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Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

Month

July 2012

Abstract Art

“The buttocks are the most aesthetically pleasing part of the body because they are non-functional.  Although they conceal an essential orifice, these pointless globes are as near as the human form can ever come to abstract art.”  – Kenneth Tynan

* * *

 

Everyone knew the penalty for neglecting to do a homework. A short, agonisingly embarrassing walk to the front of the class, followed by a humiliating bend-over dance to the wooden ruler’s beat.

Hannah hadn’t done her homework. She’d come prepared with an elaborate excuse of almost farcical proportions, a twisty tale of family complications and misunderstandings. But it hadn’t been able to save her.

“Come up here, Hannah”, was all he needed to say.

Across the classroom, all fidgeting stopped. A perfect hush settled.
Everyone knew what happened next.
Head bowed, Hannah stood from her desk, she reached the low platform at the front of the class in 6 slow footsteps, visibly hesitating before taking the final step up to stand beside him.

His finger beckoned her one step forward.
“Bend over”, he ordered, in a tone that left no-one in the room in any doubt this was a command, and not a prelude to negotiations. Nevertheless, she turned her head, giving him one last plaintive look. No mercy was forthcoming. His eyes merely narrowed.

Hannah bent over, her bottom jutting towards her captivated classmates, grasping her ankles, and shutting her eyes, too ashamed to look back through her legs at the gawping class. Moments later, she felt the unmistakable draught as he lifted her navy blue pleated skirt, and folded it over her back. All the while, her classmates stared on silently, as if spying through a peephole, fearful that any sound would give away their presence.

Hannah whined pitifully as she felt his fingertips enter the elastic waist of her underwear. He pulled her panties down slowly, the tight white material revealing her athletic buttocks, before stretching to follow the contours of her thighs. He pulled them past her knees, patting her thighs to encourage her to spread her legs apart until her panties stretched between her ankles like a sad parody of a hammock.

Her classmates stared at the bared mounds of their hockey team captain. Some nodded approvingly amongst themselves, Hannah might be a bit of brat, but there was no doubt she worked out; she was in great shape.

Two dozen transfixed eyeballs followed him as he went to fetch the wooden ruler from his desk, and returned to stand behind her.

“What happens to those who forget their homework, Hannah?”

Hannah could feel her face burning hot with shame, sweaty, almost feverishly. Had she dared open her eyes, she would have looked back through her open legs to see her classmates, upside down, staring back at her. She dearly wished she was somewhere else, or at the very least, could close her legs and hide behind them. She tried to reply, but couldn’t find the words to answer.

He wasn’t offended, often just a bit of encouragement was needed. By now, the classroom resembled a waxwork scene, all silent, frozen in position, waiting.

Suddenly, there was movement!
The ruler blurred… a slap, accompanied by a yelp. Then three more.

“What happens to naughty girls who forget their homework, Hannah?”, he prompted.

Her vocal chords now loosened, she answered much more easily.
“They.. they.. get their b.. bottoms sp.. spanked, sir”. She cringed as she said it, feeling like she was 8 years old. Grasping her ankles tighter in consolation, she wondered if she’d ever live this down.

The ruler and Hannah began their duet. Its soft whoosh – shorter and less threatening than the swish of a cane, was followed by a thwick! as it slapped across her rear, and then by a cry, moan or little shriek, as Hannah danced for the class’s delight.

She had begun her bend-over dance with tiny jumps, bobbing upward, almost lifting a foot off the ground. Soon her hips were swaying with the rhythm of the stokes. As her bottom reddened and her exclamations grew louder, she began to bend her knees, instinctively twisting her body, hoping to throw his aim, hoping the next smack would somehow avoid her burning patches. But she danced in vain, so little of her bottom remained unspanked that her gyrations only served to flash the secrets between her legs for all to see.

He finished with six hard whacks across both cheeks, which almost made Hannah burst into tears, but she was determined to keep her composure in front of her peers. He allowed the shocked silence that followed her last yelp to linger, before ordering Hannah to the corner to reflect on her disobedience. As she shuffled to her destination, her knickers still around her ankles, she reflected: it had been a brilliant party last night – but next time, she promised herself, she’d definitely get her homework finished first.

The reaction of Hannah’s classmates to her performance had varied. Her friends had stared down at their desks, flinching with each of her yelps. Those who regarded Hannah as an uppity self-appointed princess, deserving of her childish comeuppance exchanged smirks. And at the back of the class, one particular student gazed in genuine fascination, shuffling in her seat as Hannah squirmed under the heat of the stings. Natalie watched the expression of her teacher as he spanked, he looked stern, but it was a countenance born of duty rather than viciousness.
She wondered if he ever got as aroused as she did.

She also wondered if he’d noticed her, and her little act of rebellion.

School uniform consisted of a white blouse and navy blue skirt. Above her desk, she was a model of compliance, tidy auburn hair, spotless white blouse and stripy school tie – but concealed beneath her desk, she was defiantly wearing a pair of navy blue shorts. Some of her classmates had noticed, with oh!-look-at-you! titters as they’d flooded into the room. But she had ignored them and sat down quickly and deliberately.
She wasn’t wearing the shorts to boost her reputation as a rebel.
She wanted to know something much more important. Something she just had to know.
Had HE noticed her among the crowd? Did he look out for her?

She bit her lip, wondering if he’d seen her. She was flouting school rules, and he was strict about rules. Her mind buzzed with excitement as she anticipated having to admit her behavior, wondering how he’d reply. The knowledge that she was breaking the rules so brazenly seemed to draw her eyes – as if by a magnet – back once more to stare at Hannah, who was still standing forlornly in the corner, hands on her head, her bared red bottom radiating a colourful reminder to all of the price of disobedience.

He was scribbling their next homework assignment on the blackboard now. Homework was another of Natalie’s secret pleasures; she wanted to please him. All those little messages he wrote thrilled her. Scribbled in thin red ink in her exercise books, commending her, telling her how clever she was, telling her how proud he was of her. Sometimes she would read his praise when alone, just before bedtime, and fall asleep imagining him dispensing some very special rewards to his very best students.

And yet, he said so little to her in class. On occasion she’d flirted clumsily, trying to attract his attention, but the man remained impassive. She stared at his shapely behind as his chalk chattered across the blackboard, whilst around her, classmates shared bored sighs and stares.

The chalk finished scraping. He turned to face the class, looking past all the drowsy faces to the back of the room to look straight into her eyes.
“Homework is due by next Thursday’s class. Take your time, and create something great.”

The moment she found herself in eye contact with her teacher, Natalie straightened up, quickly removing her elbows from the desk. A small grin appeared on her face, it almost surprised her. She had contemplated forgetting to do her homework, but hated the idea of disappointing him, even more than the idea of having her bare bottom dance in front of the class.

Meanwhile, Hannah’s time in the corner was almost served. Denied the relief of rubbing, the heat from her bum dominated her senses. And confusingly, something else was warming up down there that definitely shouldn’t be warming. Then, through her daze, she heard him call her name. At long last, Hannah could pull her panties up over her smarting bottom, fold down her skirt, and make the short walk of shame back to her desk. Where she discovered sitting down hurt even more than her classmates’ stares.

He had indeed noticed.
Back at his desk, he sighed at her disobedience. Natalie was such a bright girl, yet her silly acting up was becoming increasingly obvious. He would have to have a stern word with her after class, and ascertain where her skirt had gone.

She would plead her innocence of course, contriving some scarcely believable fiction about her uniform going missing, or having to be urgently laundered. He was beginning to suspect she was flouting underwear regulations too. He made a mental note to inspect her, just to make sure.

From the back of the class Natalie tried to decode his gaze. He had spotted her, hadn’t he? Almost by reflex her mind began to whiz through her multiple excuses, critiquing their believability before deciding on one she thought most bulletproof. It wasn’t going to be long until the class ended, and she started to tingle with excitement.

She turned to the back of her notebook, noting the homework down, and beside it, the word spank. SPANK. In bold black ink, again and again, overlapping the word and watching with a smile as it sank through each page…

The end-of-day bell rang with a deafening clanging that belied its tiny size.
All around the room, sighs of relief mixed with the rustle of satchels.

He pointed to Natalie amid the crowd – wordlessly – his finger beckoning her forward.
Me sir? She mouths, pointing to herself with faux surprise.
Inside, she shivers.
Her friends send worried glances, but she wafts them away.
I’ll be fine, she mouths innocently.
I hope, she thinks.

The classroom cleared quickly, leaving the two of them alone.

She stood silently in front of her teacher’s antique oak desk with her head bowed – before realising with alarm she was staring at his crotch. She lowered her eyes to the table. Up close, the wooden ruler on his desk looked ominously large, and somehow her gaze alighted on the 8-inch mark, prompting an embarrassed shake of her head as she brought her eyes up to the level of his chest. She clasped her hands in front of her waist, where despite her predicament, a strangely exciting tingling had developed. She tangled her fingers together, letting her pinky fingers brush ever so lightly against her groin.

They stood in silence, the old enamel-faced wall clock counting off the seconds. She could barely breathe. He fixed her with his eyes, as if searching her soul for answers.
But she remained inscrutable.
“Explain yourself, young lady.”

