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The Friday Night Bridge Club and Other Stories

By: Rollin Hand
Published By: DT Publications
Copyright: � 2013 by DT Publications and Rollin Hand
7 Chapters / 24,600 Words
Heat Level:
1.8 Out Of 5 (1.8 on 8)   |  Write a review

Seven short stories are featured in this collection of spanking erotica. At nearly 25,000 words, these seven stories feature the lighter side of spanking, but still contain enough steamy disciplinary action to please the most demanding spankophile.

The Friday Night Bridge Club - an art forgery case probes the curious rituals of a ladies' bridge club and provides an insurance investigator with an experience he'll never forget.

Love's Passionate Frenzied Fury - a budding romance writer discovers that for inspiration she must actually experience her artistic creations much to her husband's delight.

Vale vs. Connor - a man and several swimsuit models are stranded on a jungle island. The girls agree to obey the man's rules in order to survive, all except for one very spoiled and arrogant princess.

Elm Street USA - the 1950's as protrayed on TV was a gentle idyllic time, right? How is it those kids were so well behaved?

The Marriage Mentors of Maple Lane - an older experienced couple in a neighborhood of newlyweds teach the secrets of marital harmony - and enjoy seeing their advice put into action.

Scavenger Hunt - a writer in a college town is besieged by nubile sorority coeds once too often.

Bermuda Triangle - Navy aviators stranded on an island of beautiful women teach the natives a new method of enforcing tribal laws, with some unintended consequences.
�It�s a forgery,� said the rather striking looking young woman gesturing towards the painting. To Jack Clark it looked like a rather ordinary still life sort of thing, just a painting of a room with no people in it. It looked vaguely Victorian, or maybe Edwardian, whatever the difference was. Gaslight, warm woods, old timey chair, old couch and a fireplace with an iron stove. There were portraits of a couple on the wall on opposite sides of the fireplace. It certainly didn�t look special.

�How much did you say it was worth?� asked Jack. As a relatively new investigator for the insurance company who had written the theft insurance policy, Jack nevertheless knew this was the always the big issue�just what was the value of the stolen property.

�In the divorce settlement it was valued at $45,000,� said Gloria Grant. �It�s called The Drawing Room.�

Jack whistled. This was going to be tough. A lot of money.

�But you think that someone you know substituted this for the real one?�

�Yes, I do. It was someone in my club. The Friday Night Bridge Club that I belong to.�

Jack took out a notebook and prepared to write. �When did you see them last?�

She looked at Jack like he was an idiot. �Friday night, of course.�

�Oh. Right,� said Jack. But he hadn�t missed the supercilious tone. A hot babe nonetheless. She probably knew it too. Early 30�s, platinum blonde hair that framed a thin face with high cheekbones and flawless skin. She was wearing a tight black sheath dress that left nothing to the imagination.

�Anyway, I want you to question them. I�d rather have my painting back than the money. I wonder which one did it and if it was just a lark, but I�m sure you�ll find out. You�re a rather rugged sort,� she said with a wicked smile. �You�ll make them talk, I�m sure.�

Jack was in fact an exceedingly handsome rugged sort. She had asked for him by name when she had filed the claim, or so his boss had said. But he�d never met her. He was 27, just starting out after his Army obligation had run its course. �Well, I will interview them and try to get to the bottom of this,� he told her, �but as for �making them talk,� I think maybe you�ve seen too many old movies.�

�Arthur, I need to speak with you for a moment.� It was Eleanor, Arthur�s wife. Arthur had just settled down in his study to listen to a brand new remastered recording. Bill Evans with Scott LeFaro and Paul Motian. Classic. Relaxing. Arthur sighed. It would have to wait. �What is it, dear?�

Eleanor bustled into the room. She was a bundle of energy as usual. Never stopped talking. She never just walked into a place, she burst in. She looked the part too--- a short voluptuous blonde with curly hair that cascaded in ringlets framing a round and very pretty face. They had been married for nine years. No children.

