged. “I’d say you’re asking for it.”

  Despite the fire raging between her legs she wasn’t sure she liked the ideas popping into her head right then.

  “I’ve just been kidding,” she said, trying to soothe him.

  “Well I haven’t been,” Bryce said, his eyes were glowing darkly.

  “How ‘bout let’s forget it,” she suggested, trying to be as calm and sweet as possible.

  He shook his head no. “I don’t forget.” He hastily glanced at Jack who gave him no reason to not continue; Jack’s raised eyebrows and sly smirk only encouraged him.

  “Bryce …” Roslyn, said, trying again to wrestle away.

  “You want an audience, how’s this for an audience. They’d love to see your burning bottom.” He looked up to see at least five people attentively watching the conflagration; by their expressions he wasn’t wrong. Spanking had provoked all kinds of thoughts in many minds that night.

  “You wouldn’t,” she said.

  “I will,” he answered. For the first time that night, his eyes brighten beyond their dour glimmer. He pulled on her enough to bring her front and center, and with one abrupt jerk, she was falling over his lap, quickly assuming the position for a spanking.

  He began to whack her rear with the palm of his hand.

  “Let’s see how you feel about this audience,” he charged.

  “Bryce no!” she squealed. The smacks were not particularly nasty. It was the humiliation that reddened her cheeks and make her want to wrestle away and never see any of these people again.

  “Oh honey I’m just beginning,” he advised her.

  “Jack, Jack!” she yelled.

  Bryce continued slapping her bouncing rear end.

  “This is your battle Roslyn, you got yourself in this mess, you’ll get yourself out,” Jack answered. He was thoroughly enjoy the sight of his wife’s rear end getting its due.

  “You fiend, you’re both fiends!” she charged, though she had run out of bargaining power a long time ago and had few choices at her disposal. Her only consolation was that before long, Bryce’s hand would hurting as much as her bottom did, and she could hope he’d have the good sense to stop.

  Unfortunately circumstances were not in her favor.

  “Jack, the spanker is in my coat pocket,” Bryce said. “I think I need it.

  “No, damn it no,” Roslyn shrieked. “You can’t!”

  “You think I can’t, well you’re wrong! Right in front of all these people you’re going to have your dearest fantasy come true.”

  Jack found the leather implement and handed it to Bryce.

  By then the entire party had gathered around, most watching in awe, though there were some very delightful smiles breaking out on faces all around the room.

  It was fortunate that Roslyn couldn’t see them; she would surely have died of embarrassment, so mortified by her own most outrageous desire coming true.

  Bryce had been initially reluctant to be too vigorous with the paddling. But as he got his second wind and the spanking paddle in his hand, his courage was renewed. He was resolved to give Roslyn and her audience the show of a lifetime.

  She was wearing a skirt so it was easy to raise the garment above her waist and out of the way.

  “No,” she shrieked, once she realized what he was doing. She tried her damnedest to wriggle away.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Bryce cautioned her.

  And her bottom was quickly bare for a dozen pairs of gaping eyes. Her soft fleshy mounds fairly gleamed. The hand spanking had only raised the faintest pink blush, and that was quickly fading. It was Bryce’s intention to change all that, with the spanker giving her jiggling ass cheeks a crimson glow.

  Before Roslyn could protest further, the nasty leather spanker was peppering her behind with vigorous swats. Her anguished cries rose into the highly charged air, the humiliation unbearable. How could she face these people and Bryce and Jack… . she was inconsolable.

  The paddle was swift to make its impact since Bryce put every bit of effort into the strokes. Roslyn’s errs and her sassy tongue had given him all the excuse he needed to deal with his glowering mood. The effect was immediate. The sight of her glowing red buns was exhilarating, lifting his spirits and turning the day into one he’d never forget. Likely no one else in the room would either!

  “Oooooo I bet that hurts,” one onlooker murmured.

  “Poor Roz,” another remarked sympathetically.

  “Do they do this all the time?” someone wondered.

  “You know he’s not even her husband?” a shocked young woman blurted out.

  “I think my wife could use that,” a masculine voice commented.

  “I think my husband could…” a female countered, sarcastically.

  It was an inspiration to them all, all but Roslyn perhaps.

  “Bryce, please stop,” Roslyn pleaded after he’d pealed off a stinging round of blows and paused to catch his breath.

  “You’ve had enough?” he asked.

  “Oh yes,” she replied.

  “You’d better watch it in the future you little wench,” he warned.

  “I promise, I really do.”

  Another smack, smack, smack with a resounding ring, greeted her.

  “Please Bryce please,” she pleaded sincerely.

  “Well make these last two the best,” he announced. And with an enthusiastic relish he leveled a resounding smack on her flaming right cheek.

  “Yeow!” she wailed.

