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Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

Month

April 2012

Message in a Bottle

I woke as dawn painted the bedroom amber, to find an envelope on the bedside table.

On the front your handwriting admonished me:

“Don’t open this until I tell you”.

You knew it would pique my curiosity; I turned the envelope over to see if any gaps in the seal would provide the opportunity to peek. But any plans for mischief were halted by your unequivocal message on the back: “I mean it, naughty!”
I actually giggled.

But what was inside? The growing tingle of anticipation somehow made the morning’s routine business meetings seem much more exciting. Then, at lunchtime, I received a text. From you. It simply said: “Open it now”.
My trembling fingertips tore the envelope open.
I blushed as I read the contents:

“Before the 8 bells toll.
Undress.
Unlock the door.
Stand in the hallway.
Face away from the door.
Plug your ears.
Don a blindfold.
Bind your hands.
Wait.”

I couldn’t wait for the day to end.


And so it was that at 8pm I came to be standing in the hallway with my back to the unlocked door. I was utterly naked, save a blindfold, earplugs and a pair of velcro handcuffs that bound my hands, which I rested on my head.

Now unable to see, I felt thrillingly vulnerable. Lurid fantasies began to spring into my empty mind. What if someone was delivering catalogues and the door swung open? They could be silently staring at me right now! I widened my stance, allowing my invisible audience a better view; then shocked myself at the thought of being discovered by one of the neighbours.
How would I ever explain that?

Suddenly, warm breath prickled the back of my neck.

In an instant I felt the warmth of someone slide across my cheek from behind. I knew it was you, I smelt you. Gently but deliberately you cupped my chin in your hand and tipped my head slightly back, deftly applying my swimming noseclip across my nostrils. Instinctively, my lips parted and I drew a sharp breath as it pinched my nose closed.

What was this? What were you doing? My mind raced in pointless circles.
You’d already proved yourself to be far too imaginative to be second guessed.

I felt the pressure change, followed by sudden rush of noise as you plucked out one of the ear plugs. Now I could hear you breathing in my ear. “Good girl”

I heard you take a step back, I bet you were admiring what you’d made me do. I hoped you were pleased with me. I felt you pull at my cuffs, ripping open the velcro fastenings to tug them more firmly into place. Despite my blindfold I was in no doubt that I was being heavily scrutinised, which made my skin crawl with a heady mixture of pleasure and shame.

“Now…” you said, your voice tight with arousal, “stay there”, before wedging the ear plug back into place. I felt two hard parting smacks on my bottom, to me unusual muffled thumps rather than ringing slaps, then faintly felt you marching off heavily down the hallway.

I stood there – how long for I didn’t know.

At first my skin tingled with anticipation. At any moment, I expected to feel my cheeks being roughly pulled apart, and something pushed inside. I slouched slightly, pushing my bottom out, inviting you, willing you. But nothing. I was alone in darkness, listening to the roar of my blood in my ears. A growing sense of uncertainty started to well up in my stomach. Where were you? What were you doing? I stood lost in the hallway, deprived of my senses, only feeling the scratch of velcro bindings on my wrists, my own weight on my feet, and the two warm patches on my bum.

Just when I could resist the urge to call your name no longer, I felt the light touch of your fingertips cupping my breast. It startled me, and I jumped one step backwards – an involuntary yelp escaping my lips. I heard you laugh dully through my ear plugs and my cheeks flushed hotly. How long had you been standing there, observing me?

Suddenly the ear plugs were plucked away – a rush of sound invaded my head, and I felt your strong hands on my shoulders.

“So young lady…” you mused. “You thought you were pretty funny last night, making fun of my appreciation of a good wine, didn’t you?”

Oh, I remembered now. I tried to suppress my smirk. I had teased you mercilessly over dinner for the way you’d savoured the smell of the expensive wine being proffered by that stiffly dressed waiter. I’d poked my tongue out at you playfully, as you’d warned me sternly with your eyes.

“So… I’m going to teach you to appreciate the smell of a good wine. I have a little test prepared for you, missy. Five fine wines for you to enjoy… with the jeopardy of floggings as accompaniment. Let’s see if we can’t teach your palate to recognise a little bit of culture?”

At that, I smiled to myself. If I had to be punished for my sins, you certainly knew how to sugar coat my penance.

With that you slid round behind me and smacked my bottom several times, each propelling me a few steps further along the hall. Through my blindfold I could sense the intensity of light increase as I stepped under the bright spotlights of the kitchen. I was suddenly acutely aware of my own nakedness, and felt my cheeks blush.

“I do hope you’ve closed the blinds”, I said warily.

“Oh, do you? Well – no doubt you’ll find out after I’ve finished fucking you, won’t you?” you whispered wickedly.
That must have had the desired effect, because then you added:
“You look so good in red, baby. Now sit down.”

You plonked me down on a stool by the breakfast counter and deftly whipped the clip from my nose. I breathed deeply through my nostrils to loosen them, and was instantly hit by the powerful aroma of grapes and spices. Startled I jerked backwards, but you placed your hand behind my head to steady me.

