Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears


October 2012


A single glimpse was enough to doom me.

Yet all I did was tiptoe across the drifts of yellow fallen leaves, towards the inviting glow of hospitable light, and peek through a house’s window. 

My glimpse lasted no longer than a heartbeat.
I saw her standing beside a roaring fireplace, her hair braided in golden plaits, glimmering in the fire light, tumbling over the shoulders of her loose white nightshirt.
Then I saw her bum; captivating, beautiful, pert pink globes – with a crook-handled cane wedged between her cheeks, hitching up her nightie, exposing her to my prying eyes.

It was only the merest glance. Sudden movement drew my eye: a menacing black blur, advancing quickly. Startled, I recoiled from the window, acutely conscious I’d just seen something I was not supposed to see.

Instinctively, I turned and ran.

That fateful day, I’d been walking home through the woods. Autumn’s touch had ignited a silent forest fire, I wandered through an impression of burning trees, sizzling reds and blazing yellows of every hue dancing on their swaying branches like boughs of flame. Whilst all around, mist billowed and swirled in the wind like smoke, choking every winding path.

In the nebulous gray gloom I must have wandered right past the landmark gnarly old oak tree – veering left rather than right, down a path I’d never explored before. This untrodden trail narrowed into a avenue of orange-leaved sycamores, guiding me, almost funnelling me.

I smelt the presence of the house well before I saw it. A seductively sweet aroma, resin-rich logs on a roaring fire, congenial and welcoming. A striking gothic house began to emerge incrementally from the mist, as if someone was describing it. First its steep pitched roof, clusters of stubby chimneys, then ornamental arches, archaic turrets and dark brick walls, before I saw the planked veranda, and a glowing window that radiated an aura of golden light into the mist outside.

Lest you think me some kind of voyeur, I’m not normally in the habit of peering into strangers’ windows. But here, that warm, inviting glow enticed me closer. The cloud of gold in the murky gloom seduced me, as if it was the reflected gleam from a cache of treasure. So I crept up to the window, and peeped inside.

And that’s when I saw her.
Just a glance. The merest glimpse.
Stolen in the blink of an eye.
Yet enough to sear the scene into my memory.

A fireplace.
A golden haired maiden.
A cane between her cheeks.
So still, as if frozen in time.
And someone else.
A dark figure.
Rushing forward.

A chill ran through me, a sudden recognition that I didn’t belong here.
Instinctively, I turned and ran, hurtling through the mist, leaves and twigs crunching underfoot, barrelling down the narrow avenue of sycamores – until I almost collided with the old oak tree. I stared back into the haze, heart racing, half-expecting a dark shadow to rush at me from the mist.
But nothing followed.
With a sigh of relief, I turned right, walking quickly towards the sanctuary of home, looking over my shoulder with every step.

* * * * *

That night, as I lay awake in bed, that one glimpse came to dominate my thoughts. It began as curiosity, who was she? I’d never seen her walking along the track that ran through the woods. Had they lived there long? How strange that I’d lived in this wood all this time, and never even known there was a house down there.

The wind rattled my windows, blowing in a draught that made my bedside candle flicker. I shivered and snuggled underneath my blankets, and in my mind’s eye, I recalled her nakedness.

She had been a naughty girl, and she was about to be caned – on her bare bottom too. I began to wonder what misdemeanour could deserve such punishment. Had she neglected to do her chores? Perhaps she’d brought home a letter detailing her misbehavior at school? Or maybe she’d been caught playing show-me-yours in a forest den?

My glimpse had lasted no longer than a heartbeat before the sudden pouncing movement in the corner of my eye had spooked me and forced me to recoil from the window. Now I bitterly regretted my lack of courage. I began to imagine what I would have seen had I stayed.

The figure in black could have been her dowager aunt, nothing sinister, just a widow still dressed in the colour of mourning. She would have taken the cane from between her young charge’s cheeks, telling her to grasp the mantelpiece and push her bottom out. Then I would have seen a glint, as the varnished cane was raised into the light, then a soundless swish, and a muffled cry. And just beyond the window I would stare, rapt – eyes locked on her beautiful bottom, now pushed out expectantly again, newly adorned with a thin pink line.

Outside the wind howled, and a forceful gust whistled through the rafters, extinguishing my candle. It shames me to admit that as I lay there in the dark, my hand began to wander beneath my sheets, and my mind began to sour with darker thoughts.

In my fantasy, I returned to the strange gothic house. In my mind’s eye the mist had lifted, and the woods glowed gold and scarlet in the bright autumn sunshine. I stepped up onto the porch, where a coarse straw-coloured mat bade visitors “Welcome”. Taking a deep breath, I pulled the bell cord, and a faint tinkle sounded beyond.

The door was pulled open by a woman in black, who smiled as she saw me. She was of a similar age to my own mother, her black hair neatly tied back, her black satin dress elegantly attractive rather than morosely sombre.

“Good day!” I imagined myself saying, “I live just down the path, in Bramble Cottage…”
The ensuing doorstep conversation was perfunctory, this was – after all – my fantasy, and the focus of my visit was waiting indoors. So the lady welcomed me enthusiastically, and insisted on inviting me inside.

I entered and followed the lady down the hall into the living room. My imagination furnished it sparsely, just a few airchairs, a low table, some bookcases and some wall hangings. The focal point of the room was the vast granite fireplace, which occupied an entire wall. And beside the fireplace was the golden-haired girl, dressed in a bright white nightie, with a cane between her bottom cheeks.
“This is Freya…” the lady said apologetically, “Freya has been very naughty. I was about to spank her bottom when you called. Oh do sit down, let me get you a nice hot drink.”

I imagined sitting down on one of the armchairs as my host hurried out of the room. I stared ahead at the crackling log fire before my eyes were inevitably drawn to the young woman’s bare bottom. She wore a simple white nightgown, whose hem had been hitched up above her waist by the thin cane between her buttocks. I ensured her hands were clasped in front of her,
allowing my imagination to linger on this glorious sight, whilst my hand worked diligently beneath my sheets.

By now, I was engrossed in my story, oblivious to the wind gusting against my bedroom window. Keen to advance events, I imagined the lady in black returned with a steaming mug of hot chocolate.

“Do forgive me” she told me, “But it’s time Freya was spanked. I hope watching this won’t make you uncomfortable. It’s just how we do things in this house. Come here, Freya.”

The golden girl turned towards me, showing me her face for the first time; as beautiful as I could possibly imagine. Her eyes were downcast as she shuffled slowly into the middle of the room, keeping the cane between her cheeks – until the lady in black plucked it from her. Then, without being asked, Freya turned her back to me, spread her legs and bent over.

I could not have imagined a better view, as the lady’s cane swished and swicked across poor Freya’s pretty little bottom. She took her caning with almost angelic grace, never crying or making a scene, instead mixing her gasps with admissions of how naughty she’d been, and how much she deserved a sore bottom.

I was getting so close now; and somehow, my imagination improvised a final devious twist. I imagined a clock chiming.

“Goodness me! Is that the time?” exclaimed the lady in black, “Dinner will be burned!”

She hurried towards the fireplace, placing the cane on the mantelpiece, before moving back to scrutinise her young charge’s rear. Then she looked across at me expectantly.

“I do hope you don’t mind, but Freya isn’t pink enough yet, would you be so kind and spank her whilst I attend to the oven?”

I tried to imagine responding to her outrageous request with as much dignity as I could manage, nodding my head nobly as if to say: why, of course. Whereas in reality, I would have just gawped back dumbly.

And so Freya obediently climbed over my lap, submissively placing one hand on the small of her back. I grasped her wrist, pinning her down, and began spanking her, softly and slowly at first. Whereupon the lady in black smiled contently and left us alone.

“Harder! Please. Spank me harder! Please. I’ve been a very naughty girl”, Freya implored.

I quickened the force and tempo of my slaps, until the girl’s supplications were replaced by stifled cries. I spanked until her whole bottom was pink, until my hand began to hurt.
I spanked her until her legs began to flail, and part…

I came in throbbing gasps as I imagined the dew glistening on her slit.

* * *

Exhausted by the vividness of my fantasy, I fell asleep soon afterwards, into a deep, disturbing sleep.

I visited the strange house again in my dreams. But this time I was a spectator, no longer in control of my mysterious visions. For reasons unknown to me, my visit took place at night, yet I carried no lantern, relying on whatever moonlight had struggled through the stormy clouds to light my way. I felt my way tentatively through the darkness, acutely aware of the blackness, and the peril of veering off the path.

Soon, moonlight glinted off the frosty trunks of the avenue of sycamore trees, like some eerie silver colonnade. It was cold, but I did not feel it; only a compulsion to reach the house. I remember approaching the porch, but there was no door, no welcome mat, no bell to ring. The house reflected no moonlight, it seemed blacker than the darkness around it, unable to see, I began edging around the side of its walls, my fingertips probing its slimy bricks for anything that might be an entrance.

I reached the corner of the wall, and saw a dim halo of light ahead. The light seemed to come from the house, but did not illuminate it, a weak puddle of light seeping out of a fissure in a void. It felt like a lure, there to attract rather than enlighten its surroundings. It drew me towards it.

