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Authors: Lizbeth Dusseau

Tales of Pleasure and Pain

Tales of Pleasure & Pain




Lizbeth Dusseau


©2012 by CF Publications ®

Tales of Pleasure & Pain


Lizbeth Dusseau


Copyright CF Publications 2012


Published by CF Publications


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 CF Publications®,

in conjunction with Blushing Books

PO Box 706

East Setuaket, NY  11733


Lizbeth Dusseau

Tales of Pleasure & Pain

eBook ISBN: 978-1-60968-754-0

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Table of Contents

Pleasures of an Audience

Boarding House Rules

The Razor Strap & the Red Rose


Pleasures of an Audience

She flailed her legs and arms, whined and moaned and raised holy hell!
But he wouldn't stop.

She tried to wriggle from his grasp, but that didn't work either, for he had her tightly by the waist. He'd done it by the design, it was more intimate and more confining to have her over his lap. There was less chance Roslyn would get away; and when there was a chance she'd get away, she'd get angry and resentful of being spanked, rather than yielding to what she needed.

She was sobbing profusely when he pushed her off his lap, but it wasn't altogether a sincere cry. It was just special effects that she performed, to engage his sympathy and attempt to ease the painful blows of the ancient butter paddle against her thighs and ass. She never really knew if her acting worked. It probably didn't because Jack was too astute to be taken in by a whining little wench and her mournful pleas.

Jack loved watching her squirm, he loved the gallant contest; it was amusing to him, knowing that he was a mountain of a man, far far stronger than Roslyn, and far too ornery to be swayed by her spirited protests. Her bottom bouncing on his lap was a beautiful sight. By the time he finished with the butter paddle it was glowing bright red, that creamy white turned a rich shade of scarlet, while the places on her skin that were repeatedly smacked, were beginning to rise with tiny welts.

He'd loved leaving
they both loved looking at them for days after. It was amazingly satisfying for Jack to see them there, reminders that she was his submissive, and willingly allowed him such pleasures.

The fights, the protests and the anger were games they played. They long ago figured out that the two of them belonged together, one submissive, one dominant, and this foreplay of punishment, this reenactment of old fashioned justice, served to satisfy them in ways that reflected their darkest desires.

Judgment, punishment and correction, were terms more aptly associated with relationships as antiquated as the butter paddle and leather strap he used on Roslyn's behind.

But nonetheless they took a 1990's twist in their peculiar household.

"So my love, what's wrong?" Jack asked, as she was recouping from the paddling. "Usually Roslyn was serene and peaceful following a vigorous confrontation with the butter paddle. But this time she was not so content, as he imagined she should be.

"Nothing," she answered meekly, acting like a little mouse. That was totally out of character for her. She may be submissive, but she was also a feisty brat. To be meek meant only one thing.

"You're hiding something," Jack charged. He spoke to her sternly, not liking the prospect of having to drag the truth from her.

"It's nothing," she said, trying to sound more cheerful.

They were sitting side by side in their chairs, looking at each
Roslyn trying to convince him and herself that she was perfectly alright, while inside there was some dark secret bubbling up, though as yet she had no words to name it.

Jack had a strange smirk on his face.

"No! You can't read my mind," she said. "You know nothing about this."

"Aha! There is something!" he exclaimed with a devilish gleam in his eye.

"But even I don't know what it's about," she said triumphantly. And she was telling the truth. It wasn't unusual for the wildly creative Roslyn to harbor so many offbeat sexual desires that even she couldn't figure what had grabbed the attention of her loins, away from the desires she already knew so well.

"So I can expect some grand unveiling," he said. It was a statement, not a question. He knew in time, probably within an hour or two, Roslyn would have named her new delight, and they'd be off to another passionate rendering of sexual appetites in a manner only Roslyn could concoct.

They played with fantasy, wild scenarios that they enacted between the two. On occasion they invited other people to join them - though that rarely worked out since few people had their unique sensibilities.