  The last and final smack landed with equal intent on her left cheek.

  “Yeow!” she yelled again. Nothing had ever hurt so much.

  True to his word, Bryce was finished. And once he handed the spanker back to Jack, he pushed Roslyn off his lap, and she slumped to the floor. There was no way she could face the people looking on.

  From her submissive repose in front of Bryce, the two looked each other in the eye.

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t expect this,” he said quietly. His voice was still somber, though his eyes were not so dark and beastly as they had been.

  “I can’t believe you did it,” she whispered back. Her cheeks were blushing as red as her now covered bottom. Her private talk with Bryce was an effort to send her audience on their way. She may have bared her bottom for them, but she had no intention of baring her soul too. Truth was, her audience was as embarrassed as she was; and they were no more inclined to gape at Roslyn than she was to stare them in the eye. Quietly they walked away, all except for Jack.

>   “It’s done now,” Bryce said, “and you deserved it. Besides, you loved every minute of it!”

  “Never!” she whispered.

  “You’re lying,” he answered.

  “No I’m not.”

  Bryce smiled. “You’re just too ashamed to admit it,” he alleged.

  “Will you stop please; you’re a vile, loathsome beast!”

  “I’m only here to give you want you want,” he reasoned. There was an odd gleam in his eye.

  Roslyn looked at him suspiciously. Something horrifying was dawning in her brain. “Did you plan this?” she asked.

  “Plan? What plan?” he replied innocently.

  “You did,” she blurted out.

  “You’ll never know will you?” he shot back jauntily.

  She looked at Jack, though he admitted nothing.

  Even so, her intuition was usually right on.

  Damn them! She thought to herself. They set me up!

  She could have been angry, except that she was so sexually aroused. She really didn’t want to waste any time thinking about their devious underhanded schemes and their perverse sense of humor, even though she had no doubts looking at both of them. She was turned-on, with a juicy cunt and a need that wouldn’t go unanswered for long.

  Bryce read her mind, and flashed her a lewd grin. “Go home and screw her Jack, I think she needs it,” he suggested.

  “She needs it! What about me?” Jack jibed. As Roslyn got to her feet, Bryce whapped her on her sore behind and sent her toward the door.

  “How about Sunday?” Bryce called after her. “I think you’ll need it again by then, don’t you? Maybe we should make it a regular thing.”

  “You got an audience lined up?” Jack said.

  “I’m sure we can find one,” Bryce answered.

  “You can’t mean that Bryce,” Roslyn whined.

  “Oh no? Just try me,” he snapped cheerfully, though there were warning signs in his expression.

  There was no doubt anymore, she had two dominants to look out for, two to please, and two to paddle her tender bottom. She wasn’t sure she could handle all that attention, but for the moment she had good screw waiting for her and there was time enough later for her to ponder what spanking possibilities this curious relationship would likely bring.

  Boarding House Blues

  I run a boarding house for women in an old grey mansion I inherited from my austere aunt, who conveniently died when I was twenty-five, leaving me with lots of money to guarantee my life’s security. I hated the house, and couldn’t imagine living in it in the form it passed into my hands - enormous, damp and shadowy. So I opened up the small stuffy rooms, creating spacious large ones, redecorated in endless shades of white, and took in boarders.

  There are two large living rooms in the house, an expansive porch across the front, and eight rooms in the two upstairs floors for renters. My own private rooms on the first floor are separated from the rest. Sometimes I need the separation from the giggling school girl antics of the young women that rent from me.

  When I decided to open the mansion as a boarding house, I only wanted women, thinking it would be easier than complicating things with the intrusion of men. But keeping order in a “Women Only” boarding house turned out to be more difficult than I planned. Women can be incredibly messy in their personal habits; I sigh in disgust every time I need to clean the upstairs bathrooms. And it seems an endless task getting my boarders to help clean the kitchen and pick up their things from the living rooms, despite posting schedules and making numerous threats.

  However after a couple of years of being in business, quite by accident I discovered a most unusual and effective way of handling my sometimes unruly brood.

  It all began with Morgan Cavanaugh.

  Morgan is a real first class woman, a tall brunette with long svelte legs, creamy clear olive complexion, and a model figure, face and attitude. It didn’t matter what time of day or night, what she was wearing - some of her fabulous clothes, or just jeans and a t-shirt - she always looked terrific, much to the displeasure of several of the other women in the house. I suppose her ability to look so good all the time had something to do with the fact that she was a professional model. She was also a professional bitch.

  She was haughty, arrogant, and usually in her own world, not often coming down to the “level” of my other boarders. She remained in her room a lot when she was at home, and when she did grace us with her presence some nitpicking little cat fight would likely result from her sharp tongue. The other women grew to hate her quickly.