She finds herself rushing her fabricated lie.
“I… um… Well, I lent my skirt to a cousin… and she had a lady accident and it needed to be properly washed!”
A miniscule pause as she read his face.
“You couldn’t expect me to wear my uniform in that condition, could you?” she finished, almost cockily.

As soon as the lie had left her mouth, she hit a wall in her mind, realising her fiction was told a bit too provocatively for a girl of her age. His subsequent cross-examination was probing, without ever being cross, and she had soon tied herself up in a web of contradictions and ludicrous fantasies. She soon realised he didn’t believe her, and dropped any pretence of an alibi; recognising herself in a hole, she stopped digging. She coyly flicked her auburn curls from her forehead, stood silently and blushed.

He understood now, it was obvious, the uniform story was a ruse to test his authority. And there was something more. He’d noticed how upright she’d sit as soon as a classmate had been summoned to the front of the class, and how intently she’d stared as Hannah’s knickers were peeled down. And how her hands were always below her desk, moving almost imperceptibly, in time to the ruler’s slaps.

She would have to dance for her misdemeanours.

He stepped out from behind his desk and moved toward her. She flinched, instinctively stepping backwards, but he grabbed her wrist and marched her towards a corner of the room. His rapid actions so deliberate she dared not protest.

“Shorts and panties down to your ankles, young lady…”

His voice made her hairs stand on end, he had a strong, narrative voice. How many times had she imagined him saying those very words in private moments alone.

Nervously, she brought her hands to her waist, grabbing the elastic of her shorts when she remembered her choice of underwear. French lace: only the best from Paris itself. It was a gift from an old boyfriend, in fact, she’d lost her virginity wearing these. Not that this was a problem then; but her school was very clear about wearing plain white, cotton panties, after all one never knew when one’s skirt might be lifted in front of the class. The school had no intention of allowing the serious business of discipline to become a lingerie parade.

She turned to face her teacher, trying to conceal the panic in her eyes by furrowing her brow in a childish pout of protest. His face was unmoved, her pouting made her look like just another silly little girl in need of a bottom warming. And many had gone before her; keen eyes would have seen evidence of their recalcitrance, countless scuff marks where they’d been dragged protesting into the corner. Tiny dents and scratches in the wooden floor from countless little stamps as disobedient bottoms were smacked.

“I’m waiting…” he said sternly, “Panties all the way down.”

Panties around the ankles had such childish connotations. Panties pulled down to the tops of the thighs might cover most of a girl’s secret places, but modesty was a privilege only big girls deserved. He believed those who behaved like little girls should be treated as such, their nakedness revealed without shame, their panties around the ankles to stop any infantile kicking tantrums.

She allowed her hands to travel south, her lace panties just visible beneath her dark shorts, and swallowed nervously. She wondered if she’d pulled her shorts and underwear down together, he wouldn’t notice. A deep, deep breath.

She pointed her bottom towards him, and revealed herself with a flourish, pulling both garments down to her ankles in an instant, and bending down just a little too far, to ensure he caught sight of the slit peeping out from between her legs. Hoping his eyes were elsewhere, she tried to cover the white lace with the edges of her shorts best she could, and raised herself to meet her teacher’s gaze.

The eyes of a lecherous man would have been twinkling at the sight of her nakedness.
The eyes of an angry man would be narrowed, staring back, threateningly.
His eyes remained resolute, as if he had a duty to perform.
“Hands on head, feet apart.”, was all he said.

Her hands moved quickly, but her feet complied slowly.
“Something to hide, young lady?”
He knelt in front of her, his eyes level with her bare mound. Her intimate lips were puffy and slick, as if recently moistened by a lover’s tongue. He looked down, and saw the lacey nest between her ankles.

He smiled at her naivety. Silly girl.
The secret she sought to hide was her lace panties.
But the secret she ought to have hidden was the damp, creamy patch on her gusset.
The patch told him everything he needed to know. Unequivocally.
Spankings didn’t just fascinate her.
Spankings excited her.

“Would you care to explain yourself, young lady?”

Dumbfounded, she knew he understood. But without an answer she could merely say meekly,
“There’s nothing to explain… sir.”

Feeling her teacher’s breath warm on her freshly shaved mound was in danger of causing a snowball effect, a familiar sensation was growing between her legs. She tried to decipher his tone of voice, was he shocked? Upset? Or perhaps even delighted? This man was impossibly unpredictable – frustratingly so, and that excited her, tremendously.
She swallowed hard.

“Face the corner.”
She does.
His footsteps clack on the wooden floor. Walking away. Walking back.
She feels a cool sensation press against both her cheeks.
She shudders as she recognises it.
His wooden ruler.

He asked again, inviting her confession.
“Did watching Hannah do the bend-over dance excite you?”

She froze, finding it hard to concentrate, the cold wood of the ruler brushing her like that.
She paused before replying.
“…is… That what you think sir?”

When he speaks again his voice is different. Deeper, louder. No longer inquiring, but commanding.
“BEND OVER”

She flinched, startled at his tone. No longer wanting to disappoint, she bent over to touch her shoes. Cool air tingled her warm, damp lips as she exposed herself, making her shudder.

The cold ruler pressed against both cheeks again.
“Does watching the bend-over dance excite you?”

She dared not look at her teacher through her legs, her voice squeaking at the imminent prospect of punishment. Adrenaline was now coursing through her, emboldening her, and suddenly she felt the urge to end her charade, to release her long-suppressed secret. To share it with him.
“Y-yes sir…” she admitted, as she felt her tummy flip.

The rush of relief was accompanied by a wave of embarrassment that rendered her face pink, and made her eyes water. She had finally revealed herself, and her deepest secret. She realised that from now on, during every spanking she witnessed, her teacher would know, even without looking, that at the back of the class, she was about to get very aroused indeed.

Without warning, there was a whistling whoosh.
The ruler slapped across both her cheeks, imparting a thin pink band.
She gasped, hugging her calves close. But the fiery shock of pain faded quickly, to be echoed by a tingling between her legs; a deep, throbbing ache.
The secret word flew around her mind. Conjugated in all its variations.
Spank. I am being spanked. He is spanking me.
I’m getting a bare bottom spanking, from him.

Another slap burned her right cheek. Her discipline concentrated on one spot, the pain awful, then exquisite. Yet she pushed her bottom out, ready for more.
Her left cheek burned next, stinging, radiating.

He timed her spanks to coincide with her breathing, each arriving just after she had exhaled. Unable to call out, she moaned and gasped with every gulp of air.
As her breathing quickened, so did her discipline.
The combination of her shallow breathing, her erotic excitement and having her head down at her feet began to make her feel light-headed. A fire was raging between her legs, and she knew she was losing her ability to control it.

Whack…
I’m going to come, she realised.
Whack…
I’m going to come during my bend-over dance.
Whack…
I’m going to come as I get my bare bottom spanked.
Whack…
I’m going to come as he stares between my soaking legs and watches my cunt quiver.
Whack…

She danced in daze of pain and pleasure, swaying her hips and bending her knees. Each time the ruler snapped against her, stinging her raw little backside, a vibration would buzz between her legs, her moan choked with gasps of air. Her teacher picked up the pace, his strokes less targeted, more forceful, more stingy, more erotic.

She fought for control of herself, her rational side protesting: telling her she couldn’t come, not like this. Not in a classroom, not in front of her teacher.

Whereas her animal side was scrutinising him. Punctuating her pain were flashes of detail: his pink face, fixed with concentration; his sleeve rolled up that chunky forearm; how his waistcoat hugged him, and his curve snaked as he twisted to deliver each blow. She liked watching him perform his own dance. She noticed how small beads of sweat made his forehead glisten, he wasn’t going easy on her. From between her legs, she tried to focus on his crotch, was that a hard on – or just a fold in his trousers? Deliriously, she shocked herself by wondering if he’d fuck her after this, if his hips would slap her fresh sore marks, if she’d be able to take him balls deep.

She could barely stand now, her legs quivering with more than just pain. Her eyes shot open, dragged into reality as she felt her pelvic floor twitching. She couldn’t hold it back much longer, and still the smacks continued to land, each pushing her closer and closer to the edge: left cheek – right cheek – left – left – the sting grew in the same spot. His aim dropped lower, stinging her sit-spots. So dangerously close! It felt so good she almost decides to let it happen, the rush is there now, she can feel herself buckling, how many times has she imagined this moment, bent over a pile of pillows on her bed, thrusting, grinding. Her cries rose again, higher, faster, she can barely speak.

“S-sir?!”

She starts with a moaned yell, which becomes a purring whisper: “S…stop, I… I can’t hold it sir…”

He either didn’t understand, or didn’t listen, instead his ruler revisited old marks, keeping her bottom ablaze.

“Oh please sir…” she almost starts to beg, when she was this close, nothing else mattered. Her knees threatened to drop, but still she stuck out her bottom, as if she couldn’t wait for the final few smacks to arrive. Then a volley of hard smacks whacked across both sit-spots, vibrating her entrance, and starting the delicious cascade. He continued to spank her as she came, making her shout even louder. The evidence of her excitement dribbled out of her, seeping shamefully down her thighs and onto the white lace she had tried so hard to hide. He lowered his weary arm, watching as the quake of pleasure surged through her.

Suddenly she felt like a puppet with cut strings, and her legs went trembly. She sank to her knees, her stinging bottom now a patchwork of pinks and reds, upturned as if for his inspection. In between, her labia were dark and swollen and wet, like lips salaciously inviting a kiss.

