Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears


June 2012

I reblogged your story again. So lovely. Love your stories. Never stop.

The library of my mind has myriad shelves. New books are added every day. New thoughts, new experiences, new learnings, all archived for posterity.

The sensible, professional books are near the entrance in the glass-roofed atrium. Keep going, beyond the cactus terrarium and the towering palms and pass through the travel section, with its enjoyable collection of travelogues and expedition diaries nestling in stone alcoves amongst the varied vegetation. Now turn left at the sandstone fountain, and walk through the wood-panelled study, past the ceiling-high shelves stacked with academic theses and theories.

The imagination section is on the other side of a patch of sky, just walk across it, you can’t miss it, this section looks like a floating castle. The portcullis is almost always open. You’ll find the erotic books not locked away ashamedly in some musty, dusty room – but proudly displayed in a gazebo amid the courtyard orchard. Yes, it is a bit tricky to find, only a few visitors have browsed its curvy shelves, but it’s worth the journey, as this gazebo is packed with stories.

There are more stories packed into that small ornate gazebo than I’ll ever be able to transcribe in my lifetime. And I keep discovering new ones. Confessions, fantasies, twisted fairytales, secret histories of kinky individuals I never knew I knew.

I transcribe them because I believe in the power of the written word. I believe in the power of words to excite, the power to conjure up whole new worlds in their readers’ heads, each world unique. Words are like magic spells.

So a heartfelt thank you to all those who share and spread these stories. Without you, these tales would remain hidden away in my mind’s library, and ultimately lost in time, forever. Thanks to you, innumerable imaginations will be stirred, untold new worlds will be conceived, and umpteen libidos will be excited.

All, through the magic of words.


Throne of Shame

Her throne glimmered with gold. Ornately carved, fashioned by the continent’s finest craftsmen, it sat on a dais of burgundy and jade.

He took the princess’s hand delicately, elegantly holding hers on top of his, and led her.
“Your throne, your highness”

He enjoyed how quickly her expression changed from pride to shame, as she spied the finger-length protrusion of finest ivory just behind the centre of the velvet seat – as she realised just where it would penetrate.

Silken bonds dangled from the armrests. He reached behind her to undo her gown, which dropped around her feet.
“Please, be seated, highness…”

* * * * *

Once upon a time, in a faraway land of cloud-capped peaks and twisting paths, in a grandiose turreted castle adorned with fluttering pennants, lived a princess.

She was no fragile damsel, but a headstrong fighter, prepared to slay any man who dared challenge her feminine strength. By habit, she drew her sword with a defiant toss of her head.

Yet she would flee from her kingdom one fateful night, leaving all her riches and privileges behind. She had discovered she had been betrothed. An arranged marriage, a life not of her choosing. From her bedroom tower, the world had stretched out below her, beckoning her with the promise of adventures. There were turquoise seas and ancient forests, bone-white sands and shimmering lakes, sun-wracked deserts and eerie crags.

She would not be a minor supporting actress in another’s fairytale. She was a princess! A warrior! And she was determined the world would know her name. She disguised herself in a soldier’s cloak, hurriedly grabbing just the barest essentials and her favourite sword, and stole away from her castle by starlight.

Several weeks later, their paths crossed at a rickety river bridge.

He was a lord, returning home with his army. His scouts had spotted her, but he rode up to challenge her alone. The two warriors instinctively crossed swords. Fighting – or was it flirting with their blades – teasing, probing, determining each other’s character with every thrust and parry. Until, exhausted and sweaty, they locked eyes, and in that moment understood each other.

He told her to accompany him. She had resisted, vigorously, of course. So he had her put in chains. It was either that or leave her to stumble into the merciless clutches of his enemy’s roving armies. They would ensure the remainder of her life would be nasty, brutal and short – staked to the ground naked for soldiers to defile.

She accompanied his army on their ride home as a captive. When they made camp the next night, she was brought to his tent, still chained. He described her likely fate should she be freed, and offered her an alternative, instead of serving an army, she would serve only him.
“I’ll bow to no man!” she snapped back.
He just smiled at her challenge.