“Your task then. Smell the wine. Then taste it. Then tell me what year it was bottled. Get it right and you’ll win the pleasure of my tongue. But every year you’re out will get you a spanking.”

“Shall we begin?”

* * * * *

And that’s all I have.
A single rumpled A4 page, printed text on both sides, smelling faintly of wine.

I found it inside a wine bottle as I was walking through Hyde Park. Its tinted glass glinted in the sunshine and caught my eye. Somehow it had looked half-hidden, rather than discarded; its cork haphazardly wedged into the top. So I went closer to investigate, and that’s when I saw the sheet of paper rolled up inside.

Who was she?
Who was he?
The page offers no clues, and no explanation of why it’s been discarded.

Perhaps as part of her punishment, he made her write about her experience, and then leave it in public for someone else to stumble across. It reads like a confession – but also an encouragement, the abrupt ending almost daring me to continue the story. Perhaps they left it to be found, chuckling to themselves about inspiring others.

Perhaps the bottle I found contained one of the wines she had to sample. It’s a New Zealand Chardonnay, 2004, I wonder if she guessed right?
In my mind’s eye I can see her, bent over the breakfast bar, hands still bound, eyes still covered. He’s lifted her up slightly, so her feet are off the floor, so she kicks and flails her legs like a naughty child as he spanks her.

I imagine her guesses were wrong by 20 years altogether, earning herself 20 spankings. I hear him tell her for the next few weeks she’ll be bent over the breakfast bar every morning just before she goes to work. She’ll be wearing her work suit, so he’ll lower her elegant skirt and bare her bottom.

Then he’ll cane her, and send her to work with a glowing pink arse, to sit on her stripes.

I wonder how many other bottles have been cast into our urban sea, for others to discover?
I wonder how many more have been found?
I wonder if their discoverers were repelled by their weirdness – or inspired by their inventiveness?

And I wonder, tonight, how many ladies will stand naked and vulnerable in their hallways… waiting for their lover?

Message in a Bottle

I woke as dawn painted the bedroom amber, to find an envelope on the bedside table.

On the front your handwriting admonished me:

“Don’t open this until I tell you”.

You knew it would pique my curiosity; I turned the envelope over to see if any gaps in the seal would provide the opportunity to peek. But any plans for mischief were halted by your unequivocal message on the back: “I mean it, naughty!”
I actually giggled.

But what was inside? The growing tingle of anticipation somehow made the morning’s routine business meetings seem much more exciting. Then, at lunchtime, I received a text. From you. It simply said: “Open it now”.
My trembling fingertips tore the envelope open.
I blushed as I read the contents:

“Before the 8 bells toll.
Undress.
Unlock the door.
Stand in the hallway.
Face away from the door.
Plug your ears.
Don a blindfold.
Bind your hands.
Wait.”

I couldn’t wait for the day to end.


And so it was that at 8pm I came to be standing in the hallway with my back to the unlocked door. I was utterly naked, save a blindfold, earplugs and a pair of velcro handcuffs that bound my hands, which I rested on my head.

Now unable to see, I felt thrillingly vulnerable. Lurid fantasies began to spring into my empty mind. What if someone was delivering catalogues and the door swung open? They could be silently staring at me right now! I widened my stance, allowing my invisible audience a better view; then shocked myself at the thought of being discovered by one of the neighbours.
How would I ever explain that?

Suddenly, warm breath prickled the back of my neck.

In an instant I felt the warmth of someone slide across my cheek from behind. I knew it was you, I smelt you. Gently but deliberately you cupped my chin in your hand and tipped my head slightly back, deftly applying my swimming noseclip across my nostrils. Instinctively, my lips parted and I drew a sharp breath as it pinched my nose closed.

What was this? What were you doing? My mind raced in pointless circles.
You’d already proved yourself to be far too imaginative to be second guessed.

I felt the pressure change, followed by sudden rush of noise as you plucked out one of the ear plugs. Now I could hear you breathing in my ear. “Good girl”

I heard you take a step back, I bet you were admiring what you’d made me do. I hoped you were pleased with me. I felt you pull at my cuffs, ripping open the velcro fastenings to tug them more firmly into place. Despite my blindfold I was in no doubt that I was being heavily scrutinised, which made my skin crawl with a heady mixture of pleasure and shame.

“Now…” you said, your voice tight with arousal, “stay there”, before wedging the ear plug back into place. I felt two hard parting smacks on my bottom, to me unusual muffled thumps rather than ringing slaps, then faintly felt you marching off heavily down the hallway.

I stood there – how long for I didn’t know.

At first my skin tingled with anticipation. At any moment, I expected to feel my cheeks being roughly pulled apart, and something pushed inside. I slouched slightly, pushing my bottom out, inviting you, willing you. But nothing. I was alone in darkness, listening to the roar of my blood in my ears. A growing sense of uncertainty started to well up in my stomach. Where were you? What were you doing? I stood lost in the hallway, deprived of my senses, only feeling the scratch of velcro bindings on my wrists, my own weight on my feet, and the two warm patches on my bum.