“Naughty girl…”, he observed, matter-of-factly.

He reached down to her hands, helping her stand, and walked her a few footsteps forward into the corner of the room. His feet tapped hers, encouraging her to widen her stance, her soiled underwear stretching between her ankles like manacles. He pushed her head lower, so her
nose almost touched the wall, making her bum jut out to keep her balance.

He moved her hands behind her, encouraging her to clasp her bottom cheeks. She flinched: her own flesh felt shockingly hot to the touch. She longed to soothe herself, but his hands stopped her motions.

“No rubbing!” he admonished, “You will stand there in disgrace. Now hold your cheeks apart… more… more… that’s better.”

The new red band across her bottom divided in two, revealing her bottom hole and the thin white cleft that had been sheltered from his ruler. Pulling apart more, she exposed her secret lips, slick with her excitement. Exposed to the air, she felt her most sensitive parts chill, whilst all around, her buttocks smouldered.

She felt a swell of shame, exposing herself to her teacher like this. Her hands twitched, wanting to caress the sting. She could feel herself stretch, her face burning with embarrassment. He’d never made her classmates do this, had he?  Then again, she couldn’t remember anybody else ever coming on her underwear…

“You may stand there exposing yourself whilst you reflect on your disgraceful behaviour.”

She stayed in position facing the corner, the region between her legs aching.
Is he looking? She wondered. She squirmed, but he said nothing.

Silence intervened.
Quiet enough to hear a clock tick.
Her cheeks burned.

Behind her, a pen scribbled.

Eventually, she dared look back, the shame clear in her expression. She spoke softly.
“W..what are you doing…?”

He had returned to his desk, and sat facing her.
“I have work to do, young lady.”

She heard his pen scribble, stop, be put down, be picked back up and used again. The sound of pages turning. She was jealous. She wanted his attention. She arched out again, with an ostentatious groan, putting all her weight on one leg, and then the other, letting herself sway lightly. She’d make him notice her… Somehow.

… behind her, the clock ticked, his chair squeaked, papers shuffled …

She cleared her throat, trying to listen out for any change in his movements. Nothing. She scuffed her feet, again no reaction. Finally, she sighed loudly, turning her voice into a childish whine.
“Siiiiiir…” she called, arching her back again, swaying back on her legs, threatening to get out of position.

He looked up to see her swaying. Her hands were still behind her, splaying her pink cheeks apart. Her dark hole tightened slightly as she swayed, almost winking. The lips of her slit were still slick and swollen.

He checked his watch. It was about time.
Her heart quickened as she heard his chair scraping, and his footsteps approaching, until he was just standing just behind her.

“Keep those naughty cheeks apart, young lady.”

She heard a rustling, something being drawn from a pocket…

She froze in a limbo between fear and anticipation, she knew looking back would displease him, so kept her eyes on the wall in front of her. Perhaps his punishment was having some effect on her behavior, after all. She held her breath, listening intently for the sound of foil tearing.

She felt his hand brush her thighs as he reached between her legs.
She had so much she wanted to say in her next breath: Sir, I’m sorry for being such a brat. I know I deserved to be spanked like a child. I’ve learned my lesson. Look, I’m ready to be treated like a young woman now. But she could not express all that in a breath.
So she simply gasped.

His hand cupped her crotch.
His fingertips resting on her mound, her lips in his palm, his wrist in her bottom cleft.

His touch felt cool and luxuriously soft: he had covered his hand with his silk handkerchief.
Just a flimsy stretch of pale blue silk separated his flesh from hers.
She felt the silk mingle with her slickness.
She felt the silk sink within her folds.
She felt the cool silk enveloping her, and his warmth just beneath.

She pulled her sore spanked cheeks further apart, wanting to signal her obedience, longing for the sensation to reach deeper inside.

He stood in silence behind her, motionless, content to hold her in his hand. It was as if they’d both been turned to stone, into some erotic statue. Man and naughty spanked brat in marble, artist unknown.

Her entrance twitched, knowing the thin layer of silk was all that blocked his hands from touching her. From entering her. She waited to be stroked, she wanted to be stroked – but she understood the dynamic, he was her teacher, she was his pupil, and she would do what he said. She sensed if she waited she’d get her reward. He was always a fair man, a firm hand amid her spoilt life, like an older brother who wanted the best for her, who had vowed to protect her.

She was overcome with the urge to apologise, she knew she had been a brat, and that he would have found her brattiness extremely tiresome. With a shaky voice, she spoke guiltily.
“I.. I’m sorry for violating the uniform code, and lying, and….”
The sheer humiliation of what she was about to say made her hesitate.
“… and for making a mess in my panties. I deserved my punishment sir…”
She swallowed hard before adding a painful “Thank you for disciplining me, sir.”

“Good girl.” he commended.
A smacked bottom does do wonders, he thought.

But there was still the issue of her deteriorating behaviour to address. Were he to send her home now, he was certain she’d spend the rest of the day admiring her bottom in her mirror and rubbing herself. Her acting up would get worse, as she tried to grab his attention, as she tried to engineer another afternoon alone with him. No, she’d have to shown who was in control, that punishments could be painful, and the privilege of pleasure had to be earned.

“Young lady, you will report here after classes end, every day, for the rest of the week.”
He paused to let his instruction sink in.
“And I will send you home after you’ve done your bend-over dance.”

That drew a gasp.
Her mind raced to interpret what he’d said. A bare bottom spanking every day after school? For a moment she saw herself, walking home with a shameful secret, her red bottom glowing under her school skirt.

Her hands and arms were tiring now, from holding apart her bottom cheeks. She relaxed her legs slightly, shamefully allowing her weight to rest in the palm of his hand. She tried not to let her mind wander.

Just what sort of dance did he have in mind?
The familiar quick-tempo swaying that he orchestrated with his ruler?
Or perhaps a slower, more intimate dance across his knee?
Or the ritualised stretching, jumping and prancing of a caning?
Or did he mean her current position, bent over in the corner, held in a clench, like some obscene ballroom pose?
Or …?
He couldn’t mean that, surely?

She blinked, looking back at him nervously.
“S-sir… I think I misheard you. I thought you said every day.. I.. I’ve had my punishment..” she eyed the man, unsure of what he wanted.. “I.. I’ll wear my uniform, properly.”

“Every day this week, young lady.”

“This hasn’t been punishment. Do the other girls finish their bend-over dances soaking between their legs? We both know that you’ll be riding your fingers in bed tonight.”

Her face hidden out of sight, blushed vividly.

“So, every day for the rest of the week, I’m going to punish you properly. You’re going to report to this classroom properly dressed. You’re going to tell me you’ve been a very naughty girl. You’re going to pull down your panties and politely ask me for a long, hard, bare bottom spanking.”

“And rest assured I shall stop well before you disgrace yourself. I shall be sending you home with just a sore bottom. And the next day, we’ll do it all again. That, young lady, is punishment.”

She bit her lip. A spanking every day would kill, not to mention getting home late every day would raise suspicions. She studied her teacher, knowing he was serious.
"E..everday? But, if I take it well…”, she let the sentence trail off, hoping that she’d be let off if she behaved herself tomorrow.

“If… IF… you stop acting like a silly brat, and start fulfilling your undoubted academic potential, you may find that life can become much more pleasurable indeed…”, he let that thought hang in the air for a moment.
“Now, keep your legs apart whilst I clean up your mess…”

His hand began to move underneath her. She became aware again of the luxurious sheen of the silk as he pressed it over her hairless mound. She could feel his fingertips crest her mound and slide back her hood, lingering to let her feel the exceptionally soft silk caress her clit. She was so wet, his fingertips glided effortlessly behind the silk. He could feel the material dampen as he traced the folds of her lips, up and down, up and down, as she tried to grind against him.

The square of silk had barely moved, but his fingers continued their intimate journey, beginning to slip within her lips. As he approached her entrance, his fingertips began to move in ever decreasing circles, as if they were caught in some kind of vortex, and were being sucked into the warm wet hole of her vagina. Through the silk, his fingertips explored her maw, rubbing the inside of her ring, smearing her excitement across the silk.

His fingers left her hole throbby, unfulfilled and aching, and moved down to massage the hinterlands of her perineum. He dabbed and rubbed, tracing her contours, soaking up all the juices that had dribbled down. Finally, his index finger approached her bottom hole, skirting around it, slowly circling, wiping it clean, spiralling inwards until his fingertip hovered over it. She felt it tantalise her, gently pushing, threatening to enter…

She felt a delicious frustration, did he intend to push it into her? Or should she impetuously thrust backwards and impale herself? Suddenly, the pressure from his fingertip vanished, and she felt a cool draught as he whisked the handkerchief away. And the moment was gone.

At his command, Natalie pulled her lace panties up over her tender-pink bottom, hoping she didn’t show her discomfort. Her shorts followed, and he gave her a tissue to dry her eyes, but not his blue handkerchief, which lay soiled on his desk, a long blotchy streak smeared across its length, testament to her excitement.

Later that evening, Natalie quietly locked her bedroom door, undressed, and knelt on her bed. She began to rub herself as she tried to remember as much as she could of her experience. She wanted to relive every detail, every sensation.