Now I was standing in front of a familiar window. Inside, a prodigious pile of logs burned fiercely but silently in a vast granite fireplace, radiating a surprisingly feeble light. The golden-haired girl was there too, this time facing me; she looks straight at me, with wide, pleading eyes. Without her lips moving I hear her voice in my mind, imploring: Help me.

I became aware of a sinister presence in the room with her. A black cloaked figure without a face. Its weirdness confounded me as I tried to make sense of what I saw, to name and understand it. This fiend, this spectre, this witch – whatever it was – seemingly held the girl captive, and I was her only hope.

Help me, her voice pleaded. Help me.

Her pleas emboldened me. Suddenly I knew it was my duty to protect her. I felt valiant, as if I’d donned a glimmering suit of impervious mail. My heart swelled, I would challenge and banish this wicked witch, and rescue her. Noiselessly, my hands hammered and shook the window, frantically attempting to find a way in.

A roaring gust of wind rattled my bedroom window, startling me awake.

I lay in the dark panting, soaked in sweat, as the details of my disconcerting dream ebbed away like water spilt on sand, until only the memory of the beautiful golden-haired girl remained.

Before I drifted back to sleep, I resolved to revisit the strange house on my way home tomorrow afternoon. I would introduce myself. By happy coincidence, tomorrow was Halloween, and there was a party at the Allen’s house. I could invite her, we could go together.

* * * * *

That afternoon, I hesitated by the gnarly old oak tree. I prevaricated about returning to the mysterious gothic house; perhaps it was the embarrassment of my first furtive visit, or the unnerving indescribable weirdness I’d felt on waking last night, or perhaps more likely still, the dispiriting possibility that she might decline my invitation.

By now the sun was sinking low in the sky, painting the fluffy clouds gold and making the trees around me gleam. The beauty must have seduced me, inspired me; I started walking, turning left, down the path to where she lived.

Today the mist was thinner, just thin wisps that drifted through the yellow and russet branches like arboreal spirits. So now as I approached, the whole house loomed above me in all its gothic imperiousness. Yesterday the mist had concealed its scale, now I could see it was much larger than I’d thought. I walked through a wide clearing of dead dry leaves, noticing how nothing grew any closer than the surrounding wood. It had no garden, no lawns, no bushes, no walls, not even any hedges or ornamental trees. It was as if the house had just, appeared.

I was a stone’s throw from the house now, and could see a glow radiating from a downstairs window. I ignored it, I intended to introduce myself politely this time, and strode up to the porch, mounting the 3 small wooden steps to reach the door.

The door was archaic and unwelcoming, its huge black beams joined together with giant rusted studs. Above the lintel was an etched ebony plaque, a single word in cursive script:

I didn’t recognise the language, I thought it was the house’s name. How I wish I’d known it was the house’s curse.

I puffed myself up, ready to introduce myself, and lifted and dropped the rusty door-knocker. A deep, dull boom resonated through my bones, like a boulder dropping from the sky.

I waited at the porch apprehensively for someone to answer, expecting at any moment to hear a bolt clunk, or hinges creak.
But nothing.
I glanced at the light coming from the window, it seemed impossible anyone could fail to hear that deafening knock; someone must be home.

A dark thought seeped into my mind. What if, right now, the head of the house was busy? Busy administering a caning to the beautiful girl I’d glimpsed by the fireplace. At this very moment, she could be bending over, the cane tapping against her bare cheeks, being scolded for her naughtiness. It shames me to admit this, but my yearning to surreptitiously witness this gratuitous spectacle overwhelmed my better judgement.

So I stepped down from the porch and walked over to the glowing window. I rose on tiptoes and peered inside – but this time, my prying eyes were foiled. The window had misted over, denying me a view of what lay beyond.

Emboldened by my obsession, I crept around the side of the house, looking for another window. That’s when saw the back door. Yesterday I wouldn’t have dreamed of trying the door of a stranger’s home, but now a strange compulsion had overtaken me, and I felt I’d do almost anything for another glimpse of her.

I pressed down the door latch, as subtly as I could. A faint click. It was unlocked.
I nudged it open, praying that it would not betray me with a creak, opening it just wide enough to squeeze through. Now I was in what seemed to be a small pantry, though its shelves were surprisingly barren, with a few small sacks and empty crates strewn casually on the floor. But my attention was immediately drawn to the orange flickering glow underneath the far door. Firelight.

I tiptoed to the door; it had no keyhole, only a round tarnished brass knob, which meant if I wanted to know what lay beyond, I’d have to open it. Hardly daring to breathe, I twisted the doorknob slowly, pulling the door inward slightly, creating enough of a gap to peep through.

And there she was, beside the fireplace, the cane between her bottom, her nightie hitched just so – everything as I’d glimpsed yesterday. It was as if nothing had changed, it’s funny how that didn’t strike me as odd at the time.

I looked around the room nervously, for any sign of another occupant, but it seemed we were alone. Then – suddenly – her head began to turn towards me, perhaps alerted by the draught I’d introduced to the room. I had only an instant to decide what to do. I did not want her to think I was spying on her nakedness, even though I had been; so I stood tall and strode confidently into the room, determined to present a good first impression.

Her face blanched when she saw me, her eyes widening in shock.

I held my palms up, as if to forestall any screaming, adding by way of explanation, “I’m here to help…”

She opened her mouth slowly, as if remembering how to speak.
“You shouldn’t be here…” she said at last.

At the time I thought she meant I shouldn’t be intruding into her home. But in retrospect, her observation was much more profound.

“Why?” I asked dumbly, only realising how idiotic it sounded coming from an interloper after the word had left my lips. Her reply was disturbingly unexpected.

“I sneaked in here too, once. I’ve never been able to leave.”

I still didn’t understand.

“Then I’m here to rescue you!”, I said nobly, transformed in an instant from pathetic skulking prowler to chivalrous hero. I understood now, I was answering a calling, to liberate this beautiful girl from her nefarious captor.

I reached behind her, plucking the cane from between her cheeks. It was seductively warm, just holding it made me feel strange, a weird authoritative confidence, like I had the power of mastery, the ability to bend the wills of others. I set the cane down carefully on the mantelpiece, with the reverence due an arcane artifact.

I looked into her wide blue eyes, and stretched out my hand, but she remained motionless. So I reached forward to grasp hers, only to flinch as we touched. Not only was her skin startlingly cold, but her hand was surprisingly light; it felt bizarrely insubstantial, like if I squeezed it, my own might pass through it.

Something else was wrong, the room had darkened noticeably. The late afternoon sunlight that had been glimmering through the foggy window had vanished. I’d only been indoors for a few minutes, yet now it was dark outside, the oddly noiseless fire now providing the only source of light.

Motion in the corner of the room caught my eye. An antique grandfather clock, its minute hand moving perceptibly, counting off minutes as if they were seconds.

“Time is wrong here”, she observed flatly, in a tone that made me shiver.

It was clear that this was not a place to linger.

“Let’s go!”, I said, pulling her by the hand towards the door I’d entered.

It only took a couple of strides to cross the pantry to the outside door.
I pushed the latch.
The door opened into utter blackness.

There was no moonlight, no wind, no swaying trees.
And there were no leaves on the ground, because there was no ground at all.
I looked over the doorway threshold into a void, and was struck dizzy by a terrifying vertigo.
A primal fear overwhelmed me, and I knew without knowing that I was standing at the edge of an abyss, a bottomless pit.

I staggered backwards, nauseous, crumpling to my knees. My arms flailed frantically, reaching out to clutch a nearby column beam. I clung to it like someone drowning, as if my life depended on it, desperate for the reassurance of something solid.

“W…w…where are we?” I asked, still shaking.

“We are nowhere.” she answered dully, “In Ginnungagap, the yawning void.”

I had no idea what she meant. But some primal part of me understood; that anything that fell into that abyss would fall and fall and fall forever. If I fell, I would die of thirst or fright after several terrifying days of tumbling through the unending darkness.
Even then, my corpse would continue falling.
Eons would pass, and long after my body had disintegrated into dust, I would still be falling.

I crawled away from the open doorway, and the incomprehensibly frightening inky blackness beyond, back towards the reassuring golden glow of the fireplace. I was still getting to my feet when I noticed someone – something – else in the room with me.

It was all over so quickly.
I only had time for a glimpse.
Just enough time to perceive a black presence, the size of a person.
It looked like a hole in reality, as if a void had opened in the middle of the room.  
The edges of the hole flowed, giving it the appearance of a floating black gown.
It had no limbs, no head, no face or teeth.
Just a floating black shape.
It was utterly horrifying.
It hurtled towards me.

I felt myself being enveloped by an oppressive smothering pressure.
Then everything went black.

* * * * *

Sometime later, I was dimly aware of light again.
I was standing by a fireplace.
As my eyes adjusted to the light, I began to scrutinise the grey stone hearth in front of me. Massive ancient granite blocks that looked like they’d been hewn by giants. The fire itself was a towering pile of logs, which burned without roaring or crackling, emitting a unexpectedly feeble heat.

I was freezing cold. I could feel some warmth where I was nearest to the fire, but the heat was weak, like winter sunshine. As sensation slowly returned to my skin I became aware I was only wearing a thin white nightshirt. There was also something between my buttocks; something long, thin, and warm. With horror, I realised it was a cane.