Just when I could resist the urge to call your name no longer, I felt the light touch of your fingertips cupping my breast. It startled me, and I jumped one step backwards – an involuntary yelp escaping my lips. I heard you laugh dully through my ear plugs and my cheeks flushed hotly. How long had you been standing there, observing me?

Suddenly the ear plugs were plucked away – a rush of sound invaded my head, and I felt your strong hands on my shoulders.

“So young lady…” you mused. “You thought you were pretty funny last night, making fun of my appreciation of a good wine, didn’t you?”

Oh, I remembered now. I tried to suppress my smirk. I had teased you mercilessly over dinner for the way you’d savoured the smell of the expensive wine being proffered by that stiffly dressed waiter. I’d poked my tongue out at you playfully, as you’d warned me sternly with your eyes.

“So… I’m going to teach you to appreciate the smell of a good wine. I have a little test prepared for you, missy. Five fine wines for you to enjoy… with the jeopardy of floggings as accompaniment. Let’s see if we can’t teach your palate to recognise a little bit of culture?”

At that, I smiled to myself. If I had to be punished for my sins, you certainly knew how to sugar coat my penance.

With that you slid round behind me and smacked my bottom several times, each propelling me a few steps further along the hall. Through my blindfold I could sense the intensity of light increase as I stepped under the bright spotlights of the kitchen. I was suddenly acutely aware of my own nakedness, and felt my cheeks blush.

“I do hope you’ve closed the blinds”, I said warily.

“Oh, do you? Well – no doubt you’ll find out after I’ve finished fucking you, won’t you?” you whispered wickedly.
That must have had the desired effect, because then you added:
“You look so good in red, baby. Now sit down.”

You plonked me down on a stool by the breakfast counter and deftly whipped the clip from my nose. I breathed deeply through my nostrils to loosen them, and was instantly hit by the powerful aroma of grapes and spices. Startled I jerked backwards, but you placed your hand behind my head to steady me.

“Your task then. Smell the wine. Then taste it. Then tell me what year it was bottled. Get it right and you’ll win the pleasure of my tongue. But every year you’re out will get you a spanking.”

“Shall we begin?”

* * * * *

And that’s all I have.
A single rumpled A4 page, printed text on both sides, smelling faintly of wine.

I found it inside a wine bottle as I was walking through Hyde Park. Its tinted glass glinted in the sunshine and caught my eye. Somehow it had looked half-hidden, rather than discarded; its cork haphazardly wedged into the top. So I went closer to investigate, and that’s when I saw the sheet of paper rolled up inside.

Who was she?
Who was he?
The page offers no clues, and no explanation of why it’s been discarded.

Perhaps as part of her punishment, he made her write about her experience, and then leave it in public for someone else to stumble across. It reads like a confession – but also an encouragement, the abrupt ending almost daring me to continue the story. Perhaps they left it to be found, chuckling to themselves about inspiring others.

Perhaps the bottle I found contained one of the wines she had to sample. It’s a New Zealand Chardonnay, 2004, I wonder if she guessed right?
In my mind’s eye I can see her, bent over the breakfast bar, hands still bound, eyes still covered. He’s lifted her up slightly, so her feet are off the floor, so she kicks and flails her legs like a naughty child as he spanks her.

I imagine her guesses were wrong by 20 years altogether, earning herself 20 spankings. I hear him tell her for the next few weeks she’ll be bent over the breakfast bar every morning just before she goes to work. She’ll be wearing her work suit, so he’ll lower her elegant skirt and bare her bottom.

Then he’ll cane her, and send her to work with a glowing pink arse, to sit on her stripes.

I wonder how many other bottles have been cast into our urban sea, for others to discover?
I wonder how many more have been found?
I wonder if their discoverers were repelled by their weirdness – or inspired by their inventiveness?

And I wonder, tonight, how many ladies will stand naked and vulnerable in their hallways… waiting for their lover?

Waiting

I’d never been good at waiting.

But his instructions were quite clear.

“Stand still, be quiet — and don’t turn around.”

So I just stare at the wall and listen to footsteps walking away. He stops after 10 steps. Behind me, a hinge creaks. There’s some clattering and some rustling. What is he doing?

There’s a hulking wooden cupboard at the back of the classroom. It’s always kept locked, like some ancient reliquary. What exactly lies within has been the subject of many speculative conversations among my peers, but no student has ever looked inside. He must be looking for a suitable implement to punish me with. What will it be, I wonder?

The suspense is building, my breathing quickening, but I dare not turn around. That would be asking for trouble. Yet, my curiously is an itch that must be scratched. Restraining my impulsiveness has always been my weakness. Maybe just a peek, I’m sure he won’t even notice me. I can’t even hear him, he must be still rummaging inside the cupboard. I take a chance, quickly turning my head — only to see him looming over me. His voice chastises my disobedience.

“I told you not to turn around”.