When it came to recalling her corner time she reached behind to grasp her still smarting buttocks, splaying them apart, enjoying the guilty rush of exposing herself. She held herself open, simulating her almost interminable wait, before finally slipping her vibrator deep inside. As she held her bottom apart, she remembered his silky touch as he’d caressed her folds whilst wiping her clean, and how she had willed him to probe deeper. Her vibe became him, as she imagined fantasies she could never confess.

She began to rehearse what she’d say to him tomorrow, just under her breath, for her ears only.

“I’ve been a very naughty girl, sir”, lips barely moving.
Her bottom tingled, she felt herself tighten against the vibe. She worked it deeper.

“I’ve been a very naughty girl, sir” she whispered. She’d be peeling her panties down at this point, feeling the tight material flick her pussy. Moments later, she’d be bending over, and he’d be lifting her skirt, she pulled her bottom apart further, simulating the view of her slit he’d see as she waited obediently for her well-deserved spanking.

“I’ve been a VERY naughty girl, sir” she repeated desperately.
“Please may I have a long… uh… hard… ohhhh… bare bottom sp—”

Her climax swamped her whispers, and overwhelmed her utterly.

Epilogue

Several streets away – at the very moment Natalie climaxed – he was at home, hosting a dinner party.

An attractive young lady was standing in his lounge, admiring the collection of small square abstract prints mounted on the wall.

“Fascinating designs, painted on linen?”, she enquired.

“Silk, actually”, he replied.

She gazed at swirls and splotches on one particular pale blue square. “Lovely. Tremendously expressive. Reminiscent of O’Keeffe.”

“Indeed” he smiled, “I only acquired that one earlier today.”

They stood admiring his collection, it already filled one wall, and was now beginning to populate an alcove.

He gave a friendly grin; which might also have been the smile of someone who knew a secret no-one else knew. He alone knew the provenance of the ‘paintings’. Each silk square was a student or lover who’d climaxed during a spanking. Each one he’d wiped clean with a silk handkerchief as they’d shamefully held their spanked cheeks apart.

It was the universality of female anatomy that gave his abstract art a similarity, a thematic consistency. In each vertical lines could be discerned, with a characteristic splotch at its top, imparted by the wet bulb of her clit and its hood. Underneath, the lines widened, sometimes dividing and swiggling as the silk traced the folds of her lips. Then another dark splotch as the silk was massaged across and into her entrance. And sometimes, just below that, there was a fainter, enigmatic patch of golden brown. Some naughty girls had dirty bottoms, and some liked his finger inside.

His eyes fell on a pink square subtitled “Amanda”. A wild, wilful young minx – but clever, she’d ground herself greedily against his handkerchief that day, trying to come one last time, creating a manic series of swirls and whorls. A doctor now, he’d bumped into her a few months ago. Apparently, her husband had put her over his knee every morning before she went to medical school.

His hand touched his guest’s shoulder, subtly steering her towards the dinner table.

“Behind each one is a story…”

He might tell her the truth one day.

@spankingtheatre 2012

with grateful thanks to the imagination of un-needed-feelings.tumblr.com

Abstract Art

“The buttocks are the most aesthetically pleasing part of the body because they are non-functional.  Although they conceal an essential orifice, these pointless globes are as near as the human form can ever come to abstract art.” — Kenneth Tynan

* * *

 

Everyone knew the penalty for neglecting to do a homework. A short, agonisingly embarrassing walk to the front of the class, followed by a humiliating bend-over dance to the wooden ruler’s beat.

Hannah hadn’t done her homework. She’d come prepared with an elaborate excuse of almost farcical proportions, a twisty tale of family complications and misunderstandings. But it hadn’t been able to save her.

“Come up here, Hannah”, was all he needed to say.

Across the classroom, all fidgeting stopped. A perfect hush settled.
Everyone knew what happened next.
Head bowed, Hannah stood from her desk, she reached the low platform at the front of the class in 6 slow footsteps, visibly hesitating before taking the final step up to stand beside him.

His finger beckoned her one step forward.
“Bend over”, he ordered, in a tone that left no-one in the room in any doubt this was a command, and not a prelude to negotiations. Nevertheless, she turned her head, giving him one last plaintive look. No mercy was forthcoming. His eyes merely narrowed.

Hannah bent over, her bottom jutting towards her captivated classmates, grasping her ankles, and shutting her eyes, too ashamed to look back through her legs at the gawping class. Moments later, she felt the unmistakable draught as he lifted her navy blue pleated skirt, and folded it over her back. All the while, her classmates stared on silently, as if spying through a peephole, fearful that any sound would give away their presence.

Hannah whined pitifully as she felt his fingertips enter the elastic waist of her underwear. He pulled her panties down slowly, the tight white material revealing her athletic buttocks, before stretching to follow the contours of her thighs. He pulled them past her knees, patting her thighs to encourage her to spread her legs apart until her panties stretched between her ankles like a sad parody of a hammock.

Her classmates stared at the bared mounds of their hockey team captain. Some nodded approvingly amongst themselves, Hannah might be a bit of brat, but there was no doubt she worked out; she was in great shape.

Two dozen transfixed eyeballs followed him as he went to fetch the wooden ruler from his desk, and returned to stand behind her.

“What happens to those who forget their homework, Hannah?”

Hannah could feel her face burning hot with shame, sweaty, almost feverishly. Had she dared open her eyes, she would have looked back through her open legs to see her classmates, upside down, staring back at her. She dearly wished she was somewhere else, or at the very least, could close her legs and hide behind them. She tried to reply, but couldn’t find the words to answer.

He wasn’t offended, often just a bit of encouragement was needed. By now, the classroom resembled a waxwork scene, all silent, frozen in position, waiting.

Suddenly, there was movement!
The ruler blurred… a slap, accompanied by a yelp. Then three more.

“What happens to naughty girls who forget their homework, Hannah?”, he prompted.

Her vocal chords now loosened, she answered much more easily.
“They.. they.. get their b.. bottoms sp.. spanked, sir”. She cringed as she said it, feeling like she was 8 years old. Grasping her ankles tighter in consolation, she wondered if she’d ever live this down.

The ruler and Hannah began their duet. Its soft whoosh – shorter and less threatening than the swish of a cane, was followed by a thwick! as it slapped across her rear, and then by a cry, moan or little shriek, as Hannah danced for the class’s delight.

She had begun her bend-over dance with tiny jumps, bobbing upward, almost lifting a foot off the ground. Soon her hips were swaying with the rhythm of the stokes. As her bottom reddened and her exclamations grew louder, she began to bend her knees, instinctively twisting her body, hoping to throw his aim, hoping the next smack would somehow avoid her burning patches. But she danced in vain, so little of her bottom remained unspanked that her gyrations only served to flash the secrets between her legs for all to see.

He finished with six hard whacks across both cheeks, which almost made Hannah burst into tears, but she was determined to keep her composure in front of her peers. He allowed the shocked silence that followed her last yelp to linger, before ordering Hannah to the corner to reflect on her disobedience. As she shuffled to her destination, her knickers still around her ankles, she reflected: it had been a brilliant party last night – but next time, she promised herself, she’d definitely get her homework finished first.

—-

The reaction of Hannah’s classmates to her performance had varied. Her friends had stared down at their desks, flinching with each of her yelps. Those who regarded Hannah as an uppity self-appointed princess, deserving of her childish comeuppance exchanged smirks. And at the back of the class, one particular student gazed in genuine fascination, shuffling in her seat as Hannah squirmed under the heat of the stings. Natalie watched the expression of her teacher as he spanked, he looked stern, but it was a countenance born of duty rather than viciousness.
She wondered if he ever got as aroused as she did.

She also wondered if he’d noticed her, and her little act of rebellion.

School uniform consisted of a white blouse and navy blue skirt. Above her desk, she was a model of compliance, tidy auburn hair, spotless white blouse and stripy school tie – but concealed beneath her desk, she was defiantly wearing a pair of navy blue shorts. Some of her classmates had noticed, with oh!-look-at-you! titters as they’d flooded into the room. But she had ignored them and sat down quickly and deliberately.
She wasn’t wearing the shorts to boost her reputation as a rebel.
She wanted to know something much more important. Something she just had to know.
Had HE noticed her among the crowd? Did he look out for her?

She bit her lip, wondering if he’d seen her. She was flouting school rules, and he was strict about rules. Her mind buzzed with excitement as she anticipated having to admit her behavior, wondering how he’d reply. The knowledge that she was breaking the rules so brazenly seemed to draw her eyes – as if by a magnet – back once more to stare at Hannah, who was still standing forlornly in the corner, hands on her head, her bared red bottom radiating a colourful reminder to all of the price of disobedience.

He was scribbling their next homework assignment on the blackboard now. Homework was another of Natalie’s secret pleasures; she wanted to please him. All those little messages he wrote thrilled her. Scribbled in thin red ink in her exercise books, commending her, telling her how clever she was, telling her how proud he was of her. Sometimes she would read his praise when alone, just before bedtime, and fall asleep imagining him dispensing some very special rewards to his very best students.

And yet, he said so little to her in class. On occasion she’d flirted clumsily, trying to attract his attention, but the man remained impassive. She stared at his shapely behind as his chalk chattered across the blackboard, whilst around her, classmates shared bored sighs and stares.

The chalk finished scraping. He turned to face the class, looking past all the drowsy faces to the back of the room to look straight into her eyes.
“Homework is due by next Thursday’s class. Take your time, and create something great.”