I tried to reach behind me, to throw this violation on the floor in disgust, but my hands remained clasped in front of me. Perhaps the cold had paralysed me, petrifying me like a statue. All I could move were my eyes, scanning across the blocks of the vast fireplace that dominated my vision, watching how small imperfections in the stone cast tiny dancing shadows in the firelight.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her. Just a glimpse, a white blur – but with that unmistakable bonnet of braided golden hair. I strained my eyes to gain a better look, only to experience an excruciating pain, as if I’d strained my eyes trying to stare at the back of my own head. Am I cursed to be frozen here, tantalised and tormented, knowing my obsession is just barely beyond my sight?

* * *

And so I stand and wait, watching the shadows dance. I have had plenty of time to rue my impetuousness, to regret my foolhardy incursion into this infernal place, this trap for the unvirtuous.

Then, just when I think time itself has forgotten me. I hear the grandfather clock behind me chime. Twelve doleful clangs.

I have come to dread the chimes.
When the chimes sound, the Gown appears.

I call it the Gown in an effort to conceal its true horror from my mind.
A faceless, limbless shape, as black as the void beyond, it moves through the room like a stain. When it appears, I can move again. I can look across the fireplace and see the golden-haired girl standing on the other side, her eyes wide with fear.

I can also look around the room, but I do all I can to avoid it. At a glance, my prison appears to be an old-fashioned drawing room, picturesque and homey, elegant furniture, brass fittings, bookcases and ornaments. Yet if I let my eyes linger, the room’s disgusting decrepitude is revealed; I witness the passing of a thousand years in a single glimpse. Hideous black spiders shroud the walls in web. Furnishings tarnish, rust and rot, decaying before my eyes into a foul morass of mold, insects and sawdust. No matter how many times I’ve seen it, the repugnant scene always forces me to recoil in disgust.

So I stare straight ahead, just waiting for my turn.


I hear the voice in my head, not my ears. Sometimes it sounds like a loud authoritative man, other times a sensual domineering woman. Every time it makes me feel like a recalcitrant teen, deserving of discipline for all my past vices.

I obey without question, shuffling into the middle of the room and bending over. I feel the cane being taken from my cheeks, and being tapped against my rear. I look back through my legs to see the cane floating in the air, orchestrated by the limbless Gown. Then the whacking starts. Each stroke is an excruciating fiery lash, making me want to cry out in agony. But cruelly, when I attempt to yell in pain I hear myself exclaiming encouragement instead: “More!” or “Harder!”, “Again, please!”. My infernal disciplinarian is only too willing to oblige.

Eventually, I am sent back to stand beside the fireplace in shame, my bottom streaked with burning, searing marks. But the pain soon fades, and I feel the heat of each fiery whack spreading through my chilled body, warming me in a way the weak firelight never does.

Then it’s her turn. As she bends over, our eyes meet; but just a glimpse. She gaves me the same look every time, I wonder what she is trying to say. I’m sorry for luring you here? We’ll get out of this? Thanks for trying to rescue me? Or, you stupid fool, you’ve damned us both?

The cane dances in the air behind her, swishing and whacking, making her back arch and her knees tremble. I see her delight in the warmth of her discipline, she prances, rising on her toes, stretching her calves, spreading her legs, exulting in each painful stroke, as she enjoys the only sensation she can still feel.

I had always wanted to see her being caned.
Now I’m damned to watch; every night for the rest of eternity.

* * *

Time is indeed wrong here. I’ve been here so long, yet my appearance hasn’t changed, my hair and fingernails do not grow, my skin is still unwrinkled and youthful. I sometimes feel my own pulse throb faintly in my throat, but I’m no longer certain if I’m alive or dead.

We exist in a limbo of perpetual night. The only evidence of time the grandfather clock’s hands circling inexorably towards midnight, and the dull chimes that herald the appearance of our tormentor.

Then, when all hope seems lost, daylight miraculously seeps through the window behind us, illuminating a square on the stones before our eyes. Only then can I hear the outside world again, the wind rustling nearby trees, the short faint chirps of sparrows, and sometimes even the shouts of distant voices. I long to call out to them, to run from this wretched house, but I remain petrified, frozen, cruelly tantalised by a freedom I can never reach.

I’ve begun to notice the sunlight always has the same golden glow, as if we reappear in the world at the same time of year, just before Halloween, when they say the barriers between realities are at their thinnest. Then, all too soon, we vanish back into the eternal night of the void.

Sometimes I swear I can hear distant cries. I wonder how many others have been enticed and entrapped here, held captive in the myriad rooms of this infernal place.

And so here I stand, by the fireplace, trying to keep my heart from freezing, hoping against hope for salvation. Perhaps my pleas will echo in a stranger’s dreams, a saviour more virtuous than I. Someone who’ll stumble across this eldritch place one Halloween, and who’ll think to free us from our curse, rather than spy on our nakedness.
Until then I will be punished, in a house, all alone, in the dark.

@spankingtheatre 2012

Stay playful

Just in case you missed it, my latest story Treasure Hunt  is now published.

My recent stories Carrot and Stick and Abstract Art have been tales of authority, mischief and discipline, but my latest has a quite different theme: playfulness.

Are you still playful?

Everyone was playful once. From the moment the sun rose until we were ultimately sent to bed, we would all spend days just exploring, playing games and having fun. Until, as life got serious, we became burdened by new responsibilities, and began to think of play as childish, immature and trivial – eclipsed by sex, that fantastic new discovery.

In an earlier post, I wrote about reading fairytales through adult eyes. Perhaps you know the ancient fable of the Firebird? It tells of how those entering the presence of the dread King Kashchei are bewitched – compelled to sing and dance, and if they ever stop… they are turned to stone. The wisdom of the ancients warns us: the same fate awaits those who ever stop playing.

We should strive to keep our playfulness alive. Even though the everyday tempests of adulthood that threaten to extinguish it, we should nurture it like a candle flame.

So if your bedroom is now your playground, or you’ve ever wanted it to be, I think you (and your partner) will enjoy Treasure Hunting

Treasure Hunt

A bedtime story for those who still love to play

She’d been so close!
Agonisingly close!
She’d frantically scrambled around the utility room as the buzzing between her legs rose to a dizzying crescendo. Trying to retain her composure, to resist the temptation to sink to her knees and let the delicious wave of pleasure wash over her. All the while, he stood behind her holding the magic wand, chuckling at her slapstick search, gleefully reminding her that her time was almost up.

Moments later, the bell rang – and the vibrations between her legs abruptly stopped.
She squealed, emptying her lungs in frustration.
She had lost again. And that meant another visit to the spanking chair.
Rules were rules.

By tradition, the first Friday night of each month was Treasure Hunt night. The game had evolved over all the years they’d been together, and would now undoubtedly shock their friends with its brazen kinkiness and erotic inventiveness.

The objective of the game was simple. An object would be hidden somewhere in the house, and the seeker had six minutes to find it, all the while being shepherded by the devilishly distracting sensations of the remote control vibrator…

She lay naked on the bed, legs spread invitingly as his tongue explored and excited her.

She’d won the game when they’d last played it a month ago, and so would have the privilege of searching first tonight. But first, came an exquisitely slow penetration by the wireless vibrator. It was a sleek, curved work of art, a sculpture to satisfy the aesthete’s eyes and please her loins, its bulbous head able to deliver tremulous sensations deep inside, whilst its other end tapered and curved, protruding from her entrance to hug her clit.

The remote controller was a thin wand of brushed aluminium with a touchpad along one side. As his finger slid along its length, the wand glowed in response, as if about to discharge some powerful magic. Which, in a sense, it was.

“This is cold…”, he explained, beginning his superfluous demonstration of the device’s capabilities. A faint, slow vibration rumbled inside her, like the groan of a distant glacier, muffled by eons of ice. Unsatisfyingly cold indeed.

“… and this is warm…”, on this setting the vibration felt like weak winter sunshine, just enough the tingle the skin, yet leave it longing for the glorious radiance of a high summer’s day.

“… and this is hot…”, now strong vibrations pulsed through her, like waves crashing onto a sun-drenched beach. This was a languid heat, a seductive heat, the kind one could bask in for hours, a heat that made the cheeks flush.

And even hotter temperatures awaited: if she could get within several footsteps of her objective.

The first few times they’d played, the treasures being sought were luxurious Belgian praline chocolates. It hadn’t taken long for the chocolates to be devoured and the stakes to escalate. Now the object to be found was a spanking implement – which would be used on the bottom of whoever failed to find it. Or, should it be discovered, on the bottom of whoever had failed to hide it well enough.

As he had lost the game last month, he had the privilege of choosing what to hide from their now sizable collection of paddles, slippers, floggers, rulers, canes, whips and martinets. He considered his intended hiding place, a small, light implement would be best, preferably not too thin. His eyes settled on a white linen ballet slipper. Innocuous elegance, dainty, angelic footwear, but underneath a tan leather sole with a devilish whack.

He waved the slipper in front of her, as if presenting it to an audience before a magic trick. She recognised her old ballet slipper immediately, hello again old friend, she thought, don’t worry, I’ll find you.