His voice is commanding rather than angry, reminiscent of past summer sailing holidays, how the skipper would scold me when I fooled about on deck. A stern disapproval of my silly recklessness.

I blush furiously as I try to explain myself.

“But I…”

One look from him is all it takes to silence me. Now I know it will be worse. Caught peeking! It’s all so childish. I swivel back to face the wall, staring at the floor in embarrassment, willing it to open up and swallow me whole.

I await his next instruction in silence. Now I can hear my own shallow breathing and a clock ticking in the distance. A distant door slams as school empties for the day, it’s just loud enough to hear above the roar of my own ears. Silence is indeed deafening. And tense. And awkward. And boring. Get on with it, I urge. This tedious waiting is almost worse than any punishment.

And then behind me, out of the silence, emerges a soft tapping noise.

“Come here.” I am summoned.

I hesitate before turning around, then meekly take two steps forward, my head still bowed, eyes still fixed on the floor. I dare not meet his stare, but see he’s holding something in one hand, tapping it against the other.

“Bend over the table.”

My eyes follow his finger, now pointing at the large, imposing table at the front of the room. I stare at it, hardly daring to move, like a startled animal caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. My hesitation prompts him to raise his voice.

“I’m waiting! Don’t make this any worse.”

Spooked, I hurry towards the desk, pausing for just a second before bending over it. The big mahogany table looks ancient, its worn, slightly uneven surface mottled with splots of ink. It also feels old, as I reach over my fingertips rub across coarse gaps in its grain. And as I lower my head, I can smell its age, its fresh wood scent long gone, now it smells of elderly wood polish, a musty kind of wax.

Yet despite its venerable age it is still a sturdy table, I feel it would protect me, I just wish I could somehow hide underneath it. But it’s too late now; so I just close my eyes and listen to his heavy footsteps, and that soft tap — tap — tapping. Getting louder, and louder…


I approach to within two paces of my prone young student. I see her legs trembling slightly, and I know she is afraid, her heart fluttering, her primal instincts telling her to run away from me — her imminent threat. Yet here she still is, compliant and submissive, lying across the old oak desk, waiting for the spanking that will wipe all her transgressions away. At heart she’s a good girl, often a bit reckless, impulsive even, but I believe she’ll benefit from a lesson in patience.

“I am very disappointed in you, young lady. Your teachers consider you a gifted student, but your casual approach to your studies must be corrected.” I scold.

Then my voice softens, as I make known my sadness at her disobedience.

“And I gave you explicit instructions not to turn around, yet you still disobeyed me.”

A meek voice peeps, “I’m sorry, sir.”

But I have punished too many recalcitrant minxes to be sure of her sincerity. At first, most of those I punish are only really sorry they’ve been caught. But by the time they leave this room, heads bowed and bottoms glowing, their sorrow tends to be genuine.

“Let us begin. Hands on your head, please.”

Her imminent punishment is no excuse for a lapse of politeness. She complies without complaint, a good sign.

My fingers grasp the hem of her skirt. She emits a shallow gasp as her upper thighs and panties are exposed. Moments later I’ve folded her skirt and tucked it into her waistband.

She is holding her legs tightly together, clenching her bottom in anticipation of what’s to come. I reach down to correct her stance.

“Legs apart, please. Point your toes inward. I don’t want to see you clenching your bottom.”

Now I can see her globes stretching the material of her white school knickers.

“Good girl. I expect you to take your discipline with good grace. No shouting or pleading, or I shall take down your panties. We’ll begin with a session with the leather paddle. Then you’ll discover the special punishment reserved for impatient peepers.”

I begin to rub the paddle over her taut underwear and the bare skin of her upper thighs. It’s less shocking that way. I start spanking slowly and gently, alternating between her cheeks. My spanks increase in force until she begins to wince with every smack. A pink glow begins to develop underneath her panties. Her breath is ragged, as she struggles to keep her composure.
One last flurry of smacks, accompanied by yelps. Then silence.

Now to do something about that peeping, I think I have just the answer.
I walk back to cupboard and retrieve two special items, one is a shiny plastic mechanical timer, shaped like an egg. I wind it up, twist to set it and it begins ticking: it emits a hollow, metallic clink-clink-clink, like two teaspoons jangling together. She gasps as I pull back her panties, slipping the egg timer between her warm rosy cheeks and onto the gusset of her underwear. I position it carefully, against her perineum, where she will feel its ticks most intimately.

“Sir?”

“Stand up.”

She gingerly eases herself off the desk. Now I pick up the second item I’ve fetched, a black silk scarf.

“This will stop your urge to peep.” I explain.

Her eyes widen in surprise as I place the scarf over her brow, and wind it three times around her head, before tying it in a bow. Once blindfolded, I take her hand and escort her back into her naughty corner.

“Hands on top of your head again, please. Good.”

It is a rather unusual situation she finds herself in, I’d better explain the rules.

“Now young lady, what you feel between your legs is an egg timer. You’ll feel the passage of every few seconds you spend in the corner. But this time you’ll have no distractions, and no way of peeping, so you may spend your time contemplating your behaviour and your sore bottom.”