The moment she found herself in eye contact with her teacher, Natalie straightened up, quickly removing her elbows from the desk. A small grin appeared on her face, it almost surprised her. She had contemplated forgetting to do her homework, but hated the idea of disappointing him, even more than the idea of having her bare bottom dance in front of the class.

Meanwhile, Hannah’s time in the corner was almost served. Denied the relief of rubbing, the heat from her bum dominated her senses. And confusingly, something else was warming up down there that definitely shouldn’t be warming. Then, through her daze, she heard him call her name. At long last, Hannah could pull her panties up over her smarting bottom, fold down her skirt, and make the short walk of shame back to her desk. Where she discovered sitting down hurt even more than her classmates’ stares.

—-

He had indeed noticed.
Back at his desk, he sighed at her disobedience. Natalie was such a bright girl, yet her silly acting up was becoming increasingly obvious. He would have to have a stern word with her after class, and ascertain where her skirt had gone.

She would plead her innocence of course, contriving some scarcely believable fiction about her uniform going missing, or having to be urgently laundered. He was beginning to suspect she was flouting underwear regulations too. He made a mental note to inspect her, just to make sure.

From the back of the class Natalie tried to decode his gaze. He had spotted her, hadn’t he? Almost by reflex her mind began to whiz through her multiple excuses, critiquing their believability before deciding on one she thought most bulletproof. It wasn’t going to be long until the class ended, and she started to tingle with excitement.

She turned to the back of her notebook, noting the homework down, and beside it, the word spank. SPANK. In bold black ink, again and again, overlapping the word and watching with a smile as it sank through each page…

—-

The end-of-day bell rang with a deafening clanging that belied its tiny size.
All around the room, sighs of relief mixed with the rustle of satchels.

He pointed to Natalie amid the crowd – wordlessly – his finger beckoning her forward.
Me sir? She mouths, pointing to herself with faux surprise.
Inside, she shivers.
Her friends send worried glances, but she wafts them away.
I’ll be fine, she mouths innocently.
I hope, she thinks.

The classroom cleared quickly, leaving the two of them alone.

She stood silently in front of her teacher’s antique oak desk with her head bowed – before realising with alarm she was staring at his crotch. She lowered her eyes to the table. Up close, the wooden ruler on his desk looked ominously large, and somehow her gaze alighted on the 8-inch mark, prompting an embarrassed shake of her head as she brought her eyes up to the level of his chest. She clasped her hands in front of her waist, where despite her predicament, a strangely exciting tingling had developed. She tangled her fingers together, letting her pinky fingers brush ever so lightly against her groin.

They stood in silence, the old enamel-faced wall clock counting off the seconds. She could barely breathe. He fixed her with his eyes, as if searching her soul for answers.
But she remained inscrutable.
“Explain yourself, young lady.”

She finds herself rushing her fabricated lie.
“I… um… Well, I lent my skirt to a cousin… and she had a lady accident and it needed to be properly washed!”
A miniscule pause as she read his face.
“You couldn’t expect me to wear my uniform in that condition, could you?” she finished, almost cockily.

As soon as the lie had left her mouth, she hit a wall in her mind, realising her fiction was told a bit too provocatively for a girl of her age. His subsequent cross-examination was probing, without ever being cross, and she had soon tied herself up in a web of contradictions and ludicrous fantasies. She soon realised he didn’t believe her, and dropped any pretence of an alibi; recognising herself in a hole, she stopped digging. She coyly flicked her auburn curls from her forehead, stood silently and blushed.

He understood now, it was obvious, the uniform story was a ruse to test his authority. And there was something more. He’d noticed how upright she’d sit as soon as a classmate had been summoned to the front of the class, and how intently she’d stared as Hannah’s knickers were peeled down. And how her hands were always below her desk, moving almost imperceptibly, in time to the ruler’s slaps.

She would have to dance for her misdemeanours.

He stepped out from behind his desk and moved toward her. She flinched, instinctively stepping backwards, but he grabbed her wrist and marched her towards a corner of the room. His rapid actions so deliberate she dared not protest.

“Shorts and panties down to your ankles, young lady…”

His voice made her hairs stand on end, he had a strong, narrative voice. How many times had she imagined him saying those very words in private moments alone.

Nervously, she brought her hands to her waist, grabbing the elastic of her shorts when she remembered her choice of underwear. French lace: only the best from Paris itself. It was a gift from an old boyfriend, in fact, she’d lost her virginity wearing these. Not that this was a problem then; but her school was very clear about wearing plain white, cotton panties, after all one never knew when one’s skirt might be lifted in front of the class. The school had no intention of allowing the serious business of discipline to become a lingerie parade.

She turned to face her teacher, trying to conceal the panic in her eyes by furrowing her brow in a childish pout of protest. His face was unmoved, her pouting made her look like just another silly little girl in need of a bottom warming. And many had gone before her; keen eyes would have seen evidence of their recalcitrance, countless scuff marks where they’d been dragged protesting into the corner. Tiny dents and scratches in the wooden floor from countless little stamps as disobedient bottoms were smacked.

“I’m waiting…” he said sternly, “Panties all the way down.”

Panties around the ankles had such childish connotations. Panties pulled down to the tops of the thighs might cover most of a girl’s secret places, but modesty was a privilege only big girls deserved. He believed those who behaved like little girls should be treated as such, their nakedness revealed without shame, their panties around the ankles to stop any infantile kicking tantrums.

She allowed her hands to travel south, her lace panties just visible beneath her dark shorts, and swallowed nervously. She wondered if she’d pulled her shorts and underwear down together, he wouldn’t notice. A deep, deep breath.

She pointed her bottom towards him, and revealed herself with a flourish, pulling both garments down to her ankles in an instant, and bending down just a little too far, to ensure he caught sight of the slit peeping out from between her legs. Hoping his eyes were elsewhere, she tried to cover the white lace with the edges of her shorts best she could, and raised herself to meet her teacher’s gaze.

The eyes of a lecherous man would have been twinkling at the sight of her nakedness.
The eyes of an angry man would be narrowed, staring back, threateningly.
His eyes remained resolute, as if he had a duty to perform.
“Hands on head, feet apart.”, was all he said.

Her hands moved quickly, but her feet complied slowly.
“Something to hide, young lady?”
He knelt in front of her, his eyes level with her bare mound. Her intimate lips were puffy and slick, as if recently moistened by a lover’s tongue. He looked down, and saw the lacey nest between her ankles.

He smiled at her naivety. Silly girl.
The secret she sought to hide was her lace panties.
But the secret she ought to have hidden was the damp, creamy patch on her gusset.
The patch told him everything he needed to know. Unequivocally.
Spankings didn’t just fascinate her.
Spankings excited her.

“Would you care to explain yourself, young lady?”

Dumbfounded, she knew he understood. But without an answer she could merely say meekly,
“There’s nothing to explain… sir.”

Feeling her teacher’s breath warm on her freshly shaved mound was in danger of causing a snowball effect, a familiar sensation was growing between her legs. She tried to decipher his tone of voice, was he shocked? Upset? Or perhaps even delighted? This man was impossibly unpredictable – frustratingly so, and that excited her, tremendously.
She swallowed hard.

“Face the corner.”
She does.
His footsteps clack on the wooden floor. Walking away. Walking back.
She feels a cool sensation press against both her cheeks.
She shudders as she recognises it.
His wooden ruler.

He asked again, inviting her confession.
“Did watching Hannah do the bend-over dance excite you?”

She froze, finding it hard to concentrate, the cold wood of the ruler brushing her like that.
She paused before replying.
“…is… That what you think sir?”

When he speaks again his voice is different. Deeper, louder. No longer inquiring, but commanding.
“BEND OVER”

She flinched, startled at his tone. No longer wanting to disappoint, she bent over to touch her shoes. Cool air tingled her warm, damp lips as she exposed herself, making her shudder.

The cold ruler pressed against both cheeks again.
“Does watching the bend-over dance excite you?”

She dared not look at her teacher through her legs, her voice squeaking at the imminent prospect of punishment. Adrenaline was now coursing through her, emboldening her, and suddenly she felt the urge to end her charade, to release her long-suppressed secret. To share it with him.
“Y-yes sir…” she admitted, as she felt her tummy flip.

The rush of relief was accompanied by a wave of embarrassment that rendered her face pink, and made her eyes water. She had finally revealed herself, and her deepest secret. She realised that from now on, during every spanking she witnessed, her teacher would know, even without looking, that at the back of the class, she was about to get very aroused indeed.

Without warning, there was a whistling whoosh.
The ruler slapped across both her cheeks, imparting a thin pink band.
She gasped, hugging her calves close. But the fiery shock of pain faded quickly, to be echoed by a tingling between her legs; a deep, throbbing ache.
The secret word flew around her mind. Conjugated in all its variations.
Spank. I am being spanked. He is spanking me.
I’m getting a bare bottom spanking, from him.

Another slap burned her right cheek. Her discipline concentrated on one spot, the pain awful, then exquisite. Yet she pushed her bottom out, ready for more.
Her left cheek burned next, stinging, radiating.