�I need help with my writing.�

Oh God. The latest of Eleanor�s nutty hobbies. Now she was writing these romances, for Christ�s sake. The kind with some alpha male in a loincloth on the cover clutching some quivering damsel who, incidentally, had exceptionally large breasts, said breasts having been revealed by the tearing action of said male�s oversized paw visited upon said damsel�s wardrobe.

He understood they called them �bodice rippers�, an apt characterization. Before that it had been pottery (the garage was still a mess) and before that, violin lessons (his ears had yet to recover).

�So how can I help dear?� he said smoothly. He hoped this wouldn�t take too long.

�It�s my latest novel, Love�s Furious Passionate Frenzy. You see I�ve reached a bit of a writer�s block and I need help. I am finding it difficult to understand my own heroine, get into her head, as it were.�

Understandable, thought Arthur. Nobody can figure out what�s in a woman�s head, not even another woman. �But I don�t know anything about damsels in distress or whatever it is, dear.�

�You don�t have to. You just need to help me understand her.�

Arthur was now totally confused and Eleanor could see it on his face. �No, well, you see Miss Cadivec, my creative writing teacher, always says that we have to live the lives of our characters, to experience what they do, and well, I need to actually be her to know how it feels.�

�How what feels? To have the buttons on your blouse popped off? I think not. Your clothes are expensive as it is.�

�No, no, not that. It�s ah�a bit more intimate.�

Arthur was now a little more interested. Eleanor was a very attractive woman, and to tell the truth, things had been slipping in the bedroom department lately. Arthur was always busy at work and Eleanor had her hobbies. They were drifting, it seemed.

�Well, you see, Miss Cadivec says that, ah� spankings are very popular in romance novels nowadays, and so I thought I�d work one into the plot. I have it all figured out. My heroine, Daisy is an English princess captured by Thorgar, the Viking, as a slave--- only he falls in love with her and when they get back to Thorgar�s castle he wants to marry her only she runs away, against his express authorization, I might add, and he is very angry and when he catches up with her he decides to give her a good spanking��

�All Rise.� There was a general shuffling as everyone in the courtroom stood. �The Circuit Court for Orange County is now in session for the case of Vale vs. Island Charters, Inc. and Michael Connor. Judge Benson presiding. Please be seated.�

The judge perused her papers, then looked up. �Counsel, are you ready to resume?�

The plaintiff�s counsel rose. �We are, your honor.�

�Bailiff, bring in the jury.�

The bailiff escorted the 6 woman, 2 men jury back in and they took their seats in the jury box. While they waited, their eyes, especially those of the younger women, were fixed on the defendant, Mike Connor, a rangy six footer with dark hair who looked a bit like Clive Owen.

At a nod from the judge, the plaintiff�s counsel said, �We call the plaintiff in this case, Miss Veronica Vale.�

�Miss Vale, you may take the stand. Bailiff, please administer the oath.�

The jury noted the gorgeous twenty�five year old super model who took the stand. She was dressed to kill in a suit with a short skirt that emphasized the classic lines of her legs. She wore six inch high heels and her hips swayed hypnotically as she approached the witness stand.

Her long flowing red hair was parted to one side and fell so as to almost obscure one eye. She had flashing green eyes and flawless skin and moved with the sensuous strut of one accustomed to both the runway and the red carpet.

Her counsel began his direct examination. �Miss Vale, this morning you heard representatives of Island Charters describe why the plane went down. Can you tell us about your own experience on the island? Before you were rescued, that is.�

�Certainly. The four of us on the plane managed to get to shore after he� � she indicated Mr. Connor, seated at the defendant�s table, �ditched the plane in the water.�

�You mean, Mr. Connor, the defendant?�


�Go on.�

�Well, like I said, we got to this island in the middle of, like, nowhere, because he screwed up and there was a storm or something...�

Defense counsel stood. �Objection. Move to strike. Testimony this morning established that Mr. Connor did in no way cause the plane to go down. In fact it was his skillful water landing and emergency handling of the situation that got everyone to shore safely.�

�Sustained. The jury will disregard that last statement. You may continue.�

Todd tossed his books down, settled into the couch at Brittney�s house, and clicked on the TV with the remote. He selected �on demand� and scrolled down to �TV series---classic�. He had found the first entry in season 3 and was about to select it when Brittney hurried in and plopped down next to him.