I save the surprise until last.

“You shall learn patience, and come to appreciate waiting. Because when the egg timer rings, your bare bottom has an appointment across my knee…”

She gasps a syllable of complaint, but manages to stifle it.

I return to my desk, to admire the view.
What are you thinking, I wonder, as you stand silently in the corner, skirt lifted, bottom glowing, a ticklish ticking against your most sensitive spot? Do the tiny vibrations echo through your body, amplified by your anticipation?

I leave her to wait.


As I stand there in that corner, staring at the blackness of the blindfold and listening to the tick, tick, tick of the egg timer, I imagine myself in another place. The ticking seems to be getting louder, a sotto voce rather than a whisper. The vibrations are becoming more insistent — less easy to ignore, they’re almost beginning to feel good.

My mind runs wild with the possibilities of what will happen when the ticking finally stops. Will he tell me to pull down my panties? Or will he do it? Will he drag them abruptly whilst scolding me? Or lower them slowly and compassionately? What will he spank me with? His bare hand perhaps, or a wooden ruler? Will that pink glowing bottom of mine change to a darker shade of red? How will I feel? What if I get excited? My head spins, the scenarios seem endless…

I know I should be contemplating my bad behaviour and the punishment I’ve received, but I find myself relishing it and wanting more. Why is that egg timer still ticking? Surely, he must want to punish me by now. Is he still watching me? Patience, I tell myself. All will be revealed soon enough.

The tense silence is broken by the din of the school bell. My heightened hearing intuitively locates it on the other side of the wall behind me, in the corridor I’d trudged down to report here. That feels such a long time ago now. The bell rings for 30 seconds, filling my fevered mind with noise.

The bell signals the end of the school day. The school will be emptying, and here am I, alone with one of my teachers.
About to have my knickers pulled down.
Creepy.

But exciting.

When silence returns I allow my mind to wander, imagining the sensations emanating from between my legs are a lover’s gentle touch, massaging me. I absorb every vibration, slowly becoming more and more aroused. My spanked bottom no longer aches, but feels like it’s emitting a pleasurable glow. There is now a familiar dampness in my knickers. I feel thrillingly naughty. I long to rub myself, but don’t dare. I sense him still sitting behind me, watching. Being caught touching myself would be so humiliating. But the anticipation of what will happen next slowly eats me up.

Seconds pass, minutes pass, and still the ticking continues. I concentrate on the ticks, trying to mentally amplify the vibrations — but they’re so frustratingly weak. If only they were stronger, I’d come so quietly, he’d never even know.

Somehow the interval between the ticks seems to be getting longer and longer. Now my arousal is giving way to frustration. When is this infernal ticking going to stop? Surely this is long enough. The vibrations continue and feelings of unfulfillment start to envelop me. More minutes pass. I feel tetchy, I long to pluck out that stupid device, but know I’m in enough trouble already.

I think about my pink sore bottom, still smarting beneath me, and my frustration turns to indignation. Who is he to be doing this to me? What right did he have to spank me and leave me standing a corner, waiting for him? Does he think he controls me? I am in control, I have every right to walk away if I wish. Maybe I will, that will show him. I bet he wandered off to the staffroom to put his feet up and read his newspaper, expecting me to still be standing here, patiently waiting when he returns.

Well, if he thinks he’s won my obedience, he’d better think again. I’ll walk away and relieve myself. I don’t need him and his silly games.

Feelings of discontent and frustration fill my mind. By now I’ve lost track of time, it must be at least half an hour. I’ve heard those stories of naive apprentices being sent to the storeroom to fetch A Long Weight. Yes, I bet he’s sitting behind me, reading a paper, waiting for me to catch on. God, I’m a fool! This is silly just standing here.

I can’t stand it any longer. Impulsively, I decide enough is enough. My hands reach back and I feel a bow, it is easy to undo. I half expect to hear his voice scolding me for my indiscipline, but I don’t. So I pull off the blindfold. Bright light suddenly floods my eyes.

Blinking, I look round the room.
There’s no one there.

Just as I suspected, he’s gone and left me! Probably in the staff room, having a cup of tea and good chuckle at my expense. Grrrr! I feel like swearing, but realise the virtue of keeping quiet, and channel my anger into clenching my fists, until I feel my nails bite into my palms.

I look about the room, it’s relatively empty. The light of dull grey afternoon is seeping through the windows, each a drab bevelled lattice of olive-painted woodwork consisting of a dozen small square panes.

At the front of the class is the old sturdy desk and his empty chair. At the back, the mysterious cupboard, now closed again. The centre is occupied by six smaller desks, old-fashioned pieces of scholastic furniture with integral seats, all arranged in two neat rows. The epitome of conformity.

A few old yellowing prints and maps hang on the walls. Behind the teacher’s desk there’s a blackboard, now more grey than black, filled with the chalky white swirls of repeated erasings — inside which I can just about read the faded word ‘Detention’. This room offers little cheer to its occupants, merely somewhere recalcitrant pupils reside whilst waiting for their punishment.