He timed her spanks to coincide with her breathing, each arriving just after she had exhaled. Unable to call out, she moaned and gasped with every gulp of air.
As her breathing quickened, so did her discipline.
The combination of her shallow breathing, her erotic excitement and having her head down at her feet began to make her feel light-headed. A fire was raging between her legs, and she knew she was losing her ability to control it.

Whack…
I’m going to come, she realised.
Whack…
I’m going to come during my bend-over dance.
Whack…
I’m going to come as I get my bare bottom spanked.
Whack…
I’m going to come as he stares between my soaking legs and watches my cunt quiver.
Whack…

She danced in daze of pain and pleasure, swaying her hips and bending her knees. Each time the ruler snapped against her, stinging her raw little backside, a vibration would buzz between her legs, her moan choked with gasps of air. Her teacher picked up the pace, his strokes less targeted, more forceful, more stingy, more erotic.

She fought for control of herself, her rational side protesting: telling her she couldn’t come, not like this. Not in a classroom, not in front of her teacher.

Whereas her animal side was scrutinising him. Punctuating her pain were flashes of detail: his pink face, fixed with concentration; his sleeve rolled up that chunky forearm; how his waistcoat hugged him, and his curve snaked as he twisted to deliver each blow. She liked watching him perform his own dance. She noticed how small beads of sweat made his forehead glisten, he wasn’t going easy on her. From between her legs, she tried to focus on his crotch, was that a hard on – or just a fold in his trousers? Deliriously, she shocked herself by wondering if he’d fuck her after this, if his hips would slap her fresh sore marks, if she’d be able to take him balls deep.

She could barely stand now, her legs quivering with more than just pain. Her eyes shot open, dragged into reality as she felt her pelvic floor twitching. She couldn’t hold it back much longer, and still the smacks continued to land, each pushing her closer and closer to the edge: left cheek – right cheek – left – left – the sting grew in the same spot. His aim dropped lower, stinging her sit-spots. So dangerously close! It felt so good she almost decides to let it happen, the rush is there now, she can feel herself buckling, how many times has she imagined this moment, bent over a pile of pillows on her bed, thrusting, grinding. Her cries rose again, higher, faster, she can barely speak.

“S-sir?!”

She starts with a moaned yell, which becomes a purring whisper: “S…stop, I… I can’t hold it sir…”

He either didn’t understand, or didn’t listen, instead his ruler revisited old marks, keeping her bottom ablaze.

“Oh please sir…” she almost starts to beg, when she was this close, nothing else mattered. Her knees threatened to drop, but still she stuck out her bottom, as if she couldn’t wait for the final few smacks to arrive. Then a volley of hard smacks whacked across both sit-spots, vibrating her entrance, and starting the delicious cascade. He continued to spank her as she came, making her shout even louder. The evidence of her excitement dribbled out of her, seeping shamefully down her thighs and onto the white lace she had tried so hard to hide. He lowered his weary arm, watching as the quake of pleasure surged through her.

Suddenly she felt like a puppet with cut strings, and her legs went trembly. She sank to her knees, her stinging bottom now a patchwork of pinks and reds, upturned as if for his inspection. In between, her labia were dark and swollen and wet, like lips salaciously inviting a kiss.

“Naughty girl…”, he observed, matter-of-factly.

He reached down to her hands, helping her stand, and walked her a few footsteps forward into the corner of the room. His feet tapped hers, encouraging her to widen her stance, her soiled underwear stretching between her ankles like manacles. He pushed her head lower, so her
nose almost touched the wall, making her bum jut out to keep her balance.

He moved her hands behind her, encouraging her to clasp her bottom cheeks. She flinched: her own flesh felt shockingly hot to the touch. She longed to soothe herself, but his hands stopped her motions.

“No rubbing!” he admonished, “You will stand there in disgrace. Now hold your cheeks apart… more… more… that’s better.”

The new red band across her bottom divided in two, revealing her bottom hole and the thin white cleft that had been sheltered from his ruler. Pulling apart more, she exposed her secret lips, slick with her excitement. Exposed to the air, she felt her most sensitive parts chill, whilst all around, her buttocks smouldered.

She felt a swell of shame, exposing herself to her teacher like this. Her hands twitched, wanting to caress the sting. She could feel herself stretch, her face burning with embarrassment. He’d never made her classmates do this, had he?  Then again, she couldn’t remember anybody else ever coming on her underwear…

“You may stand there exposing yourself whilst you reflect on your disgraceful behaviour.”

She stayed in position facing the corner, the region between her legs aching.
Is he looking? She wondered. She squirmed, but he said nothing.

Silence intervened.
Quiet enough to hear a clock tick.
Her cheeks burned.

Behind her, a pen scribbled.

Eventually, she dared look back, the shame clear in her expression. She spoke softly.
“W..what are you doing…?”

He had returned to his desk, and sat facing her.
“I have work to do, young lady.”

She heard his pen scribble, stop, be put down, be picked back up and used again. The sound of pages turning. She was jealous. She wanted his attention. She arched out again, with an ostentatious groan, putting all her weight on one leg, and then the other, letting herself sway lightly. She’d make him notice her… Somehow.

… behind her, the clock ticked, his chair squeaked, papers shuffled …

She cleared her throat, trying to listen out for any change in his movements. Nothing. She scuffed her feet, again no reaction. Finally, she sighed loudly, turning her voice into a childish whine.
“Siiiiiir…” she called, arching her back again, swaying back on her legs, threatening to get out of position.

He looked up to see her swaying. Her hands were still behind her, splaying her pink cheeks apart. Her dark hole tightened slightly as she swayed, almost winking. The lips of her slit were still slick and swollen.

He checked his watch. It was about time.
Her heart quickened as she heard his chair scraping, and his footsteps approaching, until he was just standing just behind her.

“Keep those naughty cheeks apart, young lady.”

She heard a rustling, something being drawn from a pocket…

She froze in a limbo between fear and anticipation, she knew looking back would displease him, so kept her eyes on the wall in front of her. Perhaps his punishment was having some effect on her behavior, after all. She held her breath, listening intently for the sound of foil tearing.

She felt his hand brush her thighs as he reached between her legs.
She had so much she wanted to say in her next breath: Sir, I’m sorry for being such a brat. I know I deserved to be spanked like a child. I’ve learned my lesson. Look, I’m ready to be treated like a young woman now. But she could not express all that in a breath.
So she simply gasped.

His hand cupped her crotch.
His fingertips resting on her mound, her lips in his palm, his wrist in her bottom cleft.

His touch felt cool and luxuriously soft: he had covered his hand with his silk handkerchief.
Just a flimsy stretch of pale blue silk separated his flesh from hers.
She felt the silk mingle with her slickness.
She felt the silk sink within her folds.
She felt the cool silk enveloping her, and his warmth just beneath.

She pulled her sore spanked cheeks further apart, wanting to signal her obedience, longing for the sensation to reach deeper inside.

He stood in silence behind her, motionless, content to hold her in his hand. It was as if they’d both been turned to stone, into some erotic statue. Man and naughty spanked brat in marble, artist unknown.

Her entrance twitched, knowing the thin layer of silk was all that blocked his hands from touching her. From entering her. She waited to be stroked, she wanted to be stroked – but she understood the dynamic, he was her teacher, she was his pupil, and she would do what he said. She sensed if she waited she’d get her reward. He was always a fair man, a firm hand amid her spoilt life, like an older brother who wanted the best for her, who had vowed to protect her.

She was overcome with the urge to apologise, she knew she had been a brat, and that he would have found her brattiness extremely tiresome. With a shaky voice, she spoke guiltily.
“I.. I’m sorry for violating the uniform code, and lying, and….”
The sheer humiliation of what she was about to say made her hesitate.
“… and for making a mess in my panties. I deserved my punishment sir…”
She swallowed hard before adding a painful “Thank you for disciplining me, sir.”

“Good girl.” he commended.
A smacked bottom does do wonders, he thought.

But there was still the issue of her deteriorating behaviour to address. Were he to send her home now, he was certain she’d spend the rest of the day admiring her bottom in her mirror and rubbing herself. Her acting up would get worse, as she tried to grab his attention, as she tried to engineer another afternoon alone with him. No, she’d have to shown who was in control, that punishments could be painful, and the privilege of pleasure had to be earned.

“Young lady, you will report here after classes end, every day, for the rest of the week.”
He paused to let his instruction sink in.
“And I will send you home after you’ve done your bend-over dance.”

That drew a gasp.
Her mind raced to interpret what he’d said. A bare bottom spanking every day after school? For a moment she saw herself, walking home with a shameful secret, her red bottom glowing under her school skirt.

Her hands and arms were tiring now, from holding apart her bottom cheeks. She relaxed her legs slightly, shamefully allowing her weight to rest in the palm of his hand. She tried not to let her mind wander.

Just what sort of dance did he have in mind?
The familiar quick-tempo swaying that he orchestrated with his ruler?
Or perhaps a slower, more intimate dance across his knee?
Or the ritualised stretching, jumping and prancing of a caning?
Or did he mean her current position, bent over in the corner, held in a clench, like some obscene ballroom pose?
Or …?
He couldn’t mean that, surely?

She blinked, looking back at him nervously.
“S-sir… I think I misheard you. I thought you said every day.. I.. I’ve had my punishment..” she eyed the man, unsure of what he wanted.. “I.. I’ll wear my uniform, properly.”

“Every day this week, young lady.”