“Six minutes to find this slipper, dear. Or you’ll feel it across your bottom…”

To avoid giving away clues to the hiding place, she would be tied to the bed wearing headphones and a blindfold whilst he went away to hide it. Before going, he selected a track from the playlist on her phone, and gave her breast a playful squeeze.
Music filled her ears. She recognised this one. Snow Patrol.
Open Your Eyes.
He was such a tease.

She lay back and waited for him to return, he’d left the vibe on its lowest setting, providing her with short, frustratingly weak trembles after every 4 breaths.
One.. Two.. Three.. Four.. Buzz..

The buzz was too weak to arouse her, it was more of a reminder of what she was missing: a distraction, an annoyance, like a shrill alarm that made one long for the silence that had previously gone unnoticed. She pulled at her cuffs, wishing she could reach down and touch herself. Where was he?

One.. Two.. Three.. Four.. Buzz..

There was time enough to ponder, to second guess. Had he hidden it a long way away? Or was he trying to bluff her? He could have hidden it nearby and now be leaning against the doorway, looking between her legs, admiring the view. Several months ago, as he’d returned via the kitchen, he’d brought back an ice cube, then teased her nipples and arse as she writhed helplessly. After that, she’d made a beeline for the kitchen, only to find he’d hidden her goal in the bathroom instead.

One.. Two.. Three.. Four.. Buzz..

At last, she felt movement as her cuffs were unfastened. The song’s long instrumental finale faded as he took off her headphones and blindfold, leaving her squinting as she clambered clumsily off the bed. Time to get dressed. This game had a simple costume, she pulled up her black satin thong, its taut gusset helping to keep the curved tip of the vibe pressed snugly against her pearl. And she was ready to play.

Just one more thing: in his hands was a clip-on mechanical cooking timer, of the kind chefs would attach to their aprons when wandering around chaotic kitchens. He gave it a twist, making its bell clank and clock mechanism rattle.

“Six minutes…” he announced, reaching behind her to clip the timer to the back of her thong. He slapped her bottom with a flourish, “… starts now!”

She yelped in response, before setting off on a perfunctory search of the bedroom. The faint, pathetic vibrations inside her didn’t change, so she darted into the en suite bathroom, but could still barely feel the rumbling. She returned to the bedroom to see him smirking.
Oh. Just wait until it’s your turn, she thought, smiling back serenely.

Rules were rules.
If she couldn’t find it by the time the bell rang, she’d be spanked with it.
But if she did discover it in time, she would get to spank him.
And what’s more, she’d earn the right to hide the next item, and guide him around the house as a remote controlled butt plug buzzed inside him.
It was best two out of three, the game ended when one of them lost for a second time.
The loser would then pay the ultimate forfeit at the winner’s command.

The forfeits.

* * * * *

She could still remember the night when their general bedroom tomfoolery had turned into a game with forfeits. He’d always been a dreadful tease, and she wasn’t the kind of lady who’d take teasing without trying to pay it back. Eventually their mutual teasing and increasingly flamboyant retaliations had evolved into a game. And the catalyst had been the purchase of the remote controlled vibrators.

She’d lost the first night they’d played the remote vibe-guided Treasure Hunt. Consequently he’d tied her up, so she lay splayed on the bed clad only in her favourite lace panties.

“These are coming off…”, he pledged.
She looked up lasciviously.

Moments later, she squealed in protest as she saw the scissors in his hands. Starting on the soles of her feet, he’d slowly run the blunt side of the scissors up her right leg, the chill sensation of the steel rising inevitably and unstoppably towards the heat of her crotch. She’d struggled and begged as the scissors reached her gusset, one blade edging carefully up her slit. Her damp lips had clung to the smooth back of cold steel blade, as if imploring it not to cut.

She’d felt him pull her panties tight – and the scissor blade slip from her lips’ weak embrace, and a protracted snipping sound as he cut her gusset in two. She’d cursed him with mock fury as he slowly traced the blade up her mound to her waist, and snipped there too. He’d pulled her ruined panties from her with a flourish, like a magician revealing a magic trick, leaving her utterly exposed – and giving him a new, short lacey whip to play with.

He began flogging her breasts with his improvised lash; the lacey material had little weight, but the elastic in the waistband imparted enough of a tingle as it hit to leave her squirming. And what the whip lacked in weight, he could make up with speed, he flogged her rapidly, each flick like a single failing hailstone, that together soon became an throbbing sting.

Once he’d dappled her breasts pink, he moved down to her thighs, alternately flogging her vigorously and sensually, all the while telling her that this was just for practice, that he would soon be flogging her pussy next.

Some time later, after some pleasurable dances on the ends of his tongue and fingertips, she had – to her own considerable surprise – experienced a delicious moaning climax as he’d flogged her clit with her own panties. They had always been her favourite panties.

Ever since, forfeits had been escalating in their sophistication and extravagance, like some erotic arms race, each trying to outdo the other. Like that particularly outrageous escapade a few months ago.

She had lost, and had found herself sitting naked, on her sore striped bottom, in front of the dressing table mirror. Having spent most of the last hour being teased by the vibe, which had included a short caning after losing the first game, she was soaking wet.

“I have a surprise for you tonight, darling…” he’d said cheerily. No doubt, she’d thought.

“We’re going to go out!” he announced enthusiastically, “But first…”

He stood behind her, reaching down to take her right hand off her lap, repositioning it between her legs, and encouraging her to start rubbing. As it happened, little encouragement was required, and her fingers were soon probing inside her, emerging painted white with her slippery cream.

“I think it’s time you applied your makeup…” he observed.

“Taste yourself. Rub those fingers on your lips… Yes. Like you’re putting lip gloss on your pretty little mouth.”

She raised her fingers to her mouth, using her fingers like a lipstick, wiping her own cream in long smears along her lips. Her taste was innocuous, slightly tangy and salty, but it felt outrageously naughty, going out – with her own cum on her lips! She imagined sitting down in a posh restaurant, wondering if her fellow diners would be close enough to recognise the sticky sheen around her mouth. She thrilled at the thought of being told to go to the ladies to apply another layer…

“Good girl. But I think you need more…”  he instructed, “Fingers back down, deep inside, that’s it, let’s have all that lovely cream on those pretty lips.“

Soon, her lips felt sticky and shiny to her tongue.

Then he’d blindfolded her, and told her to stand with arms aloft as he helped her put on the gown he’d selected. She’d queried her absence of underwear, only for him to say it wasn’t necessary, and indeed the garment he pulled over her head was warm and heavy. It felt woollen, perhaps a felt or soft serge, wide wrist length sleeves and a long, ankle length hem. Some sort of hat or headdress followed. He kept her blindfolded as he’d dressed himself, keeping her guessing just a little bit longer.

Suddenly light flooded into her eyes. She blinked and gazed into her dressing mirror.
A nun and priest gazed back.
The priest was grinning, eyes sparkling, as if trying not to laugh.
The nun gaped back at her, looking vaguely horrified, as if she’d just woken from a deliciously erotic dream of hard cocks and hot tubs to find herself in a convent.

Looking resplendent in his priest’s collar and stylish thin-lapelled jacket, he’d driven them to an elegant city centre hotel. Her forfeit was to walk up to the reception desk with him, and – in character – ask for a room for the night.
A room for both of them.
A room with a double bed.

The middle-aged receptionist had looked mortified. She had never been so embarrassed, and her blushes only deepened in hue as he stood at her shoulder, ostentatiously squeezing her recently caned bottom. He batted away the receptionist’s questions with a quizzical “No comprendo”, whilst she gamely explained that Father Jiménez didn’t speak any English.

She was within touching distance of the receptionist, just across the thin oak front desk. Certainly close enough to see in detail the shiny, cloudy crustiness on her lips. She’d noticed that the receptionist had noticed it, as her eyes kept breaking eye contact to steal another glance at her mouth. But it was something too far outside the receptionist’s reality for her to comprehend. That really turned her on: doing something taboo, knowing that she was being very, very naughty indeed, and that only the two of them were in on the secret.

And that night, in that luxurious double bed, after she had made a full and frank confession of her sins, had been outrageously good. Damn him.

No-one else knew of their games. It was sobering to think that once, everyone had been playful. From the moment the sun rose until we were ultimately sent to bed, we would all spend days just exploring, playing games and having fun. Then as life got serious; and we became burdened by new responsibilities, we began to think of play as childish, immature and trivial, until it became almost completely eclipsed by that fantastic new discovery: the opposite sex, and the yearning to play was overwhelmed by the desire for pleasure.

He and she were young professionals now, well-qualified with great careers, but still they had endeavoured to stay young-at-heart, striving to keep their instinct to play alive. Nurturing it like a candle flame against the everyday tempests of adulthood that threatened to extinguish it. They were a two person gang that no one else was allowed to join, just them against the world. And their playfulness had found sanctuary in their Game.

The ancient fable of the Firebird has many variations; one tells of how those who enter the presence of the dread King Kashchei are bewitched – compelled to sing and dance, and if they ever stop… they are turned to stone. The wisdom of the ancients warns us: the same fate awaits those who ever stop playing.
And so on they danced, and played.

* * * * *

Tonight, she dashed down the hallway, swerving into each room, willing the buzzing between her legs to grow stronger, wishing for that thrilling clue that would hint she was getting closer.