I can only imagine how awful it would be to wait here with others. Being called to the front of the class one by one. Having to watch my partners-in-crime bending over, eyes wide as their skirts are lifted, and then witnessing their spankings. All the while waiting for my own turn to come. It makes me quite relieved to be here alone.

There are also two doors in this room on opposite sides.

A-ha. Escape routes.

I reach down to take the egg timer out of my panties. Through my fingers I can feel one side is damp to the touch; raising it for a closer look, I can smell my own arousal. The timer is egg-shaped, with a notched and numbered ring at its widest part that clearly sets its duration. Below a small triangular arrow is the number 6. With a jolt of panic, I realise its significance immediately.

The timer will ring in 6 minutes.
He knows it will ring in 6 minutes.
So he will be back within the next 6 minutes.

I don’t have much time, I yank my skirt down with as much dignity as I can manage, the queasy ache of fear spreading from my stomach. I’ve broken the rules again, what awful punishment awaits me now? I need to get away.

Gingerly I place the egg timer on the floor, feeling like I’m setting down a hand grenade. It continues to tick away. Valuable seconds pass as I stop, and briefly consider staying to face the music. Then, somehow, I’ve decided. I’ll make a dash for it. I know I’ve done wrong, but I’m an impetuous girl, and my first instinct is to run.

Of the room’s two doors I recognise the one I entered. He might be behind the other one, but I didn’t hear him move. Maybe he moved when the school bell rang? If so, I’ll need to be quiet. I take a step forward, stepping ever so lightly, lest a treacherous footboard betray my escape with a squeak. Silence. Another step. Silence. I tread more confidently now, feeling like a burglar as I creep light-footedly towards the door. I take a deep breath and turn the handle. It clanks. Bugger. It’s locked.

I feel trapped and anxious. Did he lock me in? Or was I mistaken? Did I enter through the other door? No matter, I’ve only one option left. I walk quietly to the other side of the room, breathe deeply and try the door handle. This one is unlocked. In one quick movement I open it and stride purposefully through it.

I stop after one step.

This is a room, not a corridor.

My jaw drops. Lining all four walls are canes, paddles, whips and straps of every imaginable size, colour and shape. Each on its own tiny hook, like some bizarre cloakroom.

And in the middle:
Him.
Seated on a straight-backed chair.
My eyes widen when I see what he holds in his hand.

He does not seem at all surprised to see me.

“Ah young lady, I’ve been waiting for you.”


Epilogue

As it happened, I took down my own panties.



@SpankingTheatre 2012

spankingtheatre at gmail . com

Waiting

I’d never been good at waiting.

But his instructions were quite clear: “Stand still, be quiet and don’t turn round”

So I stare at the wall and listen to footsteps walking away. He stops after 10 steps. Behind me, a hinge creaks. There’s some clattering and some rustling. What is he doing?

I dimly remember the large wooden cupboard in the corner of the classroom. The one that’s kept locked, like some ancient reliquary, that no student has ever looked in. He must be looking for a suitable implement to punish me with. What will it be? I wonder. The suspense mounts, but I dare not turn round. That would be asking for trouble. But my curiously is an itch that must be scratched. Maybe just a peek, he won’t even notice me.

I can’t hear him, he must be still looking in the cupboard. So I take a chance, quickly turning my head to see him looming over me; his voice chastises me:
“I told you not to turn round”.
His voice was commanding rather than angry, reminiscent of summer sailing holidays and how the skipper would scold me when I was behaving recklessly.

I blush furiously as I try to explain myself.  
“But I…”  
One look from him is all it takes to silence me. Now I know it will be worse. Caught peeking, it’s so childish. I stare at the floor in embarrassment, willing it to open up and swallow me whole.

I await his next instruction in silence. I hear my own shallow breathing and a clock ticking in the distance. A distant door slams, just loud enough to hear above the roar of my own ears. Silence is indeed deafening. And tense. And awkward. And boring. Get on with it, I urge. This waiting is almost worse than punishment.

Out of the silence emerges a soft tapping noise.
“Come here”, I am summoned.
I hesitate before I meekly take two steps forward.  My eyes still gaze at the floor as I dare not meet his stare. In one hand he’s holding something, tapping it against the other.

“Bend over the table”
A finger points at the large, imposing teacher’s table at the front of the room.
I stare at it, not daring to move, like a startled rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.
Now he speaks more loudly.
“I’m waiting. Don’t make this any worse”

I hurry over quickly and hesitate for just a second before bending over the table. The table looks old; its worn, slightly uneven surface is mottled with splots of ink. It also feels old, as I reach over it my fingertips rub across gaps in the grain. And as I lower my head, I can smell its age, its fresh wood smell is long gone, now it smells of old wood polish, like a musty wax.