Her clothes were filthy from weeks sleeping rough, he soon cut them from her – despite her protests. Afterward, he bound her to his bed and washed her. Then he shaved her, his fingers protecting her soft lips from the razor’s edge.

She shouted in indignation when she saw the chastity belt.

It was a supple white leather belt with silver front-shield that curved like a horn as it tapered between her legs. He adjusted the girdle so the silver curve hugged her body like a hand cupping her crotch, the palm covering her shaven mound, a silver fingertip tantalisingly close but not touching her bottom hole. No man would touch her; neither would she.

The following night she was brought before him again. He untied her gown, exposing her naked, save the manacles around her wrists and ankles, and the small silver shield around her waist that defended her modesty. He pushed her onto his bed so she lay face down, and restrained her further with rope. She cursed him angrily for his affront. He chided her for her indiscipline – then began to whip her thighs and buttocks with his riding crop.

She yelled furiously, raging at the indignity, cursing his impudence.
No one had ever chastised her before.
She was a princess!
No one had ever dared be so bold.

Yet she had grown up under the shadow of physical discipline. If she had misbehaved, or flouted her royal household’s strict rules, her governess would escort the rebellious princess back to her bedchamber and undress her. Once divested of her fine silk robes and undergarments, she would be redressed in calico undergarments and a gown of coarse sackcloth. And in place of her gold filigree tiara, she would wear a circlet of straw.

Once dressed more humbly, the princess was escorted to the punishment room, high in the old decaying East Tower: a rarely visited – and conveniently out of earshot – corner of the castle. The room contained a padded leather bench and crude wooden throne on a small raised platform; she called it her Throne of Shame.

The disgraced princess would then stand in front of the spanking bench. And wait. She was meant to be contemplating her misdemeanours, of course, but her attention was drawn instead by the small details of the spanking bench – and the stories its patina revealed. Like how two holes in the restraining straps were worn larger than the rest, the holes that represented the diameter of a young lady’s wrist. And how, in the bench’s black leather, she could see the shadow of goodness-knows-how-many generations of squirming miscreants scuffed into its surface.

All the while, behind her, she would feel a palm-sized wooden paddle pressing against each of her buttocks, kneading, lifting, spreading each cheek, but never striking. She would wait in silence, and begin to long for a sudden smack, or a firm push in the small of her back that would bend her over the spanking bench, or the thrillingly cold draught of her gown being lifted as her bottom was bared. Still she waited.

But princesses were not to be beaten. Soon, she would be shaken from her reverie by a hammering fist on the old oak door. It would be one of the palace guard – and one of her friends. The guard would be dismissed, and the princess and her young friend would look at each other in awkward silence, each knowing what must happen next.

The princess would apologise to her friend as she began to undress her. By now, all of her friends had stood naked before her, and over the passing years she had seen their bodies change. She held the hand of her naked friend as she escorted her to the A-shaped spanking bench, and apologised again as she spread her friend’s legs, binding each ankle to a back leg of the bench. She would step around the bench to face her friend, both now blushing pink with embarrassment and apologise once more as she pulled her hands forward, bending her friend over the top of the bench, raising her bottom high to face her throne. She knelt down, securing her friend’s wrists to the front legs of the bench with straps, and whispered a final apology.

The princess would step up onto the platform, and sit guiltily on her wooden throne of shame. She would watch with guilt and fascination as her governess dabbed her finger into a small clay pot of ginger paste, and rubbed it into her friend’s bottom hole. In moments the leather straps would creak as she struggled against her restraints, splaying her buttocks wide as she seeks relief from the burning between her cheeks.

The governess would then explain to her friend the crimes she is about to be punished for.
The princess’s crimes.

Picking up a long-handled paddle, she would look up expectantly at the straw-crowned princess, waiting for the order to begin. The princess would look down from her high throne, facing her friend’s bottom, a few footsteps away, knowing she must perform her duty, lest her friend’s ordeal be extended. She would blush red, but speak authoritatively, like a princess should.


Smacks began to echo around the punishment room. The governess spanked hard, slapping one cheek, then the other with her wicked rosewood paddle. All the while, the princess stared down from her wooden throne, her gaze fixed on the reddening cheeks of her struggling friend, almost close enough to touch.