“This hasn’t been punishment. Do the other girls finish their bend-over dances soaking between their legs? We both know that you’ll be riding your fingers in bed tonight.”

Her face hidden out of sight, blushed vividly.

“So, every day for the rest of the week, I’m going to punish you properly. You’re going to report to this classroom properly dressed. You’re going to tell me you’ve been a very naughty girl. You’re going to pull down your panties and politely ask me for a long, hard, bare bottom spanking.”

“And rest assured I shall stop well before you disgrace yourself. I shall be sending you home with just a sore bottom. And the next day, we’ll do it all again. That, young lady, is punishment.”

She bit her lip. A spanking every day would kill, not to mention getting home late every day would raise suspicions. She studied her teacher, knowing he was serious.
“E..everday? But, if I take it well…”, she let the sentence trail off, hoping that she’d be let off if she behaved herself tomorrow.

“If… IF… you stop acting like a silly brat, and start fulfilling your undoubted academic potential, you may find that life can become much more pleasurable indeed…”, he let that thought hang in the air for a moment.
“Now, keep your legs apart whilst I clean up your mess…”

His hand began to move underneath her. She became aware again of the luxurious sheen of the silk as he pressed it over her hairless mound. She could feel his fingertips crest her mound and slide back her hood, lingering to let her feel the exceptionally soft silk caress her clit. She was so wet, his fingertips glided effortlessly behind the silk. He could feel the material dampen as he traced the folds of her lips, up and down, up and down, as she tried to grind against him.

The square of silk had barely moved, but his fingers continued their intimate journey, beginning to slip within her lips. As he approached her entrance, his fingertips began to move in ever decreasing circles, as if they were caught in some kind of vortex, and were being sucked into the warm wet hole of her vagina. Through the silk, his fingertips explored her maw, rubbing the inside of her ring, smearing her excitement across the silk.

His fingers left her hole throbby, unfulfilled and aching, and moved down to massage the hinterlands of her perineum. He dabbed and rubbed, tracing her contours, soaking up all the juices that had dribbled down. Finally, his index finger approached her bottom hole, skirting around it, slowly circling, wiping it clean, spiralling inwards until his fingertip hovered over it. She felt it tantalise her, gently pushing, threatening to enter…

She felt a delicious frustration, did he intend to push it into her? Or should she impetuously thrust backwards and impale herself? Suddenly, the pressure from his fingertip vanished, and she felt a cool draught as he whisked the handkerchief away. And the moment was gone.

At his command, Natalie pulled her lace panties up over her tender-pink bottom, hoping she didn’t show her discomfort. Her shorts followed, and he gave her a tissue to dry her eyes, but not his blue handkerchief, which lay soiled on his desk, a long blotchy streak smeared across its length, testament to her excitement.

—-

Later that evening, Natalie quietly locked her bedroom door, undressed, and knelt on her bed. She began to rub herself as she tried to remember as much as she could of her experience. She wanted to relive every detail, every sensation.

When it came to recalling her corner time she reached behind to grasp her still smarting buttocks, splaying them apart, enjoying the guilty rush of exposing herself. She held herself open, simulating her almost interminable wait, before finally slipping her vibrator deep inside. As she held her bottom apart, she remembered his silky touch as he’d caressed her folds whilst wiping her clean, and how she had willed him to probe deeper. Her vibe became him, as she imagined fantasies she could never confess.

She began to rehearse what she’d say to him tomorrow, just under her breath, for her ears only.

“I’ve been a very naughty girl, sir”, lips barely moving.
Her bottom tingled, she felt herself tighten against the vibe. She worked it deeper.

“I’ve been a very naughty girl, sir” she whispered. She’d be peeling her panties down at this point, feeling the tight material flick her pussy. Moments later, she’d be bending over, and he’d be lifting her skirt, she pulled her bottom apart further, simulating the view of her slit he’d see as she waited obediently for her well-deserved spanking.

“I’ve been a VERY naughty girl, sir” she repeated desperately.
“Please may I have a long… uh… hard… ohhhh… bare bottom sp—-”

Her climax swamped her whispers, and overwhelmed her utterly.

Epilogue

Several streets away – at the very moment Natalie climaxed – he was at home, hosting a dinner party.

An attractive young lady was standing in his lounge, admiring the collection of small square abstract prints mounted on the wall.

“Fascinating designs, painted on linen?”, she enquired.

“Silk, actually”, he replied.

She gazed at swirls and splotches on one particular pale blue square. “Lovely. Tremendously expressive. Reminiscent of O’Keeffe.”

“Indeed” he smiled, “I only acquired that one earlier today.”

They stood admiring his collection, it already filled one wall, and was now beginning to populate an alcove.

He gave a friendly grin; which might also have been the smile of someone who knew a secret no-one else knew. He alone knew the provenance of the ‘paintings’. Each silk square was a student or lover who’d climaxed during a spanking. Each one he’d wiped clean with a silk handkerchief as they’d shamefully held their spanked cheeks apart.

It was the universality of female anatomy that gave his abstract art a similarity, a thematic consistency. In each vertical lines could be discerned, with a characteristic splotch at its top, imparted by the wet bulb of her clit and its hood. Underneath, the lines widened, sometimes dividing and swiggling as the silk traced the folds of her lips. Then another dark splotch as the silk was massaged across and into her entrance. And sometimes, just below that, there was a fainter, enigmatic patch of golden brown. Some naughty girls had dirty bottoms, and some liked his finger inside.

His eyes fell on a pink square subtitled “Amanda”. A wild, wilful young minx – but clever, she’d ground herself greedily against his handkerchief that day, trying to come one last time, creating a manic series of swirls and whorls. A doctor now, he’d bumped into her a few months ago. Apparently, her husband had put her over his knee every morning before she went to medical school.

His hand touched his guest’s shoulder, subtly steering her towards the dinner table.

“Behind each one is a story…”

He might tell her the truth one day.

—-

@spankingtheatre 2012

with grateful thanks to the imagination of un-needed-feelings.tumblr.com

The Bottom Smacking Machine

There was just the merest space between the bookshelf and the chest of drawers. Just enough to slide a few sheets of paper between them.

Or wedge in a ruler.

She called it her Bottom Smacking Machine.

Though that name did somewhat overstate its complexity. An engineer would know it as a lever, just a beam and a fulcrum, one of the very simplest machines. A mechanism known since antiquity, now appropriated to impart pain and pleasure. A Bottom Smacking Contrivance.

She’d thought it strange when he’d first instructed her to search her house for a narrow gap between two heavy objects. The gap had to be narrow enough to hold in place a few sheaves of paper, and have space to stand either side of it. And two sides of the gap had to be more or less flush with each other.

Eventually she found one.

When she reported back, he instructed her to wedge her thick plastic ruler into the gap – just up to the 8 centimetre mark, and leave the rest jutting out. And put it just below waist height.

Suddenly, his intentions became very clear.

 

She had been so very, very naughty.

And he was such a long, long way away.

Some means of discipline would have to improvised.

Or standards would slip.

And that would be just unacceptable.

That night, at home alone, she heard her phone chirp.

A new message. From him.

By now the distinctive sound that heralded his messages had a Pavlovian effect, bringing a dampness to both her pairs of lips.

The message was an admonishment of her naughtiness, and a pronouncement of her sentence: a visit to her bottom smacking machine. 30 whacks on each cheek.

She cursed his strictness, but really wished he was here to discipline her himself.

 

By now she was well rehearsed with her punishment protocol, and began to make her preparations with an eagerness that suggested it was a sanction she secretly quite enjoyed. First, she had to decide on a setting, and dress accordingly. She had considered donning her pyjamas, and acting out a bedtime spanking before being put to bed. She also thought of wearing her skinniest thong bikini, and pretending to be a Roman galley slave, being whipped under a merciless sun.

In the end though, she decided to wear her school uniform, and to imagine herself reporting for after-school detention to find her teacher holding a ruler. She lay on her bed, a hand inside her panties, imagining all the details. Joining the back of the queue, she would watch her classmates being called forward, one by one, to pull down their knickers…

In her mind’s eye she’d look on timorously – but fascinatedly – as they yelped in response to the ruler’s slaps. Then, skirt still up, knickers still down, each girl would be sent to sit down, shuffling shamefully, hobbled by the panties gathered around their ankles. Each girl would lower herself onto her seat painfully slowly, wincing as her sore bare bottom met the cold hard wood of the desk benches. Her dedication to fleshing out the details of her fantasy was commendable.

She opened her eyes, looking across her room to stare at the ruler, now hanging in the air beside the bookcase. She closed her eyes, and found herself standing at the front of the queue. Now there was only one desk in the detention room still empty: hers. Her rubbing quickened, knowing it was her turn next. Behind her eyelids she heard her name being called. She managed to stop rubbing – just in time – and rose from the bed feeling every inch the naughty schoolgirl, a throbby, achy unresolved heat inside her knickers.

Her legs were trembling as she walked towards her own appointment with the ruler.

She stood in front of it, assuming the character of a recalcitrant schoolgirl.

“Oh no Sir! Please don’t spank me! Not on the bare!” she pleaded, to her empty room.

But there was no one to hear, no one to grant her reprieve.

She turned around. She could almost see her pink bottomed classmates in front of her, shifting uncomfortably on those crude wooden benches, each girl so wanting to rub her sore stinging bottom but with their hands cruelly occupied by writing lines instead.