It is a sturdy table, it would protect me, I wish I could somehow hide underneath it. But it’s too late now; so I just close my eyes and listen to his heavy footsteps, and that soft tap – tap – tapping. Getting louder, and louder…

* * * * *

I approach to within two paces of my prone young student. I see her legs tremble, and I know she is afraid. I know her heart is fluttering, her primal instincts telling her to run away from the imminent discomfort. Yet here she still is, compliant and submissive, lying across my sturdy old oak table, waiting for the spanking that will wipe all her transgressions away. At heart she’s a good girl, sometimes a bit reckless, impulsive even, she’ll benefit from a lesson in patience.

I am scolding now: “I am very disappointed in you, young lady. Your teachers consider you a gifted student, but your casual approach to your studies must be corrected.”

Now my voice softens, as if to emphasise my sadness at her disobedience.
“And I gave you explicit instructions not to turn around, yet you still disobeyed me.”

A meek voice peeps, “I’m sorry, sir.”

But I have punished too many recalcitrant minxes to be sure of her sincerity. At first, most I punish are only really sorry they’ve been caught. But by the time they leave this room, their bottoms glowing, their sorrow tends to be genuine.

“Let us begin. Place your hands on your head.”
She complies without complaint, a good sign.

Next, my fingers grasp the hem of her skirt. She emits a shallow gasp as her upper thighs and panties are exposed. Moments later I’ve folded her skirt and tucked it into her waistband.

She is holding her legs tightly together, clenching her bottom in anticipation of what’s to come. I reach down to correct her stance.
“Legs apart, please. Point your toes inward. I don’t want to see you clenching your bottom.”

Now I can see her globes stretching the material of her white school knickers.

“Good girl. I expect you to take your discipline with grace. No shouting or pleading, or I shall take down your panties. We’ll begin with a session with the leather paddle. Then you’ll discover the special punishment reserved for impatient peepers.”

I begin to rub the paddle over her taught underwear and the bare skin of her upper thighs. It’s less shocking that way. I start spanking slowly and gently, alternating between her cheeks. My spanks increase in force until she begins to wince with every smack. A pink glow begins to develop underneath her panties. Her breath is ragged, as she struggles to keep her composure.
One last flurry of smacks, accompanied by yelps. Then silence.

Now to do something about that peeping, I think I have just the answer.
I walk back to cupboard and retrieve two special items, one is a plastic, mechanical timer, shaped like an egg. I wind it up, twist to set it and it begins ticking: it emits a hollow, metallic clink-clink-clink, like two teaspoons jangling together. She gasps as I pull back her panties, slipping the egg timer between her warm rosy cheeks and onto the gusset of her underwear. I position it carefully, against her perineum, and she begins to feel its ticks.

“Sir?”

“Stand up.” She gingerly eases herself off the desk.
Now I pick up the second item, a black silk scarf.
“This will stop your urge to peep”, I explain.

I place the scarf over her eyes and wind it three times around her head, before tying it in a bow. Once blindfolded, I take her hand and escort her back into her naughty corner.

“Hands on top of your head again, please. Good.”
“Now young lady, what you feel between your legs is an egg timer. You will feel the passage of every second you spend in the corner. But this time you have no distractions, and no way of peeping, so you may spend your time contemplating your behaviour and your sore bottom.”

I save the surprise until last.

“You shall learn patience, and come to appreciate waiting. Because when the egg timer rings, your bare bottom has an appointment across my knee…”

She gasps a syllable of complaint, but manages to stifle it.

I return to my desk, to admire the view.
What are you thinking, I wonder, as you stand silently in the corner, skirt lifted, bottom glowing, a ticklish ticking against your most sensitive spot? Do the tiny vibrations echo through your body,
amplified by your anticipation?

I leave her to wait.

* * * * *

As I stand there in that corner, staring at the blackness of the blindfold and listening to the tick, tick, tick of the egg timer, I imagine myself in another place.  The ticking seems to be getting louder, now a sotto voce rather than a whisper. The vibrations are becoming more insistent – less easy to ignore, they’re almost beginning to feel good.  

My mind runs wild with the possibilities of what will happen when the ticking finally stops.  Will he tell me to pull down my panties? Or will he do it? Will he drag them abruptly whilst scolding me? Or lower them slowly and compassionately? What will he spank me with? His bare hand perhaps, or a wooden ruler?  Will that pink glowing bottom of mine change to a darker shade of red? How will I feel? What if I get excited? My head spins, the scenarios seem endless…

I should be contemplating my bad behaviour and the punishment I have received so far, but I find myself relishing it and wanting more. Why is that egg timer still ticking? Surely, he must want to punish me by now. Is he still watching me? Patience, I tell myself. Soon, all will be revealed.

The tense silence is broken by the din of the school bell. My heightened hearing intuitively locates it on the other side of the wall behind me, in the corridor I’d trudged down to report here. That feels such a long time ago now. The bell rings for 30 seconds, filling my head with noise. The bell signals the end of the school day. The school will be emptying, and here am I, alone with one of my teachers.
About to have my knickers pulled down.
Creepy. 

Exciting.