Each whack is accompanied by an anguished cry, guilt makes the princess long to take her friend’s place, trying to imagine the sensation of each smack as it rings in her ears. Yet she can not avoid staring between her friend’s lithe thighs at her most secret places. Underneath her sackcloth gown, between her own legs, she would feel herself tingling.
Soon, tears of guilt and shame would drip down her cheeks.

The chastened princess did not misbehave often.
Though sometimes, when she was alone at night in her chamber, lying in her ornate four-poster bed with its satin curtains drawn, her fingers would begin to wander. Her favourite fantasy involved the paddle, the throne and the spanking bench – and that intoxicating, illicit view of a freshly spanked bottom, and the secret area in between.

And sometimes, the very next day, just to see it again, she’d misbehave.

* * * * *

So it was with a shock that she realised she was not being beaten, but disciplined. For years, she had fantasised about such punishment, of receiving her comeuppance, imagining the hot sensations as her bottom was smacked. She had always wondered how much it would hurt; but it really wasn’t that sort of pain. She stopped yelling.
This was discipline, chastisement, and she deserved it.

Later that night she was returned to her own bed, tied down and left alone to contemplate the warm afterglow of her whipping. It had been incredibly humiliating. But deep down – she admitted to herself, being so powerless had been very exciting. Whips and chains and rituals of discipline would bedevil her dreams.

The next night she was brought before him again. Again, he untied her gown, exposing her nakedness, and restrained her to his bed. This time though, she held her tongue, as if silenced by the guilt of unpunished childhood follies. He produced a seductive, spicy, musky balm and began to rub it into her feet and hands. She did not demur.

He combined the sensations from his fingers with his warm breath, gently blowing and nibbling her tingling flesh at the nape of her neck, then her calves, and behind her knees. He rubbed the balm further, nuzzling her inner elbows and thighs, before caressing her throat and breasts. Behind the silver shield of her chastity belt, a fire began to smoulder between her legs.
He would make no attempt to quench it tonight.

The following night, she was brought before him again. But this time, she untied her own gown,  and lay down on his bed before he’d said a word. He smiled at her compliance, then turned her onto her back and tied her down.

Again his expert fingers began to spread aromatic oils across her canvas. Featherlight touches danced across her calves, earlobes, shoulders and the small of her back, leaving her longing for a lingering touch.

He ran his fingers through her hair, and raised her chin to see her sparkling eyes coruscate with desire. He explored the valley of her back, finally arriving at the crevice of her buttocks. A lone finger skirted her puckered entrance, causing her to frantically pull against her bonds in protest, but she was defenceless.

His finger teased and probed her hole, stoking the fire behind her silver shield, a hot, wet ache she was desperate to satisfy. Then he stopped, switching his attention to the soles of her feet, and then the nape of her neck. Each time he returned to her hole, his finger teased her more salaciously. She would tug at her bonds, trying to arch her back, urging his finger deeper, but then it would vanish, only to reappear in another corner of her world.

Later, his finger brushed her hole again. She was about to beg him for release when she felt a surge of shame. She suddenly realised that she was no proud princess, no untameable warrior spirit, they were lies she’d told herself, masks she’d donned. In reality, she was an undisciplined wench, a lust-driven harlot, a spoilt brat who’d got wet watching her friends being spanked for her own misdemeanours. He had discovered her true nature, he had whipped her like a scullery maid, and now here she was, behaving like one. He had found her weakness, and tamed her with her own desire.

He continued to tease, tickle and tantalise her until her will to resist finally crumbled like some long-besieged city wall. She cried out, begging him to remove her shield and take her.
But he just smiled.

“Patience, my lady. We arrive at my castle tomorrow. And I have a surprise for you.”

* * * * *

They rode into his castle as the sun set, its granite walls glowing pink in the dying light. It sat atop a small hill, its six tall towers staring out like sentinels, watching over the lands he had sworn to protect.

He escorted her to his private chambers, and searched the eyes of his manacled guest. Now he could see the rage had vanished from her eyes. He unlocked her shackles. She stretched her arms and legs, then hugged him. It was not a romantic embrace, but one born of loneliness, the desire to feel the warmth of another again. Each smelled of sweat, grass and horses.
“Thank you”, she whispered.

