A Wild Night On the Island & Other Stories Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  A Wild Night On The Island

  Hell To Pay

  Tongue-Tied

  Over The Professor’s Knee

  A Lesson In Love

  More Lizbeth Spanking Fiction . . .

  A Wild Night On The Island

  And Other Tales

  by

  Lizbeth Dusseau

  A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication

  Copyright © 2005 Lizbeth Dusseau

  All rights reserved

  A Wild Night On The Island

  I looked at his cold and condescending face, thinking of how much I'd always wanted to be marooned on a luxurious wind swept island with a mysterious and dashing lover. But it was just my luck to be stuck on this tattered piece of earth in the middle of a monsoon, marooned in a dirty rattrap hotel with the prick of the century!

  I knew Peter Britain well. For five years I'd slaved for him in his video company, watching this perfection of manhood, with all the charisma of a moviestar, bend the world around him to suit his designs. The women that had been on his arm were countless, beautifully composed specimens of femininity with flawless skin, tiny bodies and clothes that cost a fortune. Peter, himself, seemed flawless to me, his sandy brown hair so perfectly groomed, his classically chiseled cheek bones and clear sharp eyes with his high arched brows made it hard for me not to stare at him.

  Me, with my mass of curly dark locks, my slightly exaggerated features—mother always said they give me character —and my mundane secretary's wardrobe, I always felt like the frumpy old spinster next to Peter Britain's well-perfected life.

  I was his "right-hand-man", or so he occasionally called me. Just one of the guys, I suppose. Always there, always ready to do his bidding, working long hours days in a row with little more than a quick smile as a reward, and a few extra dollars in my paycheck. Yes, I was appreciative of the money he sent my way, but it was never personal the way I thought it should be between such close working professionals.

  And still, being with him every day for such a long time, it was hard not to fantasize about the man. In fact, we'd even started something about a year after I came to work for him, while I was still smitten with the crush of the century on my gorgeous boss. He took me out to dinner after several late nights, even brought me roses once. I longed for him with all my heart, but I was cautious, maybe too cautious. The fling that went nowhere seemed to disappear for lack of interest.

  After a year of mooning over him, hoping that he'd ask me out one more time, I decided to quit pining for him. Whatever he wanted, I apparently didn't have, and I forced myself to give it up and remain Miss Nobody in his world. After all, I did have my own life, terrific friends, some very terrific boyfriends, and a wild enough sex life to suit my fancy. Peter probably wouldn't have understood me anyway, my fascination for the unusual, including my sometimes kinky sexual fantasies, not the least of which was having my bottom spanked.

  It didn't happen with every lover, but occasionally I'd share a fantasy with a very opened minded boyfriend, and I'd get my wish, a rollicking joyride over a man's lap, getting the living daylights paddled out of my naked bottom. Of course the wildest sex would follow, which was always the best part. Sometimes, I thought myself the weirdest person on earth, but then who was it harming, anyway?

  Sometimes, I thought of Peter taking me over his lap. His stern and dictatorial manner seemed to lend itself so well to the dominant sort of man I dreamed about most often. But no way would that happen. He was in a different league than me, looking for something I couldn't furnish him. I'd never be perfection like he was used to. I had to remain me, which was sometimes scruffy, sometimes daring, and often sexually provocative in my own unique ways.

  No, I'd decided after my first two years of wishing for something I couldn't have, that I was better off without a man like my boss. I'd leave Peter to his own world. Even when on some rare occasion, Peter Britain would turn gracious, and out of the blue invite me to one of his dreadfully dull cocktail parties, or suggest we grab a late night pizza because we'd been working late, I discouraged him. I was sure of my conclusions and adamant about maintaining a rightful distance.

  All conclusions aside, being marooned on a retched island with him was another matter altogether. I had no desire to be alone with him for god knows how long, the sole recipient of his dictatorial wishes, and having my sexual yearnings playing havoc with me.