He was following behind her, saying nothing, clutching the silvery-grey remote control wand, like she was tethered by an invisible leash. From time to time, she’d look back at him, searching his face for clues, only to see his mocking “You’ll never find it!” grin. It was irritatingly endearing. She so wanted to find that slipper, and put him across her knee instead. To whack him like a naughty boy and slide that plug between his hot red cheeks. Meanwhile, a steady tick-tick-tick counted away each valuable second of her allotted time. In her tummy, urgency made butterflies stir.

The vibrations seemed slightly stronger and longer now. She was getting warmer, figuratively as well as physically. Gripping the banister, she galloped down the stairs two at a time, and was delighted to feel the vibrations amplify. They made her legs wibble. Getting closer.

She began to hurtle from room to room, like some manic estate agent, pausing only to feel if there was only change in the humming between her legs. That siren’s song, so easy to stop and let it wash over you, its sweet sensations warping one’s perception of time. Until the wretched bell jolted you back to reality.

She explored her familiar home at pace, trying to ignore the ornaments, pictures and decorations that made it cosy, and see potential hiding places instead. It was a strange feeling to see her own home through the eyes of a treasure hunter, scrutinising every corner of each room, her mind repeating: a slipper, a slipper, where would he hide a slipper, where would I hide a slipper… as she tried to avoid thinking too much about the throbby pleasure the vibe was kindling.

All the while having to remind herself that however deliciously ouchy the ballet slipper would feel applied to her bottom. It would be feel even more delicious if she could apply it to HIS bottom. And it would be an absolute delight to see him running around the house with a hard-on, his butt plug peeping out between his pert pink cheeks…

Her daydreaming was slowing her down, she chided herself for her lack of focus.

She dashed into the Study… but there was no encouragement from the vibe.
Into the Dining Room… again, no change.
She was becoming increasingly aware of the timer ticking away behind her now. Its silly tinny little rattle as it clunked her seconds away.
The Kitchen… Nrrrgh. Frustratingly the trail was cold here too.

The timer fixed behind her continued to tick away the seconds, it was unnerving, like being pursued by an alarm-clock, or fleeing from a time-bomb that could go off at any moment.

“Better hurry…” he suggested unhelpfully. From his vantage point behind her, only he could see how much time remained.

Then as she ran down the hallway, she suddenly felt the buzzing intensify, causing a trembling in her thighs that made her stride teeter.

She made a beeline for the utility room at the end of the hall, ignoring the doors to the side, as the buzzing between her legs escalated in intensity. She opened the door, to be rewarded by a strong prolonged buzz that almost caused her knees to buckle. She was red hot now, so close to finding her objective, so close to coming.

The vibrations were continuous now, pulsating, throbbing, quivering. Her eyes darted around the cupboards, drawers and haphazardly packed boxes – this chaotic room was where homeless items were sent to be forgotten about, she dearly wished it was tidier. Her wilful messiness was going to earn her a spanking, she realised, like some recalcitrant child.

She began to frantically scramble between the teetering stacks of boxes, throwing open cupboards as the buzzing within rose to a crescendo. She tried desperately to retain her composure, to resist the temptation to sink to her knees and let the delicious wave wash over her. Behind her, she could hear him chuckling at her slapstick search.

Suddenly the bell rang with a weak, almost apologetic clanging.
And with it, the vibrations abruptly stopped.
She squealed in frustration, at being so close, of being foiled by her own untidiness.

She looked back to see him still laughing, his shoulders shaking, he’d clearly found her performance terrifically entertaining. He approached, as if for a consolatory hug – she opened her arms to embrace him, only to see him reach up at the last moment and retrieve the ballet slipper from the lampshade above her head. She pouted in protest, in the only way that seemed appropriate, by sticking her tongue out.

She had lost – and so there would be consequences.

His eyes surveyed the detritus of the utility room, now even more higgledy-piggledy after her frantic searching. And it suddenly struck him that here was a great opportunity for some impromptu role-playing.

“What have I told you about keeping your room tidy, young lady?”

“Ummm, er…”, was all she could manage, as she stared at the elegant white slipper, which he was now tapping threateningly into his palm.

“Messy girls get smacked bottoms”, he announced firmly.

His finger pointed down the hallway, towards the stairs.

“Go to your room, young lady!”

Head bowed, she turned and skulked off towards the stairs.

As a girl, she’d never been spanked by her parents, instead when she misbehaved, she would be sent to her room. Then, one memorable afternoon, her best friend had revealed that occasionally when she was sent to her room, it was to await a spanking. Ever since, she’d secretly fantasised about what that would be like, imagining that she’d have to undress, and wait bent over a pile of pillows on her bed, listening to footsteps slowly ascending the stairs, waiting for the door to creak open…

So even now, just being sent to her room was enough to stir butterflies in her tummy and make her crotch tingle. She sat on the bed, almost naked in her thong, the vibe inert inside her, and waited, replaying her favourite childhood fantasy in her mind’s eye as the dull thump of his footsteps on the stairs got louder. The door opened, as if in slow-motion.

His prior playfulness had been replaced by a stern expression.
“I think you’ll need a change of costume”, he mused, motioning her to stand, “Take that off.”

She stood and slipped off the black satin thong, now quite damp from her exertions. The curved tip of the vibe peeped out from between her legs, concealing her lips as if trying to protect her modesty.

“Now put on your little girl nightie and panties.”

She went over to the dressing-up closet, rummaging inside until she’d found the appropriate garments. There was a skimpy pair of white panties, festooned with infantile cartoons of teddy bears holding balloons, and being child-sized, they clung tightly to her adult figure, leaving her pubis and most of her buttocks uncovered. Her nightie was white-pink with small embroidered purple hearts, ruffles around the collar and arms and its knee-length hem contributing towards its very juvenile appearance.

She looked every inch a naughty young girl.

“Now, young lady. What did I tell you about keeping your room tidy?” he asked rhetorically.

“I… I… I’m sorry, Daddy!” she improvised.

“I warned you what would happen…”

She chewed her lower lip in trepidation.

“Now I think it’s time Mr Slipper paid a visit to Bottyland!”, he teased.

“Noooo!” she whined, flushing with embarrassment. Her childishness earning a frown back in response.

“You know what happens to naughty girls…”

All too well.

“Go and stand by the spanking chair.”

* * * * *

The chair stood alone in the middle of the living room, like a recently arrived guest awaiting the return of its host. They’d bought it from an antique shop, she’d seen it first, and whispered how it looked like it belonged in a schoolmistress’ study. Then she’d noticed scuff marks halfway up the right side of just one of its front legs, just about where a naughty girl’s left shoe might flail and kick as she performed the dance of shame on her disciplinarian’s lap. After that, they hadn’t hesitated to buy it.

It looked like a chair with a history, its reddish-brown cherrywood harking back to a bygone age, its thick sturdy legs lending it an ominous presence. Despite its bulk, its colour and subtle curves gave the impression of a feminine chair, one once owned by a strict headmistress or a domineering dowager aunt. This foreboding piece of furniture would have been her throne, where she would sit regally, looking down on the delinquents below, slapping a matching cherrywood paddle into her palm as she waited for them to bare their bottoms.

Such were the treasures hidden amongst the bric-a-brac of antiquity, finding them, seeing them hidden in plain-sight was one of many games they loved to play. For those who clung on to their playful nature, everything could become a game again.

She stood beside the chair, waiting for him to return. It was a large chair, intimidating to stand beside, its seat around the level of her waist, and its tall straight back taller than her head. It made her feel small and vulnerable, but excited her too, it made her fantasise, how many naughty girls had been bent across that burgundy leather seat to have their bottoms warmed?

Her little girl outfit made her feel even smaller. It was funny how such simple pieces of fabric could have such an effect on the mind. An expensive designer gown could boost her confidence, making her feel like a movie star for an evening; whilst this silly cotton nightie made her feel like she really was a naughty little girl. Her hands were clasped behind her back, fidgeting nervously, as if she was channeling the spirit of her younger self.

Meanwhile the vibrator was buzzing weakly, like some distant snare drum roll. It intensified as she heard his footsteps approach from behind, this was a showman’s entrance, with a fanfare that was felt rather than heard. He was such a tease.

The vibrations faded away as he joined her. He had the vibe controller in one hand, the dainty ballet slipper in the other, and immediately took his place on the big wooden chair. Sometimes the spankee was bent over the chair, or was made to kneel on it, but he intended this to be a classic over-the-knee slippering, of the kind that naughty girls got, the kind that made bottoms pink and voices shriek.

Without saying a word, he patted his lap with the slipper, inviting her to take her place. She clambered over his lap, feeling herself pitch forward as her toes left the ground, leaving her feet dangling in the air, her left foot rubbing against the chair leg, like so many gone before.

She wiggled forward, allowing the protruding curve of the vibe to lie more comfortably between his thighs, hitching the hem of her nightie up above her knee in the process. The very next sensation was the leather sole of the slipper pressing into her bottom.

“What happens to naughty girls who don’t tidy their rooms?”

She winced in reply, letting out a little sigh that earned her an admonishing whack. He repeated his question, in a tone that made clear she was expected to answer.