He knelt before her and unlocked the girdle of her chastity belt, admiring the delicate folds of her femininity. He undressed slowly as she watched. On removing his shirt, she saw his stout arms bore the souvenir scars of battles and skirmishes. It never crossed her mind to look away as he began to remove his undergarments. Through surreptitious assignations with past lovers, she was no stranger to the male form. When he stood naked before her and knelt, he could smell the musky odour of her sex.

He led her by the hand to the adjoining bathroom. The circular tiled pool had already been filled with hot water, filling the room with mist. Candles glimmered in the steam, flickering floating orange orbs, will-o’-the-wisps in a fragrant swamp. They entered the water eagerly and washed the grime of each other’s journey away.

Afterwards, he dried and dressed her in a simple gown. They dined in a room at the top of a tower, on a table crafted from an old tree stump. After weeks of dried rations they devoured the fresh food eagerly; and slowly, they began to talk to each other. They learned each other’s names, and related the stories that had caused their paths to cross. As the moon rose, he pointed out the lands below, the silver ribbons of the rivers, the dark shadows of the forests and the red dots of faraway fires, each a small haven of safety in an inky black night.

A silence – just the sound of cicadas chirping nearby – and then:

“I promised you a surprise”

* * * * *

They descended a spiral stone staircase, and he led her by the hand into a small room. The tapestries on one wall were illuminated by a bank of candles on the wall opposite. They were alone.

At the far end a single throne glimmered with gold. It was ornately carved, it sat on a dais of burgundy and jade.

He took the princess’s hand delicately, elegantly holding hers on top of his, and led her towards it. “Your throne, your highness”

He enjoyed how quickly her expression changed from pride to shame, as she spied the finger-length protrusion of finest ivory just behind the centre of the velvet seat – and as she realised just where it would penetrate.

She noticed the silken bonds dangling from the armrests – and something else, a strange wooden contraption on the floor below the dais, just a few footsteps in front of the throne. It looked like some kind of spanking bench, she thought, suddenly recalling the details of the austere punishment room of her youth.

He reached behind her to undo her gown, which dropped silently around her feet. She stood naked in front of him without complaint. He spoke softly, but firmly.
“Please, be seated, highness…”

She hesitated, then stepped up onto the dais with as much dignity as she could manage. The throne’s gilded craftsmanship was exquisite, but her eyes were irresistibly drawn back to the bone-white ivory protrusion in the middle of the seat; it was as wide as her thumb, as long as her index finger, with a subtle curve, and there could be little doubt about its purpose. She knelt over the throne, and took the ivory finger in her mouth, her tongue feeling every sculpted groove as she moistened it.

She stood and faced him, her arousal obvious, before stepping backwards and beginning to sit. She supported her weight on the armrests as she lowered herself towards the ivory finger, then she felt it, cool and damp, poking between her bottom cheeks. She raised herself slightly, feeling the finger trace down her crevice, until it touched her arsehole. She pushed against it, gasping as she felt the cold, hard protrusion slide inside her. As her legs quivered, she dropped the remaining short distance, fully impaling herself on her new throne of shame.

She sat upright, regally, her posture immaculate. But he easily saw behind her pretence of elegance, she could not conceal her abasement as she squirmed disgracefully upon her throne’s protuberance. He stepped onto the dais and bound her wrists to the armrests with the silken ties, then parted her legs to bind each ankle to the throne. His fingers glanced across her lips as he dabbed the damp patch of velvet between her thighs, tsking at her lack of self-control.

Fettered and immobile, she felt the pleasure of impalement spread from her arse to her crotch. She imagined a bonfire spitting hot embers towards a pan of gunpowder, realising the inevitability of an explosion…

But what he said next shocked her.
“Is this really how a princess should behave?”

She stared back, open-mouthed.
“What kind of princess wanders in rags, in the wilderness?
What kind of princess impales herself so readily?
What kind of princess soaks her own throne with her arousal?”