Some of their best times revolved around semi public exhibition. Roslyn was
exhibitionist who loved to flaunt her shapely body to admiring audiences. In their Jeep outside a girlie bar, Jack would fondle her tits and squeeze her nipples through her blouse, so some hot young stud in the car next to them couldn't help but see the show. What horny man wouldn't stop to enjoy the sight of a woman with her breasts seductively exposed, and a hand between her legs playing with her cunt?

After playing their game for a while, when Roslyn and Jack were so hot they couldn't stand it any longer, she'd flash the voyeur a last flirting smile, and Jack would drive away. They'd find some country road to mosey down so they could both get off, Roslyn first, followed by a quick blow job to Jack's stiff prick.

Their semi public frolics drove their sexual appetites nearly as high as their punishment rituals and spanking scenarios. They were never
there was so much creative variety in their love making and their lives.

They expressed what came naturally from their loins, preferring to be spontaneous rather
than contrived. Trying to be too specific with any fantasy never really worked, and that was why Jack didn't often tell his wife what plans he had in mind. He was a maestro at taking Roslyn's raw creative material and setting up possibilities. What happened in the end was up to the moment and their immediate fancy.

And hour later, Jack asked again, "So what's this secret desire?" Instinct told him that Roslyn had the mysterious answer to her earlier quandary.

She fidgeted. That was a dead give away.

"I. . . I don't exactly know how to put this Jack . . ." she hedged.

"You usually don't have a problem telling me your thoughts."

That wasn't true at all, she thought. She had a hell of a time telling him things because she knew he'd only have more raw
to work with. Before she knew it, she'd see her day dreams played out in real life. Sometimes before she was ready.

Jack never balked at
he never had a problem enjoying her outlandish sexual reveries, whether they were exhibitionist or spanking. But Roslyn was decidedly more cautious, often troubled by the exuberant creativity that spawned such weird wild orgies in her head. Through years of experience with Roslyn, Jack had learned to temper his immediate enthusiasm for her delicious desires, trying to make certain that Roslyn was as ready for her fantasies as he was, before he'd make them real.

"C'mon, you're going to tell me sooner or later," Jack encouraged her.

Roslyn looked at him sheepishly. "Well, this sort of combines my most "out there" ideas," she began.

"In what way?" he asked.

"Well," she was hesitating like a guilty child, "I thought it would be really nasty if you spanked me in front of someone else."

Jack looked at her, surprised by her admission, though pleased. "An audience? Is that so?" he said at last.

"Yeah," she confirmed. "But listen, it can't be something contrived, it's got to be real, I mean I'd really want to get into it, really enjoy it. Goddam, it makes my belly churn just thinking of it."

"Good," Jack said. He was suddenly looking pensive, pondering carefully, as if he were right then deciding how to give his dear Roslyn this latest desire.

"But you don't have go out and make it happen tonight, I'm just telling you because . . .
because you asked."

"Of course, trust me sweetie," there was a delicious smirk on his face. "Only when you're ready." He looked at her, loving her beautiful face and her soft fragrant body and her wild imagination and even her reluctance. He loved controlling her, though she was like putting a flame in a bottle, like capturing a savage tiger; the flame would go out if not allowed to breathe, and the wild tiger would not remain wild if he kept it captive too long.

All in good time, he thought to himself as he considered her desire, all in good time. This one requires delicacy and just the right excuse, and just the right people to witness the event!

"Come here wench," Jack ordered her. His demand usually meant one thing. "Let me see you."

"But we just . . .. "

"Shush," he said firmly with a finger pressed to his lips.

She stood in front of him, and he made her turn around, and pull up her skirt so he could see the marks; though only faint lines remained where he'd struck her bottom an hour before.

"Put on some music," he said. "I want you to dance for me. I want you to pretend you have an audience around you, pretend there's someone in room that's going to see this bottom of yours blistered bright red."

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