  It was all his fault we were in this stupid predicament in the first place. That was something to be angry with from the beginning. Realizing that there was a storm approaching fast and no way to get off the island until the next day, I decided to be miserable. Storming into the old lobby, I plunked down in a squishy overstuffed chair and pouted.

  "I suppose we'd better make the best of it," Peter said, as I watched him shake off his drenched parka and hang it by the rattling door.

  "Best of it? How's that?"

  "A fire would be nice, don't you think?"

  "I'm not cold," I answered, not knowing why I was acting so snippy, but it seemed appropriate.

  "Hey, it won't be long. There should be a boat back here to get us by morning."

  "Let's hope so."

  "Then how about some food."

  "I suppose you want me to whip something up in that kitchen?" I asked him.

  "Just get the sandwiches from the cooler. I'll make a fire."

  I shrugged and leapt off the chair, heading toward the kitchen where our few meager stores sat on the broken tiled counter. It was the last of a whole galley full of food that had fed our crew and cast that afternoon, before the winds had forced everyone off the island. Everyone except Peter and me. How ironic.

  ***

  We were sharing two bowls of soup by a raging fire an hour later, and my mood hadn't changed. Peter, on the other hand, was being exceeding friendly, trying to engage me in conversation.

  "Glad we got these videos shot, before this happened."

  "You know, I told you this wasn't a good time of year down here."

  "Might I remind you, we have deadlines. And you were the one that set the schedule," he said.

  "Yes, deadlines." I sighed deeply and turned away from him looking at the flames leaping wildly inside the grate.

  Peter said no more, and I got up to wander about the hotel lobby, perusing racks of beat up magazines and novels, the frayed tourist information on the desk, and dusty paintings on the walls. Such a boondoggle, choosing this ancient and deserted place. Peter thought it would be perfect for the commercial we were shooting, just the right brand of decay he wanted and we didn't have to build a set at all.

  "I think I'll go out and see what the weather's doing," I told him, as I moved to the courtyard door.

  "You will not!" Peter suddenly barked at me.

  "What?" I turned about surprised by his sharp retort.

  "Samantha, there's a storm raging out there. It's hardly time for a pleasant stroll."

  "The wind's died down," I assured him, even though I could still hear it howling. I tried the locked door.

  "You're not going out!" he roared at me again, over the sound of the rattling wood, and the incessant swooshing noise of the wind outside.

  I was dumbfound. Never in five years had Peter sounded off to me so passionately. His criticisms were normally leveled at me with sarcasm and a judgmental cool.

  "Why this all of a sudden. You care about me?" I asked in wonder.

  "Of course, I care," he looked at me as if I was totally stupid.

  "Oh." That was my only response, the entire exchange still quite unbelievable.

  I wande
red about the lobby for a time, marveling about what power I had to provoke him. After all these years, such a response. Taking a corridor at one end of the room, I disappeared into a section of the hotel where our crew hadn't gone. Exploring at bit, I poked inside rooms and closets finding nothing, and was suddenly aware of the oddest sensation at my back. Jerking about, I was shocked to find Peter just a foot away.

  "What the hell are you doing!" I jumped back. "You scared the living daylights out of me."

  "Sorry, I was beginning to wonder where you were."

  "I'm fine."

  "I didn't want you going out."

  "You don't need to be a nursemaid."

  "Yes, but I am responsible for your safety while you're here."

  "I never thought of if that way," I retorted, and I swept past him on the way back to the lobby. How strange this was, Peter ordering me about, worrying over me. It was curious, and unwelcomed, though I found myself responding with a familiar tingling sensation, and thoughts of dominant men swirling about my fantasies as I recalled some of my startling daydreams.

  After a few hours of relative boredom sitting uncomfortably in a chair trying to read an incomprehensible and very dog-eared novel, I struck out again to explore. This time, Peter was in the makeshift outhouse/bath, and I could get away without a fuss.