Dumbstruck, she let his words sink in. Had she really behaved like a princess in his company? Now without her jewels, her fine robes and her servants, was she even a princess anymore? Certainly her behaviour since they’d met had been more akin to a common harlot than a highborn princess. Now here she was, penetrated, owned and tied to be used – and she liked it. The intrusion in her bottom felt so good, and her arousal was undeniable; from her glazed eyes to her engorged nipples to the slick, open pink petals of her cunt. She tried to regain her composure, stretching against her bonds, trying to concentrate on other sensations.

“Let’s see…”

Now he walked past the strange wooden contraption, and left the room. It reminded her of the spanking bench her friends had once been bent over, but it was much taller, almost as tall as he was. It was also much narrower, its legs were as wide as her stance at the base, but quickly narrowed to a leather-covered top – actually, it was more of a ridge than a top; an apex, an edge. But its most distinctive feature was the carved horse head at the end that faced away from her, it give the structure the appearance of an oversized children’s toy. The head had an authentic-looking bridle, all straps and shiny plates and reins. At the end closest to her, there was a small rickety-looking two-legged stool underneath. A giant rocking horse, that didn’t rock, with a back that was more edge than saddle. Her mind boggled at its strangeness.

She was still trying to understand its purpose when he returned. This time there was someone with him, a young woman who wore the utilitarian clothes of a servant girl. She was suddenly acutely aware of her nakedness, but bound to the throne with her legs apart, she was incapable of covering her modesty.

“You stand before a princess. Be sure you show the due respect” he told her.

The servant girl looked surprised, then suddenly alarmed, as if she’d left a fire unattended, and quickly approached the dais to curtsy. The princess tried to acknowledge the girl’s tribute as regally as one could whilst bound naked to a golden throne with something up one’s bottom.


The servant girl didn’t seem particularly shocked by his command, and removed her clothing quickly. Undressed with a single word, the princess thought; his exhibition of erotic power excited her. She ran her eyes down the servant girl; a cute face, blue eyes, short boyish black hair, clean unblemished skin, a shaven mound. Was that usual for a servant girl?

“Stand up on the stool, and straddle the horse” he instructed.

The servant girl approached the back of the horse tentatively, stepping up onto the stool at the very back of the horse and swinging her left leg over the narrow ridge. Now she stood astride the flat thin edge, her feet on the stool, one on each side of the strange structure.

“Now, sit” he said firmly.

She lowered herself as he instructed, but the ridge between her legs was far too narrow to serve as a seat. She felt the cool leather-clad edge part her buttocks, then touch her lips. She rocked back slightly, shifting to avoid pressing on her most sensitive parts, until ultimately she found herself balancing precariously, resting her perineum against the edge near the very back of the horse. He could see from the straining muscles of her thighs she was still supporting most of her weight with her legs, but said nothing. He produced a thin leather thong and tied her hands behind her back.

The servant girl stood astride the horse with her back to the princess, hands bound behind her back, teetering slightly on the stool.

In a flash of terrible clarity, the princess suddenly understood the cruel purpose of the wooden horse.

On several awful occasions, it had been the princess’s terrible duty to witness a hanging. To the beat of drums, she and her parents, the King and Queen, would solemnly file into the royal balcony, and sit on their thrones overlooking the great castle courtyard. She would look down on the gallows, its ominous old timbers blackened as if by fire, she’d see the noose dangling expectantly in the breeze, and shiver.

The sound of drums would rise to a deafening roar, almost too loud to think, as if trying to mask the horror of what was about to happen. A glint of gleaming metal would then catch her eye, pushing through the crowd: the guards escorting the condemned from the dungeon to underneath the dangling rope. They would be lifted onto the stool, their hands already bound behind their backs. The hooded hangman would pull the noose over the poor wretch’s head, and pull the rope tight, then rest his foot against the stool; he would look up at her and wait…

She saw him rest his foot against the stool.

“Give the order, highness”

The realisation of what was going to happen next made a shiver run down her spine, she squirmed on her throne. She felt the thrilling power of authority, yet simultaneously yearned to be free of her throne, to be free of her responsibilities. But she knew her duty, and so she spoke loudly and imperiously.