�We�ve seen all of season 2, right?� He asked.

�I think so,� said Brittney. �Season 2 ends with the big basketball game where Central High wins the state championship and Bud makes the winning basket, but Bud takes Shelly to the drive in afterwards and she misses her curfew.�

Brittney snuggled up on the couch to her steady boyfriend. They had the house to themselves since her parents were out at a party.

�And Mrs. Wilson�s pecan pie, that she was going to enter in the pie contest at the county fair, mysteriously disappears from the window sill and it�s a big mystery.� Brittney thought a minute. �And, oh, later---there is that incident with Bud and Shelly in Miss Hedly�s class where Bud passes Shelly this strange note and she catches them and they have to report to Principal Beeler.�

�What do you think was in the note? Miss Hedly seemed very surprised.�

Brittney said, �That�s the mystery.�

�Right. So now on to season 3.�

Brittney snuggled up to Todd as Episode 1 of season three of Elm Street, USA began. Both of them loved the old show for its innocence and its sweetness. It was a throwback, a show like the old �Father Knows Best� or �Leave It to Beaver� or even �Happy Days�--- a different time in America, before the social upheaval of the sixties and the changes in the culture. It was a time of mom and apple pie, baseball, county fairs and good old-fashioned wholesomeness. It was time when sweethearts �made out� at the drive-in, and stealing a kiss was a very big deal. A time of soda shops and sock hops in the high school gym. Spinning platters at a party and chocolate malteds at the diner. Everyone--- kids, parents and teachers got along great. What conflict there was resolved itself by the closing credits and it usually involved some big misunderstanding or a prank gone comically awry.

It prompted Brittney to ask, �Todd, wouldn�t it be great to actually LIVE on Elm Street? I mean, to be a part of it?�

�It would be different from today, Brit, that�s for sure. I mean Shelly�s folks are so nice, even if she is sort of mischievous.�

�But if you could, wouldn�t you? Be a part of it I mean.�

�Sure that would be�swell,� said Todd, and they both burst out laughing.

�See?� said Brittney.

�The only problem would be Principal Beeler. If we get caught at something, we might just have to write on the blackboard or something.� Principal Amanda Beeler, thought Todd. She was the antagonist on the show---always out to catch the kids and ruin a good time.

The morning after, Rob left early to play golf, at least as well as he could play, after last night�s party. It had been a neighborhood thing, just about a dozen couples crowded into Jim and Sally Simpson�s duplex on Maple Lane. The rent was cheap and for that reason the Maple Lane duplexes were populated almost exclusively by young married couples. Except for Rob and Amy�s duplex-sharing neighbors, the Wallaces.

They were the �old folks� of the neighborhood. Others moved in and out with regularity, but the Wallaces stayed. Stan and his wife Carol were in their early forties. They had achieved something like mentor status to the newlyweds in the other duplexes, always available to listen, sympathize and dispense marital advice. They�d been at it longer than the others, and had a depth of experience at marriage that made them worth listening to. But, as a couple, they were a study in contrasts. Where Stan was laid back, plodding and quiet, Carol was bubbly, vivacious and a bundle of energy.

It was Carol who yakked non-stop, overindulged and told off color jokes. It was long-suffering Stan who took it all in without a word---only the occasional eye roll. But, strangely, they complimented each other. And there was something else. Amy had observed it last night. For all of Stan�s easy going demeanor around his wonderful but wacky wife, Amy had seen steel behind those grey eyes when Stan had cut Carol off from the alcohol. �No more, Carol. That�s it,� he�d said.

Carol had laughed and stuck her tongue out at him, drawing laughs from all around, and had then been caught sneaking another drink. Amy hadn�t missed the pointed look and had heard the sotto voce admonition when Stan had grabbed her arm and said, �I think we�ll have a little reckoning tomorrow, Carol.� For the very first time, Amy had seen Carol blush and look around nervously, to see if anyone had heard. Amy had quickly averted her head so Carol wouldn�t notice her eavesdropping on a private marital discussion.