“They… er, get… their bums spanked”, she admitted reluctantly to the living room floor, grasping the rung between the chair legs.

A flurry of whacks began to land on her nightie, prompting a squeak of protest and flailing legs. Initially, he spanked slowly and deliberately, aiming each slap so every part of her globes and the tops of her thighs was warmed. Then his tempo increased, reaching a crescendo of whacks, squeals and squirming, as the fingers of his other hand slid up the remote control, delivering a surge of intense vibrations deep inside her. This had the miraculous effect of suddenly turning her cries of discomfort into moans, and calming her kicking feet.

Much to her dismay, the intense sensations only lasted for seconds, before he turned the vibrator down again, and the painful whacking resumed, and she’d resume her struggles as her bottom burned. Then just as she felt she could bear no more, he’d activate the vibe again, and the delicious surging pulses would make her forget all about her soreness.

All too soon, the wonderful throbbing vanished, and the cruel whacking resumed. Then she felt his fingers on her thighs, lifting the hem of her nightie, exposing her hot pink cheeks, half-hidden inside her tight childish panties. He tugged the waistband of her underwear up, pulling her panties into her cleft, fully uncovering each rosy cheek. A quick buzz from the vibe to unclench her buttocks and the slippering resumed.

Being spanked bare was a different sensation to being spanked through her nightie, she could now feel the imprint of the ballet slipper sole with each stinging slap, a hot spot just centimeters wide that roamed across her backside like a fiery searchlight. With every whack, her protests weakened and her willfulness softened. She’d begun the game as her usual hyper-competitive self, the personality she wore to work every day. Each spank eroded her pretence, slowly exposing the little girl deep underneath, the one who had once played all day, who never worried, who had sunbeams in her hair. How strange that when her bottom hurt, her mind should be so at peace.

He sensed her yielding, and began to punctuate each flurry of spanks with increasingly long and intense throbs with the vibe. Her body language had changed now, from tense and apprehensive to calm and yearning. Now each whack was welcomed with a moan, as another hot coal to add to fire burning between her legs. He nudged her close to her flashpoint.
Then stopped.

He was such a tease.

* * * * *

They say once you’re lucky, twice you’re good; so the Treasure Hunt was always played best-two-out-of-three. It was tradition.

As he’d won the last round, he would hide the next implement, and she would have a second chance. If she found it, she’d get to spank him with it, and he’d be the searcher in the deciding game. If she didn’t, she’d have lost outright, and she’d be the one paying the forfeit tonight.

And so she stood in the corner of the living room, blindfolded, as he went off to the hide the chosen item: a wooden wok spatula. She had taken off her nightie, its long hem deemed too hazardous for running, so her mobile phone was tucked into the waistband of her silly teddy bear panties. Through her earphones she listened to the jaunty music he’d chosen for her this time; she recognised this one, Mumford & Sons: I Will Wait.
She winced at his joke, very droll, very him.

Her hands had drifted behind her, to rub – to massage – her sore pink cheeks. He had given her a delicious spanking, it was more than just hot throbby sensations, it was if he’d flicked a secret switch deep within her, whipped away one of her masks, made her feel like a completely different person, a naughty young minx that needed to be spanked.

She quivered as the vibe unexpectedly burst into life with a sudden intense buzz, which could only mean: Honey, I’m back! In moments he’d taken off her blindfold and earphones, restoring her senses, replacing the phone in her waistband with the clackety timer. There was a ratchety clank as he set the requisite six minutes and…

“Go!” he shouted, slapping her arse by way of encouragement.

She stumbled out of her corner, her legs still wobbly from inaction, her eyes still dazed by the living room lights. The vibrations were faint, almost imperceptible, telling her she’d have to try a different room. Into the hallway, then the kitchen, but finding no clues.  

Just like in every game, there was a methodical way to play, and a riskier, more adventurous one. This time she decided to gamble, to cut short her room by room search and head straight for the stairs. A cascade of short buzzes rippled through her as she stepped on the first stair, almost causing her to stumble. She was getting warmer.

She bounded up the stairs two at a time, the buzzing seeming to amplify with every leap. The guest bedrooms were nearest the stairs, she darted into each, only to find the trail wasn’t any warmer, so dashed down the hallway to the master bedroom.

As she approached the bed a long intense sequence of vibrations abruptly brought her to her knees. She was so close now, so close to finding the treasure, but so close to coming too. He’d taken her to the edge 3 times now, and each time the throbbing ache was becoming more and more difficult to resist. Part of her just wanted to lie down and surrender to the little device’s siren song. But the rules were clear: if you came, you lost the game, and that would mean she’d have to pay the forfeit.

Jeopardy had always been a massive turn-on, ever since her very first orgasm. She’d been home alone in the swimming pool, just idly treading water, when she happened to drift over one of  the waterjets on the pool floor. Warm water had streamed between her legs, causing a strange pleasurable tingling. Instinctively, she’d put a hand inside her bikini bottoms and started rubbing her front bottom, only to find the peculiar tingles intensifying.

Distracted, her treading water slowed and she gradually began to sink. Until suddenly she was aware of the water lapping just below her nose. In a panic, her feet danced frantically, toes probing for the bottom of the pool, but she’d floated into the deep end. Her predicament triggered a surge of adrenaline, her kicking became frenzied, which did just enough to lift her face out of the water. Meanwhile her hand continued feverishly rubbing the region between her flailing legs. And weirdly, it made the peril of her precarious situation feel extraordinarily good.

Then out of the blue, an intensely pleasurable sensation erupted between her legs, one that seemed to get better and better with each desperate frenzied kick. She danced on the spot, rubbing and writhing as the delicious feeling spread through her body. It was months before she properly understood what had happened – and before she learnt how to replicate it in the dry, safe comfort of her own bed. Where she discovered it was never more exciting than when she was on the verge of getting caught.

She felt that familiar feeling now, that quivery tummy-flipping combination of mild jeopardy and intense pleasure. She was on her knees, crawling towards the bed, one hand on the floor, the other holding the vibe between her legs, as if trying to dampen its vibrations – but as she approached the bed, they only increased. The vibe was throbbing continually now, she wasn’t just getting warmer, she was red hot – within arm’s reach of the hidden treasure.

And that was the devious twist of the treasure hunt, discovering which room the item was hidden wasn’t especially challenging, they didn’t live in a mansion, there weren’t that many rooms to search. But the closer the searcher got, the greater the distracting paroxysms of pleasure became. And if you came, you lost the game, which made the finale of each search a cunning challenge of self-control. The logical mind striving to retain its composure just long enough to find and seize its target, all the while struggling against an animal libido that simply longs to succumb to that most visceral pleasure.

She could feel her animal side winning, her will to win ebbing away, replaced by a hot throbbing ache, an almost irresistible craving for satisfaction. It took control of her inner voice, telling her this was going to feel so, so good – lie back now, just let it happen. How could winning her silly little game provide anywhere near the ecstasy she was about to experience?

Her whole body was trembling now, like snow teetering on the verge of avalanche, perhaps only moments left until she lost control. From her hands and knees she looked under the bed, such a perfect hiding place, the stupid spatula must be hidden here. Almost imploringly, her eyes scanned the floor, the legs of the bed, even the underside of the mattress.
But there was nothing there.

And with that, her resistance crumbled and let the waves overwhelm her. Both hands grabbed the bedside table, as she braced herself for a torrent of pleasure, crying out as every nerve in her body seemed to vibrate in resonance with the device between her legs.

He played with the vibe as she came, dialing it down, then ramping it up, making her buck, prolonging her delight. And enjoying the look of absolute contentment on her face.
How he loved her.

Some time later, as the glorious feeling faded, her awareness began to return. She was grateful for the steadying presence of the bedside table, every muscle in her body felt weak, wobbling like jelly. It was an effort just to lift up her head, and her vision was still fuzzy, as if in a daze. Through the blur, familiar shapes began to form on the bedside table in front of her: the alarm clock, the frosted glass lamp, her bedtime book, and just inside it, barely peeping out at the top, doing its very best impression of a bookmark… was the spatula.

“Coming like a shameless slut…” he tsked, shaking his head, grinning widely.

“You can stay right where you are, naughty.” he instructed, picking up the spatula and slapping it several times against her proffered bottom. She merely moaned and cooed in reply.

She had lost.
She would pay the forfeit tonight.
But in her deliciously woozy post-orgasmic fug, she didn’t really care.

* * * * *

Her requisite spanking with the spatula hadn’t lasted long, after all, he was keen to move on to the evening’s main event, something he’d been preparing for at least a month: her forfeit.

So she’d found herself in a familiar pose, lying on the bed, tied up and blindfolded with music in her ears. He’d left her in the company of a Radiohead album, allowing her to ponder what he had in store for her whilst good ol’ Thom sang about No Surprises.

Ironically, last month, he’d been lying where she was now.
He had lost the Treasure Hunt; she had won.
And her imagination could be just as devious.

That night, a month ago, rain had been pattering against the bedroom window. The curtains were open, the moon illuminating the clouds above the trees at the bottom of the garden like a framed nocturne.

She’d gloried in tying him naked to the bed, wrists and ankles, relishing the prospect of playing out something that had dominated her fantasies for weeks. Both of them had prepared the forfeit they’d enact should they win the game tonight, planning what they’d do, and purchasing new props as required. As he’d lost, whatever he was planning would have to wait a bit longer.