  In spite of her haughty disposition, she was curiously vulnerable when she asked for a room in my boarding house. She’d been having a tough time getting work, had to give up a regular apartment, and my old respectable house was the only “quality” place available to her at the time. As I looked at her standing on my doorstep wearing a tight red dress that clung to the supple curves of her figure as if it were part of her body itself, I wondered what effect her presence in the house would have on every one else. I rented her a room, despite the fact that she had less than perfect references, and no stable income. I figured with her looks, why wouldn’t the agencies be calling her night and day with work? She was just down on her luck.

  So, breaking my first rule of business, I allowed her, and her ten trunks of clothes, to cross the doorway of #4; a gamble yes, but she was interesting even in her arrogance. Little did I know what kind of fireworks she’d set off in my quiet little place.

  The fireworks started before I had a chance to get to know her. Of course getting to know Morgan might take years, since she wasn’t a particularly social person.

  “She’s a bitch Roxanne,” Lacy said it very plainly.

  Lacy was one of my favorite borders, a sweet young impressionable thing, who was always full of energy and fun and good humor, except when it came to Morgan. I recall the conversation very well. We were drinking Ice Tea as we rocked on the old front porch. “You know she gave me the evil eye this mornin’. I hate women like her, so uppity, almighty perfect all the time. I bet she even makes love perfect, you know never musses that perfect hair, not one smudge of make-up.”

  “You’re jealous,” I observed, surprised.

  “Hell no!” Lacy charged, though I knew better. “I just don’t get it, she has no bad angles, you know no matter what, she looks good. I hate that!”

  She was no Morgan Cavanaugh, but she didn’t need to be; her short voluptuous form was very appealing, in fact she was much more appealing in many ways than Morgan since she had a pleasant personality and a bright smile. I’m not sure Morgan ever smiled at all.

  Lacy’s only problem I was soon to discover, was that flaming jealousy that could turn mean, without much effort.

  “She’d not going to treat me like dirt Roxanne; I’m not going to let her!”

  “Hey you’re really getting worked up over this,” I said.

  “Yeah I am,” Lacy said.

  “Well, I don’t see where you have anything to be bothered about; you can’t let the Morgan Cavanaugh’s of the world get to you.”

  “Oh, it’s just this one Morgan Cavanaugh that bugs me, just her.”

  I didn’t know what to make of Lacy, but I suspected that if Morgan pushed Lacy further, things might get out of hand between them. I wasn’t certain what that would be, but I didn’t like the mean streak rising in Lacy.

  Whatever my concerns with Lacy were, my attentions quickly turned to Miss Cavanaugh. I was soon to find myself in the curious position of wielding a good deal of power over her. After just a month, she became delinquent with her rent. I was afraid this would happen, but I thought perhaps a little gentle conversation, a little reassurance from me, maybe even some ideas of ways she could solve her financial problems, would help her right things quickly.

  Yet when I went to her room one evening to discuss things, she stood at her doorway obviously annoyed by my intrusion. She must have been exercising since she was wearing loos
e shorts and a little crop top; and even though she was sweating and her hair was a total mess, she looked terrific. I couldn’t figure how she did it; maybe some women are born with the knack.

  “What do you want?” Morgan said rudely, when she opened the door.

  Her attitude startled me; I would think for a woman twenty days late with the rent she would be more civil.

  “Morgan, you’re late with your rent,” I said evenly, “I think we need to talk.” I needed to steel myself against the cold coming from her eyes.

  “Yeah, I’m late,” she stated, as if that was all the explanation she needed.

  I half laughed, “That’s why I’m here.”

  “I don’t have it,” she said nastily with a little twitch of her turned up nose.

  “Well, when do you suppose you will have it?” I asked, trying to remain calm, though her attitude was really beginning to bother me.

  “I don’t know, I’m suppose to have a job by the end of the week.”

  “And you get paid then?”

  “Well no, that’s usually two weeks after.”

  “That would put you thirty days past due, I make a policy not to carry people that long.”

  “I don’t think you have any choice, you can’t evict me?” She spoke so casually, she sounded bored.

  “Oh?”

  “I know my rights.” She tried to close the door, but I stopped her and pushed my way inside. Apparently this was going to demand a little more effort and firmness.

  “The lease you signed requires your payment within thirty days, or I have the right to evict you. I wouldn’t want to, but if you can’t pay, and we can’t come up with some arrangement, I will.”

  “You wouldn’t dare, you know I’m good for the money.”

  “I know nothing of the sort my dear, you’ve only been here a few weeks, and you had damned poor references when you came. Let’s suffice it say you got the apartment on your good looks.”

  She looked as if she might soften for a minute, but she returned to the icy stare instead.

  I was appalled by her behavior, and no longer particularly interested in being nice. “Why are you acting like such a bitch?” I asked.