  Another hour passed by, as I traipsed up the old staircase and scouted about the rooms, finding one particularly interesting find: what was once the luxury suite, still looking as if it was outfitted for royalty with an enormous wooden bed surrounded by now faded drapes. Tugging on the old furnishings, I was thinking I might even try to sleep there; but my quest was altered when I kicked up so much dust I choked, and had to leave the room.

  Just as I was returning to the hallway, I ran smack dab into Peter.

  "You know, Samantha," he said scowling, "you're really annoying me. This isn't a safe place, and you're running off to god knows where like some restless little kid. Please stay in the lobby. I don't need you getting hurt somewhere."

  "Thanks for caring, Peter," I replied. "But I'll take care of myself."

  "That's an order," he snapped, and in such a unexpected tone of voice. I was too flustered to argue. Not seeing any sign of agreement from me, Peter grabbed my arm, and hauled me back down to the lobby, shoved me into a chair, and stared down at me sternly.

  "Don't move," he said.

  "Don't move?" I queried.

  "Or I'll . . . " he stopped.

  "Or what?" I wondered aloud.

  "Or I'll take you over my knee and spank you like a kid."

  Somehow the way Peter said that was perfectly logical, when it might never have been a logical thing for him to say before. Perhaps because we were so isolated, feeling cut-off from reality, the howling wind, the darkening sky around us. Perhaps our minds were playing cruel tricks on us, spinning us away into another time and place. Then again, perhaps Peter was simply pissed at me, and his comment was perfectly natural.

  Regardless, the effect of his pronouncement was alarming. All those spanking stories I'd read, and all those daydreams I recalled about Peter, and all the lusty excursions I'd had over men's laps were returning to my mind in one quick flash.

  "You've got to be kidding," I said, when I finally came back to my senses.

  "No, I'm not. You've been acting like an spoiled and angry brat all afternoon, and I've had enough."

  The strange sensations in my body were not stopping, I found my body responding to Peter's admonishment with such a sexual charge, I thought I was going to be orgasmic on the strength of his suggestion alone. With Peter staring down at me, in this oddest of odd circumstances, my body jerked with lust. I hoped he hadn't seen it. I know the word "spank"—a real operative word in my sexual dictionary—had the power to excite me readily. But this! This was ridiculous, coming from Peter. It sounded like real punishment. Did he really mean it? And was that exciting me too?

  Not taking his eyes from me, Peter was expecting some response, but I had none to give him.

  "You want to tell me why you're so angry?" he finally broke the silence and asked.

  "I wouldn't think you cared," I snapped.

  "Samantha, we've known each other for years, and you've never acted like this."

  "I could say the same for you," I retorted. "To start, I don't see why we couldn't have made some better arrangements to get back to the mainland before this storm hit. You were foolish and shortsighted staying here just to "finish up". And look at us now! This whole situation is ridiculous. You've messed up all my plans for the entire weekend, likely put us off schedule, when you thought you were saving time. I don't know when I've ever been so mad at you. Now do you understand?"

  My eyes must have been shooting darts the way he backed off just a bit. But it was only a momentary bauble, because his eyes were flashing sharply a second later.

  "Well, my sassy assistant, let me remind you that your failing to have the arrangements made for yesterday cost us one entire day. If we had it planned right in the first place, we wouldn't have been here to begin with, and we wouldn't be stuck here now."

  "You know, this is just like you, assuming you're so fucking right all the time. And every peon like me around you is nothing but someone to step on, and walk over, and demand perfection from."

  "Boy are you way out of line," Peter snapped back at me. "You certainly aren't a peon in my company, and I've never thought of you that way."

  "Well you certainly act like you do," I told him.

  "And your stubborn will, and cold aloofness isn't particularly heartwarming," he shot back. "I've tried making pleasant conversation with you hundreds of times, and you brush me off like you don't want anything to do with me."

  "Me!" I shouted. "You're accusing me of being cold!"