For tonight, she’d bought a digital pulse oximeter, which she placed on one of his fingertips. She’d also made him swallow a small pill which would keep him rigidly hard for the remainder of the night. Then, a ball gag. He’d said quite enough for one evening.

He had a great view as she slowly stripped in front of him. Then she began with her mouth, licking his smooth sac before slowly drawing her tongue up the length of his cock in lazy meanders, spiralling around his tip before descending back down to his balls. On her next ascent, her fingers joined the fun, massaging his sac and the base of his shaft whilst her tongue wandered. In the corner of her eye she could could the little light of the pulse meter flashing quicker and quicker. It wasn’t long before he was achingly stiff.

She straddled him backwards, leaning over so her bottom almost touched his nose and his vision was filled by the region between her legs. Were it not for the ball gag, he could stretched out his tongue and licked her, instead he could only drool like a hungry hound.

His cock was rock hard now, as if he’d been turned to stone by her enchantment. She shuffled forward, until she felt his tip drag between the wet lips of her slit. She continued to taunt him, wiggling her hips so his knob traced every fold of her pussy, pausing as his tip lingered just below the moist heat of her entrance. Ever so slowly, she relaxed her knees, allowing herself to sink down onto his hardness. Seven deep, delicious breaths later, and she’d finally slid to the bottom of his shaft.

She rode him slowly, savouring both her complete control and that wonderful fulfillment of being filled completely.

Suddenly, there was beeping. A subtle alert – like a wristwatch alarm, coming from the pulse meter on his fingertip. She’d set the alarm to sound if his pulse exceeded 90 beats a minute, her estimate of when he’d be enjoying himself too much.

“Oh dear!”, she said wistfully, “I think I’d better stop for a moment. It wouldn’t be safe to get you so excited.”

Shaking against his restraints, his protests were muffled by the gag, making him easy to ignore. She slipped off him, using the tip of his cock to rub against her clit whilst she waited for the beeping to stop. Once his pulse rate had slowed, the alarm went quiet, which was her cue to sink back down on top of him again, and resume her ride.

Her teasing soon had the alarm beeping again. Too bad. But such pauses provided a glorious opportunity for her eyes to wander over his body, to drink in his little details. She pulled down his blindfold, she’d be the one doing the scrutinising tonight, thank you.

She began at the crown of his head, running her fingers through his tousled mop of dark blond hair. His fringe covered his forehead, now partially covered by the top of his blindfold, which in turn concealed his cool blue eyes. Below, his rounded nose, with those nostrils that flared so cutely whenever he was surprised. On either side, his fleshy cheeks, now carpeted with tiny stubble, and dainty earlobes, into which she loved to whisper.

Her eyes wandered further, past his mouth, his pink lips usually so kissable, but now occupied with a black ball gag, down to the small mound of his chin. Then down to his throat, a favourite area to kiss and nuzzle. Her eyes then lingered on the the muscles of his shoulders, arms and chest, now helpfully pulled taut by his restraints. A runner’s body, slender and lithe, all the better to chase her with.

She watched his chest rise and fall. By now, he’d recognised her mischievous scheme and was attempting to control his lust, calming his breathing in an attempt to keep his heart from racing. But her wiggling was proving difficult to resist, every time she slipped on top of him, her slow beguiling gyrations gripped him so tight, and he wanted to fuck her so much…

She would repeat her tease several times; mounting him and riding him until the alarm sounded. Then wait for his pulse to drop before resuming, as he struggled mutely against his bonds, desperate to break free and ravish her with his priapism.
But tonight she would teach him a very Buddhist lesson: if you want, you will suffer.

As it happened, he proved a quick learner. Soon she was able to ride him for longer and longer periods before the beeping intervened. In fact, he could now keep control of himself long enough for her to get close to coming herself. Clearly, it was time to spice things up a bit.

He heard a wardrobe open and the rustle of clothes. She treated him to a peek, restoring his vision just long enough to see her dressed in her old school uniform, carrying a small leather journal with a conspicuous brass padlock – which looked like a book of secrets, even from just this brief glimpse. She pretended to ignore him, acting as if she’d just returned home from school, and began improvising a monologue.

“I can’t wait to get out of this stuffy uniform…”, she announced to no-one in particular. With that, she began undressing, unbuttoning her blouse before reaching forward to pull down his blindfold, seeing the lust burning in his big blue eyes just before she covered them. Then he felt her sit on the bed beside him, and could hear the rustle of pages.

“Dear diary…” she said out loud, “… you’ll never believe what happened at school today!”

“A group of us were exchanging notes under our tables at the back of English class. It was all very exciting, soon we were swapping all manner of secrets. Then Cathy Kimball got caught! And mean Mr Trevors summoned her to the front, and read out what Cathy had written, to the whole class!”

“It was something like: ‘OMG. Benji spanked me last night, and I LOVED IT!!!’ Benji is Cathy’s boyfriend.” she helpfully explained, “He’s hot.”

He felt her fondle his cock briefly before she resumed her recollections. She spoke quickly, in the breathless rapid-fire manner used by schoolgirls the world over to transfer the maximum amount of gossip in the minimum amount of time.

“Oh diary, when Mr Trevors read out Cathy’s note, the whole class squealed with laughter. Cathy was mortified, I think I just gasped.”

“Then Mr Trevors told Cathy to stay behind after class! For the rest of the lesson I couldn’t concentrate. I just kept thinking about what lay in store for poor Cathy when the bell rang. I kept imagining he’d tell her that since she liked being spanked so much, he was going to smack her bottom right now! I could see him pulling poor Cathy over his knee, lifting her skirt, and tugging down her panties!”

“Rawrrr!!! Even just picturing it now makes me so wet!”, she exclaimed – then paused, “Oooo… now where is it?”

He felt her hand grasp the shaft of his cock.

“Oh! Here it is…”, she announced excitedly, “my favourite dildo!”  

He felt her kneel over him, gripping the base of his shaft as if his cock was some kind of sex toy. She was as wet as her story described, but this time her penetration wasn’t as deep, as she kept her hand clasped around the base of his cock, just as she’d hold a dildo. She slid up and down deliberately, using her hand to subtly guide his hardness into rubbing her most needy areas.

“Oh… Oh… oh diary. I can’t get it out of my head. I spent the rest of the lesson daydreaming, imagining him spanking Cathy right in front of me! I closed my eyes and I could see everything, his scolding and her squirming. Her pretty bum turning pink with each smack of his big firm hand. It made me so wet! I hitched back my skirt so I could feel the cool wood of my seat against my hot little lips. Before long I’d made a shameful puddle on my classroom chair.”

Her ride was developing a rhythm now, making her gasp at the end of each sentence.

“Oh diary, I was such a naughty girl…”
“… I was passing notes too… ooo…”
“… I deserve to be the next one put over his knee…”
“… ooo… I deserve a good hard spanking on my bare bottom!”

And for effect, as she made her confession, she plunged onto him, as deep as she could go.

As a teenage boy, he’d often wondered what his schoolgirl classmates fantasised about when they masturbated. He knew underneath their demure, innocent guises were minds just as dirty as his own – and had a girl ever let slip that she fiddled herself whilst longing to be spanked, it would have blown his tiny mind.

Her act was having the desired effect, she’d flustered him, she’d stirred his libido. His breathing was quickening. He wanted her, he wanted to growl like a wild animal, he wanted to burst out of his cage and take her, to fuck her, to ravish her.

She giggled girlishly as the alarm sounded once more, slipping off her ‘dildo’ as he shook the bed with muffled frustration. Blindfolded, he couldn’t see her smile. You’d better get used to this, she thought, as the night is still young and I’ve so many more tales to tell, tales of what turned me on when I was in my bedroom, all alone, long ago.

Next, she thought, I’ll describe how I like to pleasure myself, in intimate detail. Every stroke, every rub, the moistening heat and swelling lips, the sliding in and slipping out, the grimacing and gasping, the circling and clasping…

And he’d have to lie there, stiff, neglected and frustrated; listening to the little sucking sounds as she slid on her own fingers, hearing her breathing quicken into panting, hearing her mew and moan as she approached her climax.

Too bad he wouldn’t be coming.
But it was his forfeit.
And she only teased him because she cared.

* * * * *

But now, tonight, it was her turn.

He’d removed her vibe when he’d tied her to bed, which had felt like losing a part of herself. Now the music in her ears was her only form of stimulation, it also prevented her from hearing what he was up to downstairs. She was several tracks into the album now, which became a surreal experience, a forced listening, unable to move or talk, or indeed hear anything else. The lyrics of Karma Police made her chuckle given her present predicament. This is what you get when you mess with us, indeed.

After what seemed an age, she felt movement as he began to remove her cuffs, headphones and blindfold. Dazzled and wobbling from inactivity, she must have looked dazed, like she was waking from a particularly heavy sleep.

“Wakey, wakey!” he crowed. She merely mumbled something in reply.

“We’d better get you dressed…” he said brightly, helping her off the bed and towards their costume wardrobe.

“Oh? Really? Where are we going?” she asked excitedly.