So now it was food for thought. What was the nature of this �little reckoning?� It was interesting because she and Rob had been struggling with ways to resolve conflict in their own marriage. The honeymoon was definitely over, thought Amy as she puttered around in the upstairs bedroom, making the bed. And their fighting over money had tended to put a damper on their sex lives, which by the way, was getting to be boring and too predictable.

Rob would be back soon and they had yet to resolve the issue of her recent overspending. Ok, so she was a shopaholic and a bit high maintenance, always pushing the envelope. Maybe what she secretly craved was boundaries, but Rob was maybe just a little too easy, a little too permissive. The more he let her get away with, the more she pushed. And that just made her cross and bitchy, it seemed. Didn�t he care?

On the other side of the duplex wall she heard voices. It was Stan and Carol. Were they arguing? Amy listened closer. Yes, they were, and from the sound of it, Carol was being scolded---like a child. This must be about last night. She caught herself. It wasn�t polite to eavesdrop. I should be ashamed, she told herself. None of my business. But curiosity got the best of her.

The knock at the door pulled him out of deep concentration. He'd been writing, the creative juices flowing. He opened the door to his off campus townhouse and beheld a pretty coed. She was carrying a bag.

"My name's Shelly. Um, I know this seems weird," she stammered, "but do you have a blue corkscrew?"

"Ah, maybe, but..."

"You see it's for my sorority. It's pledge week and we have to do this stupid scavenger hunt and you see, I thought maybe..."

Blue corkscrew. Hmmm.

"I might. Wait here." He rustled around in his kitchen drawer. Yes, this one had a blue handle. "Will this do?" he asked.

"Oh, yes. It's perfect. And I'll bring it back after the hunt." But now was the hard part. "Um, I have to pay you for it."

"Not if you bring it back."

She hesitated. "Not that way. You see we have to pay with, ah, licks�with a paddle. It's part of the rules." And she drew a wooden paddle out of her bag. "You have to spank me with this as many times as you think it's worth."

He laughed and shook his head in disbelief, but he lived in a college town. This sort of stuff went on all the time.

"Ok," he chuckled, "how about five? Oh, and how hard?"

"That's up to you." And she turned around and flipped up a short skirt, put her hands on her knees and thrust out one very cute panty-clad bottom for him to paddle. He gave her five token swats with the paddle, not very hard. She flashed him a big grin and was on her way with the corkscrew.

He had barely got back to work when the door chimed again. Dammit! It was another coed. This one, named Theresa, wanted a red potholder. Twenty minutes later, another one named Mandy. This is getting ridiculous!

Outside Shelly, Theresa and Mandy ran into Mary Beth. "What about that guy's house?" asked Mary Beth.

"Oh, he's nice. He doesn't paddle hard. Not like a lot of these people. I got it hard a few minutes ago from some old guy my grandfather's age," said Theresa, rubbing.

"Great," said Mary Beth. "I'll definitely hit his house."

He was once again engaged in his writing when the doorbell rang. For God�s sake!

Was there to be no peace tonight?

He yanked open the door and was greeted by one Mary Beth, a very cute blonde pixie of a girl who was asking him for a burned out light bulb. She had on her perkiest smile, and that seemed to irritate him even more. Ok, he thought grimly. I'll give her a burned out light bulb...and more.

Mary Beth waited as the kindly looking professor went off in search of the light bulb. A few moments later he returned with the object in his hand. Mary Beth watched curiously as he put it down on his desk.
SP on 08/19/2015 07:35pm
There are much better written stories available for free. The writing here is tired and predictable. Don't waste your money on this.
SP on 08/19/2015 07:35pm
There are much better written stories available for free. The writing here is tired and predictable. Don't waste your money on this.
Laurel on 12/01/2013 07:11pm
I didn't care for this story.
Laurel on 12/01/2013 07:11pm
I didn't care for this story.
KatD on 12/01/2013 02:10am
Not for Me.
KatD on 12/01/2013 02:10am
Not for Me.
on 12/01/2013 02:09am
Not for me.
on 12/01/2013 02:09am
Not for me.

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