I allow my mind to wander, imagining I’m feeling a lover’s gentle touch massaging me rather than an egg timer. I absorb every vibration it emits, and slowly feel myself getting more and more aroused.  My spanked bottom no longer aches, but feels like it’s emitting a pleasurable glow. I feel damp between my legs. I feel thrillingly naughty. I long to rub myself, but don’t dare. I sense him still sitting behind me, watching. Being caught touching myself would be so humiliating. But the anticipation of what will happen next slowly eats me up.

Seconds pass, minutes pass, and still the ticking continues. I concentrate on the ticks, trying to mentally amplify the vibrations – but they’re so frustratingly weak. If only they were stronger, I’d come quietly, he’d never know.

The interval between the ticks seems to be getting longer and longer, as my arousal gives way to frustration. When is this infernal ticking going to stop? Surely this is long enough. The vibrations continue and feelings of unfulfillment start to envelop me. More minutes pass. I feel tetchy, I long to move that egg timer but know I’m in enough trouble already.

I think about my pink sore bottom which is still smarting and my frustration turn to that of indignation. Who is he to be doing this to me?  What right did he have to spank me and leave me standing a corner, waiting for him? Does he think he controls me? I am in control, I have every right to walk away if I wish. Maybe I will, that will show him. He’s probably wandered off to another classroom to deal with some other naughty pupil, thinking I’ll still be standing here obediently waiting for him when he returns.

Well, if he thinks he can just make me wait here while he goes off, he’d better think again. I’ll walk away and find some other way of relieving myself. I don’t need him and his silly games.

Feelings of discontent and frustration fill my mind. I’ve lost track of time, it must be at least half an hour. I’ve heard those stories of naive apprentices being sent to the storeroom to fetch A Long Weight. Yes, I bet he’s sitting behind me, reading a paper, waiting for me to catch on. God, I’m a fool! This is silly just standing here.

I can’t stand it any longer. Impulsively, I decide enough is enough. My hands reach back and I feel a bow, it is easy to undo. I half expect to hear his voice scolding me for my indiscipline, but I don’t. So I pull off the blindfold. Light floods my eyes.

Blinking, I look round the room.
There’s no one there.
Just as I suspected, he’s gone and left me! Probably in the staff room, having a cup of tea and good chuckle at my expense. Grrrr! I feel like swearing, but realise the virtue of keeping quiet, and channel my anger into clenched fists instead.

I look about the room, it’s relatively empty. It’s dim, no windows, only skylights. I see the sturdy old desk at the front, his empty chair. The mysterious cupboard – now closed again. There’s three other desks with chairs. There’s a blackboard, now more grey than black, filled with the chalky white swirls of repeated erasings – inside which I can just about read the faded word ‘Detention’. This room’s purpose is obvious. There are also two doors at the front of the room on opposite sides.

A-ha. Escape routes.

I reach down to take the egg timer out of my panties. Through my fingers I feel one side is slightly damp to the touch, raising it for a closer look, I can smell my own arousal. The timer is egg-shaped, with a notched and numbered ring at its widest part that clearly sets its duration. Below a small triangular arrow is the number 6. With a jolt of panic, I realise its significance immediately.
The timer will ring in 6 minutes.
He knows it will ring in 6 minutes.
He will be back within the next 6 minutes.

I don’t have much time, I yank my skirt down with as much dignity as I can manage, the queasy ache of fear spreading from my stomach. I’ve broken the rules again, what awful punishment awaits me now? I need to get away.

Gingerly I place the egg timer on the floor, like I’m setting down a hand grenade. It continues to tick away. Valuable seconds pass as I stop, and briefly consider staying to face the music. Then, somehow, I’ve decided. I’ll make a dash for it. I know I’ve done wrong, but I’m an impetuous girl, and my instinct is to run.

Of the room’s two doors I think I recognise the one I entered. He might be behind the other one, but I didn’t hear him move. Maybe he moved when the school bell rang? If so, I’ll need to be quiet. I take a step forward, stepping ever so lightly, lest a treacherous footboard betray my escape with a squeak. Silence. Another step. Silence. I tread more confidently now, feeling like a burglar as I creep light-footedly towards the door. I take a deep breath and turn the handle. It clanks. It’s locked.

I feel trapped and anxious. Did he lock me in? Or was I mistaken? Did I enter through the other door? No matter, I only have one option left. I walk quietly to the other side of the room, breathe deeply and try the door handle. It’s unlocked. In one quick movement I open it and stride purposefully through it.

I stop after one step.
This is a room, not a corridor.
My jaw drops. Lining all four walls are canes, paddles, whips and straps of every imaginable size, colour and shape. Each on its own tiny hook, like some bizarre cloakroom.
And in the middle:
Him.
Seated on a straight-backed chair.
My eyes widen when I see what he holds in his hand.

He does not seem at all surprised to see me.
“Ah young lady, I’ve been waiting for you.”

* * * * *

Epilogue

As it happened, I took down my own panties.



SpankingTheatre at gmail . com 2012

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