With a firm push, his foot tipped the stool, toppling it over. The servant girl dropped a fraction onto the leather edge, her feet jolting and dangling like a wretch on the gallows. The princess watched her feet kick the air with morbid fascination, watching her hands struggle behind her back as she vainly tried to free herself. And faintly audible beyond the servant girl’s moans, were the faint squeaks of flesh on leather, as her weight was painfully concentrated on the crevice between her legs, splaying her vulva apart.

He reached behind the struggling girl and untied her hands, bringing them in front of her and re-tying them with the reins. This made her lean her forward, rounding her bottom cheeks, revealing to the princess how the cruel edge had parted her lips. From her vantage point, her eyes sparkled, she was enjoying her privilege, enjoying watching another’s punishment again. It felt wrong, it felt shameful, but it was intoxicating.

From the side of the horse, he took a riding crop with a long black stem and tipped with a rounded flap of leather. He whipped it through the air, making it whiz threateningly, before slapping it across the servant girl’s buttocks. And again. The poor girl cried out, but said nothing. The sound of smacking filled the room as the princess’s gaze flits between the pink patches appearing on the victim’s bottom, and her bare feet – kicking the air, as if nestled in invisible stirrups.

He’s making her ride the horse, she realised, as she began to match the tempo of her canter by rocking on her throne. He began to whip more rapidly, bringing her to a gallop. Her cries quicken too, she tugs the reins, leaning even further forward, so now the princess can see the dark hole between her reddened cheeks. The remembered shame of watching her friends’ gingered bottoms wink in the punishment room washes over her, making her skin tingle. She is so desperately close to coming.

When suddenly, the slapping stops.

He reached down to right the stool, placing it underneath the servant girl’s dangling feet. At last, her trembling legs take her weight again.
“Good girl”, he told her, “you may dismount”.
He helped her swing her leg over the horse and step down to the floor. She stood silently, her hands between her legs alternately nursing her whipped cheeks and her vulva, now red and puffy and sore from her ride on the horse’s edge.

Now he approached the throne, stepping up onto the dais. He knelt between her open legs, close enough for her to feel his hot breath on her slick, engorged lips.
“I see you enjoyed that performance”, he said, as he began to untie her ankles.
She said nothing in reply, lowering her eyes in shame as he untied her wrists.

“Stand up please, highness” he commanded.
She rose slowly, hoping neither could hear the sucking noise as the throne’s protrusion pulled from her bottom.
“Now stand on stool, highness, and straddle the horse”

She stood mouth agape; so he repeated his instructions, more firmly this time.

She knew she had to comply. She stepped down from the dais, approaching the wicked horse tentatively. She paused, then stepped up onto the stool and swung her left leg over the narrow ridge, so she stood astride the horse just like the servant girl had done. The folds of her lips hovered just above the horse’s edge, as if teasing it, close enough for her to feel the warm dampness of her predecessor.

He gathered her hands behind her, tying her wrists with the leather thong. Her legs trembled as she imagined herself standing naked under the gallows, hands tied behind, teetering on the fatal stool, looking through the noose at the jeering, lascivious crowd…

His voice broke her reverie.  “Take your place on the throne, girl”

Her throne? She looked over her shoulder to see the servant girl daintily lowering herself onto the now slick protrusion. She began to wonder if she was truly just a servant girl, she had acted quite submissively yes, but she also possessed a certain sexual confidence, she was comfortable with her nakedness, and had endured her torment with little complaint.
Perhaps she was a concubine. Or a lover. Or…

The thought hit her like a mace’s glancing blow, she tottered on the stool, flexing her thighs against the edge to preserve her balance. What if the girl was his wife? His princess!
They could be playing with her, secretly laughing at her.
“I found a feisty one on my travels, my dear”, he would have told her, “she calls herself a princess, yet wets herself like a slut.”
“O make me your slave, my Lord”, she would have replied, “whip me on the Horse as she watches from the Throne of Shame, then let me witness her disgrace!”

She had thought she had nothing more to lose when he stripped her of her clothes, now she realised he was stripping her identity away too, exposing the secret submissive that lay beneath her haughty princess persona. Worse – she was complicit, willingly collaborating as he stripped her to her core, made tame by her own desire.