She reached down to her hem and raised her skirt, tucking it into her waist.

Then she let her fingers linger inside her knicker elastic, imagining the girls behind her, looking up from their essays to risk sneaking a peek at her panties coming down.

“Oh Sir…” she whined, “not on my bare bottom!”

With no disciplinarian to keep waiting, she could enjoy the skin-tingling sensation of slowly lowering her panties as they slid down her legs. Lingering on the delicious final tug as her gusset finally pulled away from her sticky slit. Once the slow descent to her ankles was complete, she spread her legs until the garment was taut, until it became a cotton simulacrum of some ankle cuffs. The point when she realised escape was now impossible always made her insides tingle.

No doubt the girls behind her would be staring between her legs now, jealous of her still pale cheeks, and indignantly noticing how excited she’d become whilst watching their own bums turn pink. How shameful it would be to be exposed like that, but how exciting too.

The order to bend over reverberated through her imagination. But she complied without complaint, bending at the waist and shuffling backwards until she felt the cool plastic of the ruler kiss her buttocks.

In her fantasy classroom, she imagined him scolding her.

“Disgraceful behaviour! 60 whacks for you, girl…”

Whacks.

What a lovely word.

Whacks were what naughty schoolgirls got, on their bare bums.

She reached back, pulling the plastic ruler away from her.

She felt its tension building on her fingertips.

By now, she knew just how much to bend it.

Too little, and she’d receive an avuncular pat.

Too much, and the ruler would snap.

Just enough gave a delicious slap.

 

She imagined him, standing behind her, poised with his ruler, about to strike.

She felt the ache between her legs.

She let the ruler slip from her fingers…

It sprang back in an instant, delivering a smack that made her bottom quiver.

 

“Ooooo! I’m sorry, Sir” she whispered.

She pulled the ruler back a bit further this time, her fingers trembling.

The ruler sprang back again, smacking the spot where the first blow had landed.

She yelped, feeling her bottom smart.

Bending over fully, she touched her toes, savouring the fiery pain until it ebbed into a warm tingle.

She shuffled slightly, so the next blow would strike a different spot.

“Oh, Sir…” she whispered as she reached behind again, “I’ve been such a naughty girl…”

The ruler twanged again, and again; she gasped as it corrected her.

 

Soon, the dispassionate ruler had turned one of her cheeks pink.

Her instructions were unequivocal.

She turned around, and stood on the other side of the ruler, shuffling until she felt the cool plastic on her unspanked cheek.

“Oh please Sir, I promise I’ll be good…” she begged, but her pleas fell on no ears at all.

 

She reached behind her with her other hand, pulling the ruler back.

The smack made her mew in pain, but she showed herself no mercy.

He had sent her to the bottom smacking machine to be punished because he cared, and she had deserved it.

The ruler twanged again and again, until her whole bottom was pink.

Afterwards she put her hands on her head to avoid accidentally rubbing away any of her cherished stinging heat. Every glow was a sensation to be savoured, because every throb reminded her of him.

 

* * *

 

Faraway, inside his jacket pocket, his phone cheeped.

A new message.

A photo.

Of her.

Her bottom glowing.

Her hands on her head.

Her school skirt still raised.

Panties around her ankles.

She stood astride the ruler, its edge just parting her glistening pussy lips.

She’d even included a message.

“Thank you Sir, for disciplining me.”

Her obedience brought him satisfaction, a contentedness. She wouldn’t be allowed to relieve herself, of course, it was a punishment, after all. Standards did have to be maintained. Although these episodes of self-disciplining did seem to be becoming a regular occurrence. Which meant his charge was either irredeemably naughty, or she just enjoyed testing him. He resolved to have her replace the ruler with a whippy cane on her next infraction.

“Good news?” asked his dinner companion.

He pocketed his phone, smiling back, “The best.”

The Bottom Smacking Machine

There was just the merest space between the bookshelf and the chest of drawers. Just enough to slide a few sheets of paper between them.
Or wedge in a ruler.

She called it her Bottom Smacking Machine.
Though that name did somewhat overstate its complexity.
Bottom Smacking Contrivance would have been more accurate, if much less catchy.

She’d thought it strange when he’d first instructed her to search her house for a narrow gap between two heavy objects. The gap had to be narrow enough to hold in place a few sheaves of paper, and have space to stand either side of it. And two sides of the gap had to be more or less flush with each other.

Eventually she found one.
When she reported back, he instructed her to wedge her plastic ruler into the gap – just up to the 8 centimetre mark, and leave the rest jutting out.
And put it just below waist height.
Suddenly, his intentions became very clear.

She had been so very, very naughty.
And he was such a long, long way away.
Some means of discipline would have to improvised.
Or standards would slip. And that would be just unacceptable.

One night alone, her phone chirped.
A new message.
From him: pronouncing her sentence.
A visit to her bottom smacking machine. 30 whacks on each cheek.
She cursed his strictness, but wished he was here to discipline her himself.

She was well rehearsed with her punishment protocol by now and began to make her preparations.
First, she had to decide on a setting, and dress accordingly.
She had considered donning her pyjamas, and acting out a bedtime spanking before being put to bed. She also thought of wearing her skinniest thong bikini, and pretending to be a Roman galley slave, being whipped under a merciless sun.

In the end though, she decided to wear her school uniform, and to imagine herself reporting for after-school detention to find her teacher holding a ruler. She lay on her bed, a hand inside her panties, imagining all the details. Joining the back of the queue, she would watch her classmates being called forward, one by one, to pull down their knickers.

In her mind’s eye she’d look on timorously – but fascinatedly – as they yelped in response to the ruler’s slaps. Then, skirt up, knickers still down, each girl would be sent to sit down, wincing as her sore bare bottom met the cold hard wood of the desk benches. Her dedication to fleshing out her fantasy was commendable.

She opened her eyes, looking across her room to stare at the ruler, now hanging in the air beside the bookcase. She closed her eyes, and found herself standing at the front of the queue. There was only one desk in the detention room still empty: hers. Her rubbing quickened, knowing it was her turn next. Behind her eyelids she heard her name being called. She managed to stop rubbing – just in time – and rose from the bed feeling every inch the naughty schoolgirl, a throbby, achy unresolved heat inside her knickers.

Her legs were trembling as she walked towards her appointment with the ruler.
She stood in front of it, continuing to play out her punishment fantasy.
“Oh no sir! Please don’t spank me! Not on the bare!” she pleaded, to her empty room.
But there was no one to hear, no one to grant her reprieve.

She turned around. She could almost see her pink bottomed classmates in front of her, sitting uncomfortably on those crude wooden benches, each girl so wanting to rub her sore bottom but with their hands cruelly occupied by writing lines instead.

She reached down to her hem and raised her skirt, tucking it into her waist.
“Oh sir…” she whined, “not on my bare bottom!”
She let her fingers linger inside her knicker elastic. With no disciplinarian to keep waiting, she could enjoy the skin-tingling sensation of slowly lowering her panties as they slid down her legs. Once fully exposed, she started to bend over, shuffling backwards until she felt the cool plastic on her bum.

In her fantasy classroom, she imagined him scolding her.
“Disgraceful behaviour! 60 whacks for you, girl…”

She reached back, pulling the plastic ruler away from her.
She felt its tension building on her fingertips.
By now, she knew just how much to bend it.
Too little, and she’d receive an avuncular pat.
Too much, and the ruler would snap.
Just enough gave a delicious slap.

She imagined him, standing behind her, poised with his ruler, about to strike.
She felt the ache between her legs.
She let the ruler slip from her fingers…
It sprang back in an instant, delivering a smack that made her bottom quiver.

“Ooooo! I’m sorry, sir” she whispered.
She pulled the ruler back a bit further this time, her fingers trembling.
The ruler sprang back again, smacking the spot where the first blow had landed.
She yelped, feeling her bottom smart.
Bending over fully, she touched her toes, savouring the fiery pain until it ebbed into a warm tingle.
She shuffled slightly, so the next blow would strike a different spot.
“Oh, sir…” she whispered as she reached behind again, “I’ve been such a naughty girl…”
The ruler twanged again, and again; she gasped as it corrected her.

Soon, the dispassionate ruler had turned one of her cheeks pink.
Her instructions were unequivocal.
She turned around, and stood on the other side of the ruler, shuffling until she felt the cool plastic on her unspanked buttock.
“Oh please sir, I promise I’ll be good…” she begged, but her pleas fell on no ears at all.

She reached behind her with her other hand, pulling the ruler back.
The smack made her mew in pain, but she showed herself no mercy.
He had sent her to the bottom smacking machine to be punished because he cared, and she had deserved it.
The ruler twanged again and again, until her whole bottom was pink.

—-

Faraway, inside his jacket pocket, his phone cheeped.
A new message.
A photo.
Of her.
Her bottom glowing.
Her hands on her head.
Her school skirt still raised.
Panties around her ankles.
She stood astride the ruler, its edge just parting her pussy lips.
She’d even included a message.
“Thank you, sir, for disciplining me.”

Her obedience made him smile. Standards did have to be maintained.
On her next infraction, maybe he’d have her replace the ruler with a whippy cane.

“Good news?” asked his dinner companion.
He pocketed his phone, smiling back, “The best.”

@spankingtheatre 2012

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