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 marks. 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 other; 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
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 marks. 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 other; 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
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