Ok - So I know I said, Part Four would be "Psychological Warfare" but this chapter just insisted on coming first. So stay tuned for Part Five (Psychological Warfare!) Please Review!

Part four: Masochists

Wednesday pondered the problem at hand.

How do you punish a masochist? For truly, Pugsley had always had masochistic tendencies. Even before the birth of his sister, baby Pugsley had managed to fall out of his cradle numerous times, inflicting hideous amounts of pain, as he often landed on his baby toys scattered around the feet of his cradle. He'd scream and then laugh – a spectacle that warmed his parents' hearts, for the first dozen times or so. Of course, Morticia and Gomez delighted in the devilry of their children, but if there was one thing they weren't likely to tolerate for too long, it was interruptions to their private devilry. So, it wasn't long before baby Pugsley was strapped into bed at night, and left to delight himself with bodily punishment during daylight hours. In that sense, at least, it was fortunate that Pugsley was soon gifted with Wednesday as a playmate.

Their childhood together had been spent with a number of amusing games, various tortures devised by Wednesday and inflicted upon Pugsley, that, to the untrained eye would appear as the cruel actions of siblings at odds, but were in actuality joint expressions of love and friendship.

Because of this, Wednesday struggled to come up with a plan that would actually punish her brother for his latest torture. Despite her annoyance with Pugsley and her sheer hatred around having been bested by anyone, she had to admit she was sickly proud of her brother – it had been a stroke of genius calling up that snotty, preppy girl and incapacitating Wednesday with paralytics.

She wished she'd thought of it first.

Shaking her head against the distracting thoughts of pride and jealousy, Wednesday returned to her plotting. At this very moment, she knew that Pugsley was hiding out in Uncle Fester's old tree house for fear of her vengeance – likely catching a few hours of sleep to make up for his sleepless night spent guarding against an attack. Wednesday chuckled to herself. It was the first time she could ever remember her big brother being frightened.

He hadn't been remotely frightened the first time she tied him beneath the razor sharp ax head she'd attached to a swinging pendulum. He'd even laughed when the blade cut through his hoodie and exposed his traditional black and white striped shirt. He smiled when she first strapped him into the electric chair she'd constructed. And the one time (she was only three) she was able to trick him into an empty grave (under the pretense that her doll's head had fallen in) only to collapse the hole with a dynamite blast, she could hear him humming as he dug himself out with the spoon she'd hidden in his jacket pocket.

But now she needed something to scare Pugsley, really frighten him, and tip the balance back in her favor.

Actually her parents had already provided her with the perfect way to get back at Pugsley. She cackled a short burst before mentally scolding herself, and, returning to her usual stoic facial expression, she began to prepare her torture for her dearly beloved brother.

Meanwhile, Pugsley lay sprawled out in Uncle Fester's tree house, half asleep and half vigilantly scanning the yard with his one open eye for any signs of Wednesday. He suddenly realized with mortification that he was frightened of his baby sister. He was slightly mollified by the next thought, however, that most people's baby sister would probably think twice before setting them on fire or feeding them to piranhas or adding arsenic to their morning breakfast cereal, whereas his made a point to do each of those on a daily basis. Either way, he realized that, while cowardice was a valued family trait, he was not content to rearrange his entire life just to avoid Wednesday. He'd never had to conform to anyone else's will before and certainly wasn't going to start now. So, with a groan that was both a sound of rebellion against and resignation to whatever awaited him back in the house, Pugsley left his sanctuary and headed home.

Meanwhile, another Addams was groaning in rebellion. Pugsley was not the only masochist in the Addams clan. In fact, it was a trait he had inherited from his father. Needless to say, Gomez's pleasure in pain was perfectly mirrored by Morticia's pleasure in inflicting it. At this very moment, the lovers found themselves enmeshed in one of their favorite pastimes, throwing darts (that is, knives). Both keen dart players, Morticia and Gomez found the sport much more thrilling when one of them stood chained to the target. This morning it was Gomez's turn as target, and Morticia was playing coy with her husband, landing knives precariously close to particularly sensitive areas. It was when she expertly threw one that sliced through his shirt, scraping his bicep with a thin scratch that Gomez, in fear, relief, arousal, and rebellion, groaned and strained against his bonds.

"Oops," Morticia sighed, with a cocky smile and a wicked glint in her eyes.

"Oops indeed, my love," said Gomez, through gritted teeth as he tried to regain his composure. "I fear we'll have to work on your aim some more," he added with a smile in his voice.

"Au contraire, mon amour," Morticia contradicted, grinning openly now as she watched her French words affect her husband as he writhed with new vigor against his bonds, "my aim is perfect."

With that, she hurled another knife, this time thinly slicing through her husband's pant leg, slicing into Gomez' outer thigh. He howled as the knife hit home and struggled to contain his convulsions of pain and pleasure for fear that the knife would cut deeper into his flesh. Between the bonds and his own attempts to control his body, Gomez felt as though he would split through his skin, and that the pleasure and pain, fear and arousal that warred within him would tear him asunder. Taking a deep breath, Gomez slowly raised his eyes to his wife as the convulsions slowed. And with a gaze that would set the world on fire, he said, "Indeed, how could it be anything but perfect, coming from you. I've another game in mind, querida, if you are quite through with darts."

Locked in his gaze, and feeling as though her entire body was aflame, Morticia could only nod. She approached him slowly, wanting to make sure her walk would be steady and not reveal her weakness. As she reached over to unlatch his arm, she noticed the light glistening off Gomez's exposed chest, how his collarbone stood out against the defined muscles, and how the line of his neck… Her breath caught in her throat. She brought her eyes back to her husband's. The fire in them now smoldered and a low moan caught in the back of her throat. Before she knew it, Gomez was free of his bonds and she was trapped in his ferocious embrace. Hands and lips and teeth were rough, but when he laid her on the cold stone ground, he did so with extreme care. As their clothing rapidly came off, a tiny part of Morticia's mind registered the fact that she was pleased they'd thought to lock the playroom doors before the dart game, because they simply couldn't be bother to do so now. Her nails dug into his back as they battled and his teeth grazed her neck and shoulder as he tried to keep from shouting out. But as they reached the edge, Gomez whispered, "Look at me, cara," and they toppled over the edge together, locked in each other's eyes.

The end of this particular game came with a crashing wave of ecstasy, several bloody scratches on Gomez's back, and a rather deep imprint of Gomez's teeth on Morticia's shoulder. But, as the lovers laid on the cold playroom floor, wrapped in each other's arms, Gomez tenderly kissed his wife's hair, and murmured against her cheek, "Perfect, absolutely perfect."