He handed her a clutch of hangers: a grey skirt, a white blouse, white knickers, a tie; a school uniform.

“You, young lady, are going to Saturday morning detention. To have your bottom smacked.”

She harrumphed petulantly, scowled, and dressed in silence.

Soon, she looked in the mirror to see a younger version of herself staring back, all ready for school. He took her hand, leading her reluctantly out of the bedroom and down the stairs, stopping just in front of the closed living room door.

“Oh, one more thing.” he said, “You’re to wear this tonight, dear.”
He’d brought the blindfold from the bedroom, pulling it down over her eyes. plunging her into darkness. She heard the door squeak open in front of her, and felt her hand being tugged, as she was pulled into the room beyond.

She’d only taken a few tentative steps when he heard him say:
“Another naughty girl for detention, Ms Constance.”

She stopped, startled, suddenly anxious.
Who else was in the room?

Another tug of her arm, dragging her forward a few more steps. Then she felt him take her hand and place it on what felt like the back of wooden chair. Then a cool draught as he lifted the hem of her skirt, tucking it into her waist.

“Best sit down…”

She did as she was instructed, groping awkwardly for the seat, and wincing as she pressed her already spanked bottom onto the flat wooden seat. She was shocked to hear tittering around her: silly girlish voices.

“Silence!” bellowed a lady’s voice in front of her.

Wow. Where did all these people come from?

“You were told to stay silent!”, the lady’s voice roared. “I will not tolerate disobedience in my class!”

Class? Had he just turned their living room into a classroom? It was just the kind of outrageous stunt he’d pull.

She tried to recognise the voice. What was the name of that domme he knew? Janet? Janet Lainsbury? She knew Janet had a nom de plume for those on the receiving end of her cane, but couldn’t remember if it was Ms Constance. She’d met her only a few times anyway, random encounters at barbeques and garden parties. Janet had always flirted outrageously with her, treating her natural confidence as impertinence, and telling her that a spanked bottom was just what she needed.

“Girls, you are here to be punished…”, explained the strict woman’s voice. “And that means a caning for each of you with your knickers down.”

That announcement drew gasps from around her, and made a chill run down her spine. Who were these people? Friends of his? Friends of hers? Random strangers? And she still couldn’t quite work out how many people were actually in the room. She’d relaxed in this living room for years, now all of sudden her own home felt very eerie indeed, occupied and taken over. Anything could be happening beyond her blindfold, and that made her heart race.

“Claire! Stand up! Come up here!” the woman bellowed.

She heard a chair scrape faintly on the living room’s wooden floor, and – ominously – a cane swishing. Now she could make out a second voice, younger sounding, pleading ineffectually.

“Skirt off!” A faint rustling as fingers fumbled for buttons, followed by a flop as the garment dropped to the floor.

“Knickers down!” the voice ordered. A pause.

“Legs apart, Claire. Bend over.”

The voice certainly could be Janet’s – her enunciation was posh, almost RP, her tone authoritarian, almost domineering. And by the sounds of it, she was going to be bending over in front of her cane very soon. She squirmed in her seat, realising that when she pulled down her own panties she’d reveal the soaking wet patch between her legs, and Ms Constance would smile, knowing she’d been right all along.

There was a short whistling noise somewhere in front of her, accompanied by a slap, and a gasp. Then another.

She listened rapt to the unfortunate girl’s caning, having to imagine what was playing out in front of her. There were so many details for her imagination to fill in: she wondered how old she was, the colour of her hair, her complexion, what she was wearing and the shape of her body. Did she walk up to the cane confidently or quivering nervously, had she bent over resentfully or acceptingly? Was she being caned on her thighs as well as her bum? How wide apart were her legs? Were the other girls staring at her slit? Was the caning making her wet? More to the point, was watching this caning making her classmates wet?

The swishes, whacks and cries were getting louder.

She could feel a damp patch forming in her panties, just like in that teenage fantasy she’d described so exquisitely as she tormented him last month. This was karma indeed. She longed to be able to remove her blindfold, to witness every detail of this bare bottom caning with her own eyes. But now it was her turn to appreciate how want led to suffering; it was all part of the forfeit.

Abruptly, the swishing stopped.

“Leave your panties on the floor, Claire”, said her disciplinarian, “Now, you may sit down and begin writing your essay. One thousand words on why naughty girls deserve sore bottoms. Sitting on your stripes should provide some inspiration.”

To her right, something that sounded like the scrape of a chair, and a wince. She held her breath, waiting to hear who’d be summoned next.

“Fiona, you’re next. Stand up! Come up here!” the strict voice commanded. “You know what to do. Skirt off, knickers down, legs apart so the rest of the class can see.”

There was the familiar faint whisper of clothes being slipped off.

“Bend over.”

Those two words always made her clit ache. She imagined a nimble, athletic girl slowly leaning forward to touch her toes, making her buttocks swell, then part, revealing the secrets within.  

There was a swoosh, a whack and stifled moan. Then another. The rhythm of the caning made her mind wander, her imagination painting in what she could not see. Whereas the first girl yelped with every stroke, this girl sounded like she was enjoying her experience. She imagined her pushing her bum out to meet each strike, her clit hard, her slit wet and glistening, taunting her teacher to do her worst. Each successive whack was louder than the last, until eventually the moans gave way to whimpers.

“Wicked girl!” the voice chided when the caning eventually stopped, “Now go and sit down, a thousand words on why naughty girls deserve sore bottoms.”

Then through her reverie, she heard her name. And again.

She stood up hurriedly, just in time to feel a strong hand grasp her forearm, tugging her forward. Unable to pull down the hem of her skirt, her pink cheeks from her evening’s spankings were revealed to anyone watching.

“Someone’s been a naughty girl…”, the voice observed, almost mockingly. “Skirt off.”

She fumbled blindly for the buttons on her waist, letting the garment drop to the floor.

“Knickers down.”

Both hands went to her waist, pulling her panties quickly down to her ankles, slipping them off her feet and scrunching them up, in an attempt to hide the evidence of her excitement. She felt the cane tapping between her thighs, encouragingly.

“Legs apart.”

Being blindfolded made it more challenging to keep her balance, so she planted her feet well apart.

“Bend over.”

Those words again, making her tummy flip and her legs tremble. She leaned over and grasped her ankles, doing her best to keep her knees straight. She felt her bottom splay apart, exposing her wet lips, making them tingle. Her secret sin revealed.

“Filthy girl!” the stern voice scolded, “Excited by your classmates’ punishment, are we? Let’s see if stripes on your own bum changes your opinion.”

Head bowed, she blushed vividly. The humiliation! No one else was supposed to know how horny witnessing discipline made her. It just seemed a bit wrong to be so aroused by the pain of others, so delightfully wrong. But now it was her turn; she could feel the cane, long and thin, patting her bottom cheeks.

There was a short swishing noise, and a red hot line materialised behind her. The shock made her legs quiver, but mindful of her audience, she did her best to stifle her yelp, before straightening her knees and pushing out her bottom defiantly.

Another whack landed, then another, each stinging line lower than the last. Each impact burned momentarily like a long line of tiny red hot coals, before the sensation dwindled to warm tingly embers. Meanwhile the cruel cane continued travelling downward, lighting more fires at the base of buttocks and the tops of her thighs, before returning to the top of her cheeks for another pass.

She began to feel strangely detached from reality, like being in the midst of a particularly vivid dream. Already denied the use of her eyes, and with only the monotonous rhythm of swishes and slaps to occupy her ears, sensations from her skin dominated her mind. Now she could feel the repercussions of each stroke reverberating through her, making her arse and vagina clench. It felt like the cane’s echoes were travelling right through her, to the very tip of her clit.

She realised how close she was to coming.
No! Not here. Not like this.

Suddenly, a yearning swept through her. Where was he?
She wanted him; her white knight, her hero.
She wanted him to rescue her.
She wanted him to burst into the room, push aside this bossy old witch and carry her off in his arms in a show of eye-catching bravado that would make her classmates sigh.

She wanted to call his name.
She wanted to say: don’t leave me here; don’t leave me here squirming on my sore caned bottom, writing an essay like a naughty schoolgirl.

Another whack. Another whack.
Between her legs, a throbbing ache raged.
She yelled his name.

She was still bending over when he embraced her, lifting her off her feet.
She felt his hand grip hers, pulling her strongly as they ran from the room.
Led by his hand, she galloped up the stairs.

He pushed her onto their bed and ravished her utterly.
He didn’t remove her blindfold until she’d fallen asleep in his arms.
He cradled his treasure affectionately.


Their game had become a golden braid, two strands, his and her’s, weaving together every time they played. Even after all this time, they still inspired each other, reveling in each other’s fantasies, making each other’s secret dreams come true. The braid bound them together, tighter than any vow.

Last month, trussed and blindfolded on the bed, he’d had plenty of time to contemplate his riposte. She’d planted the seed, as she’d described her teenage fantasy of watching a spanking in exquisite detail. Nourished by his frustration, a plan had grown in his mind. Next month, he’d pledged, he’d make her fantasy flesh.

It had been a great performance by Janet and her girlfriends. The quality of Skype calls was amazing these days. Connect it to your home cinema system, and it’s like they’re in the room with you.

He had always been such a tease.

@spankingtheatre 2012

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