  "You're about as frigid as that storm out there," he blared pointing to the unrelenting wind and rain outside.

  "Frigid. Why you contemptible ass!"

  I charged up out of the chair, knowing I was totally out of control, and bolted toward the outside, only to have Peter anticipate my move, and capture me with his strong arms before I could get the stuck door free. Dragging me back before the fire, I was over his lap, his right hand coming down on my bottom with a steady rain of smacks before my mind could reason this out.

  "You asshole!" I roared. But he wasn't letting up. Through my thin skirt and panties, I was beginning to feel quite a burn, and though I vowed not to feel it as sexual heat, I couldn't help the instantaneous burst of fire that lit my entire loins. I struggled. I squirmed. I shouted holy hell. But Peter was the most adamant and angered that I'd ever seen him, refusing to stop for any reason.

  I was livid, swearing like a drunken seaman, beating at his legs with my hands, and flailing my legs wildly behind me. To my further woe, he finally slowed his frenzied pace to a milder but steady smack smack smack of his palm against my bottom; and there was a sudden roar of savage desire I couldn't shake off.

  I was captured in his arms, the spanking done. He pulled me up to him and we were kissing with a fury neither of us expected. Without a word being spoken we were pulling clothes away, tossing them every which way across the dusty floor. Our hands were making journeys they had no right to make. Traveling between each other's legs, as we fell against the old couch and began to screw each other in heated abandon. His mouth was pressed to mine, my crotch to his. With his erection prodding me sharply, my hips reached up to greet each thrust with rapturous glee.

  The only way to end this unexpected copulation was a joint orgasmic surge that swept gratefully through both our bodies, ending with the two of us collapsing together in a sweaty heap.

  "My god! What the hell just happened!" I whispered passionately, as Peter fell off of me.

  "We just made love," he murmured an exhausted reply.

  "No!" I countered him. "We just fucked."

  I bolted upright, and climbed over his body, grabbing for my clothes. When I couldn't put them on fast enough, I ga
thered them in my arms and raced for the kitchen. Damn! There was so much going on my head, I didn't know if I could stop it. The storm, the wind, Peter, spanking, fucking, bodies, heat. Finally dressed, I stared out the window at the battering storm. I was glad to be alone for a few minutes to think this through. Unfortunately, I wasn't alone for long. I felt Peter behind me, his hands on my shoulders turning me around. I know I was shaking like a leaf in his hands.

  "You and I are not going to ignore this," he told me, in the no nonsense delivery I was accustomed to from him. He was so calm and all business-like, the rush of emotion gone. I thought I was safe; except that he was quite serious about his message.

  "Peter, how are we supposed to figure this out?" I asked him. "It makes no sense at all. You certainly don't want me!"

  "Why would you say that?" he asked calmly.

  "Oh, good god, Peter. We've been working together thick as thieves for five years, I might as well have been a man as a desirable woman."

  "It hasn't always been that way," he countered me. "You seem to be forgetting how we began."

  "Yeah, but that was over a long time ago. You made that very clear to me. All I've gotten from you is your chilly reserve since you decided I didn't fit your standards. You've been more interested in your cultured jet-set vixens than me. And I've remained the ever faithful slave to your company."

  Peter's focused stare relaxed a little, as he backed away. "My, you do have things mixed up," he said. I guess he was surprised by my evaluation of the last three years.

  "No. I don't have things mixed up. You've been in your glorious world, while I've been in my not so glorious one. Let's just keep that straight."

  "Can we now?" he asked, as if I was forgetting the spontaneous combustion that ignited us minutes ago.

  "We have to," I insisted.

  "Why?" he asked.

  I looked at him suspiciously. "Are you serious?"

  "If you've noticed anything, you should have seen that I haven't had a date in months, with anyone, let alone jet-setting vixens."

  "I guess I stopped noticing your life," I admitted. "You've stopped dating. Why?"