She faced forward again, a shiny bridle plate reflected the scene behind her in miniature, with the other girl seated regally on the throne, her wrists and ankles tied as hers had been. She felt his hand grip her cunt, a finger probing inside her.

He spoke differently now, his once polite, respectful tone now admonishing.
“Disgraceful wench!” he scolded, “Sopping wet. Does the pain of others excite you?”
He rested his foot on the stool, rocking it threateningly.

As she tried to keep her balance, he slapped her bottom with his hand. And again. Instinctively she shied away from the blows, leaning forward, feeling the hood of her clit rubbing along the horse’s edge. Her bottom was raised now, and he spanked her vigorously, scolding her after every few smacks. Her hands, tied just below the small of her back, flailed uselessly, powerless to prevent him splaying her buttocks. He ran his finger around her hole; after her time on the throne it betrayed her readily, eagerly accepting his invading digit. He pushed in deeply, continuing to spank her with his other hand, chiding her licentiousness as she ground herself against the horse’s edge.

He withdrew his finger and addressed the girl on the throne.
“Give the order”
It was the first time she had heard her voice, she spoke clearly and confidently.

His foot toppled the stool with a firm push. She felt herself fall, just a fraction, and then a sudden burning pain as the leather edge forced her labia apart. Her weight pressed cruelly against the base of her mound and her clit as her feet danced beneath her, stretching vainly for the ground, whilst her hands struggled behind her. Her wetness translated her writhing into an exquisite torment, even a tiny shift in her balance would make her slide ever so slightly, pressing the sadistic edge against a new and tender part of her cunt.

He let her dangle on the horse until her feet stopped kicking, then untied her hands, before retying them to the reigns in front of her. In the silence, she thought she could hear faint murmurs of pleasure, but in her daze could not be sure if she was responsible – or the girl impaled on the throne behind her.

A swishing whip broke the hush.
Moments later, she felt it smack against her arse.
She recoiled instinctively, grinding herself against the edge, a stripe of pain across her bottom, followed an instant later by a stripe of pain along her most sensitive place.
He began to whip quicker, making her grind against the horse at a cantering pace. The burning between her legs intensified, pain and pleasure mingling until they were indistinguishable.

She gripped the reins tightly, as if trying to rein herself in. She was so close to coming, but her last vestiges of dignity tried to hold her back from what she knew would be a wench’s climax: the disgrace of coming by rubbing herself as she was whipped. She longed for a princess’s climax, to be worshipped by a stiff cock as she lay blissfully in a white feather bed. Instead she was being forced to masturbate herself on this horse, as a servant girl stared between her legs, watching her bottom turn red.

Once upon a time, she had wished – she would have done anything – to swap places, to be the one over the spanking bench, to feel her bum burning, to be forced to spread her legs to expose everything she had to the authority on the throne. Now her wish had been unexpectedly granted, her disgrace was almost complete.

He continued to castigate her between flurries of slaps.
“What a wanton hussy. Rubbing her clit in front of others. My humble servant girl behaved with more decorum.”

“Are you really a princess? Or an imposter, weaving an improbable tale of a runaway princess in the hope of shelter and charity? I should send you to work in my kitchens.”

He was whipping her rapidly now. And she was losing her battle of self-control, she felt the tell-tale tremors deep inside. All those years of tedious royal dutifulness, she’d never felt anything like this, the shame of being his slave, the delight of suffering under his whip.

“And since you like it so much, you can spend every night in the dungeon, sitting across a device such as this.”

She pulled at the reins and clenched her legs, gripping the narrow beam with her thighs, driving the edge deeper into her aching slit, proferring her bottom in a final act of submission.
He accepted her sacrifice, and whacked her hard between her cheeks.
She thrust herself onto the edge, feeling her throbbing clit slide down its slick ridge, until it was buried deep inside her.
She came ecstatically.
She came shamefully.
She came revealingly.

* * * * *


They fucked again as they watched the sun rise, colouring the tower-top bedchamber with a golden glow.
It had been an exhausting night.
But he was sure he had made the right choice.

@spankingtheatre 2012

Create a free website or blog at

Up ↑