There’s something about bookshops, something inexplicable, something that ignites a throbbing almost primal desire to be dirty deep within me. It makes me want to wander and lose myself among those mazes of shelves, venturing further and further until I’m finally beyond the librarian-like scrutiny of the bookshop’s sentinels and the scratchy shuffling of its clientele.
Somewhere deep inside, I finally reach where I need to be. Impetuously, I sweep the shelf clear of its books. Dickens, Poe, James, Proust. Over the years the worthy words of all the greats have fallen open around my ankles. The smell of musty paper wafts from the open volumes. I inhale it deeply, closing my eyes, imagining the words condensing in my lungs.
And then a hand pushes into the small of my back, bending me over the denuded shelf, so my head and arms protrude into the adjacent aisle. I let my hands dangle, caressing the books in the shelves below me, the worn leather of antique books rough beneath my fingertips.
Moments later, the hem of my skirt is hitched above my waist. Instinctively I reach back to resist, but my arms are blocked by the bookshelves. Someone drags my panties down to my ankles and over my shoes, the sticky garment wantonly discarded on top of an open page of some literary masterpiece. A hand slaps my bum, hard, then pulls my legs apart, exploring the warm wet crevice in between.
And then I am thoroughly violated, right there in the aisle, deep within this maze of books. Just far enough away from prying eyes – yet so close to getting caught. Another stinging smack to my bum echoes around the bookshelves. The sound of my spanking might yet betray us, but that just adds to my excitement. My nostrils fill with the intoxicating scent of vintage books, mixed with the smell of sex and sweat.
That’s what I see when I pass by a bookshop, not a sophisticated repository of humanity’s collected brilliance, but the prospect of another musky-smelling carnal den, hidden somewhere deep within its paper labyrinth. A bookshop is somewhere to get lost, a place to discover nooks where one might be secretly disgraceful, observed only by the disapproving spines of the masters’ books.
And now, I’m standing all alone in a bookshop.
And I can hear my heartbeat in my ears…
* * * * *
Paris. La Ville-Lumière. The City of Light. And fittingly for one of the cradles of the Enlightenment, la ville de mille librairies, the city of a thousand bookshops.
I like to come here in August, during Les Grandes Vacances, when the city swelters in a hot sticky heat and most of its residents seem to have fled to the mountains and beaches. I like to wander the refreshingly tranquil streets, embarking on an urban adventure, hunting for bookshops.
Some also call this city La Ville des Amoureux, and appropriately, I have several lovers here. But I never arrange assignations, that would be crass. Rather I prefer to post clues to my whereabouts on my blog, a devious riddle where the answers are an author, a street and a time of day. If a reader can solve my puzzle they’ll find me in a bookshop on that street, bending over that particular author’s shelf at the annointed hour, my elegant lace knickers already soaked in expectation. Sometimes, my riddles are solved by more than one. That’s always fun. My readers are clever boys and girls.
But this afternoon I’m no one’s quarry. I intend to wander the backstreets that ring the hill Montmartre, scouting new locations and leaving clues. Despite the collective exodus from the city, it’s easy to find shops still open selling all manner of antiquities and aged books. Many have elderly proprietors now past the age when they want to bask on the beach, and there’s always plenty of foreign visitors like me.
There is an art to wandering. I never pay any attention to the street signs, I don’t have a map, I just dander. I tend to drift to the shadier side of a street, my path subtly nudged by the glare of the sizzling sun, the smell of pungent coffees and the yeasty scent of fresh baked bread. Sometimes I orbit clusters of cafes and boulangeries, occasionally stopping for a drink, watching the citizenry come and go, observing the direction they’re heading, determining the current of the city just so I can swim against it.
The sun, the smells, the pools of tranquility between the noisy streets, they’ve all led me here. A narrow sidestreet with a shop at its end. A tatty red, white and blue awning shades its front windows, with weather-worn lettering painted directly onto the wall above:
B O O K S – L I V R E S
My fancy taken, I amble forward for a better look, but from the street it’s impossible to see inside. The front window is completely filled with books, with titles in French, English and several other languages I don’t immediately recognise, piled high in precarious higgledy stacks. The door is wide open though, which I take as an invitation to explore.
I step into the cool fusty air of the bookshop, hailing the unseen shopkeeper with a friendly “Bonjour”. The small counter is unattended, half-covered by a crumpled copy of today’s Le Figaro. But this is not unusual, here proprietors are often to be found deep in the recesses of their stores, sorting and stacking, or even snoozing through the sweltering summer heat.
So I begin to look around. The quantity of books here is extraordinary, the walls are completely hidden by stacks of books that stretch from floor to ceiling. I try to ascertain if there’s a method in the madness, some do seem to be roughly grouped, I see a pile of 19th century French classics, beside another composed of German works from a similar era. Keeping this jumble organised would be a Herculean task.
I tread carefully along the narrow path that weaves between the piles of books. There are no bookshelves, and I need to tuck in my elbows as I advance to avoid calamitously collapsing the precarious piles towering around me. After every four or five piles there’s a gap, allowing me to meander in a different direction. This place is like a warren, but one created by excavating books rather than earth, as if the shop had once been completely filled with books, and the empty spaces were created over decades, one book at a time, as each came to be sold.
I soon discover this bookshop is deceptively large. Delving deeper is a claustrophobic yet compelling experience. Dim bulbs glow in the ceiling between hefty timber beams, making this strange shop seem more like a mine where books were hewn.
I don’t know how long I was wandering, how far I penetrated or what made me stop to look at that particular pile. Maybe I was always meant to stumble across it, or perhaps it was the smell. The seductive musky scent of sex, or was it just the musty smell of books? I find both so difficult to distinguish, they remind me of each other.
This pile is almost as tall as I am. My eyes widen as I survey the book spines, this is a stack of erotic writing, the weathered lettering and coy titles suggesting these are texts from long ago.
One book around chest height catches my eye. Maybe it was its spine – unlike the others nearby it was untitled. Before I can examine the object of my interest I need to lift the stack of books above it, setting them down on the floor. It is unlike any book I’ve ever seen, its spine a noticeably different shade and texture to its covers, and thicker too. In this dim Stygian light it takes me a few moments to recognise why. The original spine has been replaced – by an timeworn leather spanking strap.
The strap that forms the spine has been stitched into the covers, but is longer than the height of the book. As a result, one end protrudes over the top, and this end is split into two tongues of equal width. A naive browser could easily dismiss them as mere bookmarks, but I’ve handled enough tawses to recognise one, and I am well enough acquainted with the double sting one imparts across a bare bottom.
Fascinated, I carefully open the tome and begin reading. The first entry is written in Middle French, making this page over five hundred years old – and possibly even seven hundred. It is handwritten, not printed, and has the neat but irregular style of a domestic diarist rather than a professional calligrapher.
It takes a few minutes to tune my mind to mentally translate the archaic vocabulary, but as a scholar of books I think I understand most of what is written. It seems to be an appeal for forgiveness, addressed to “my lady”, which I assume is either a local saint or the Virgin. It appears the writer has been spying on his – or her – sister, my rusty knowledge of late medieval French makes it difficult to be certain.
What’s this? The writer seems to be confessing that they’ve found some nook where they can spy into their sister’s room. Oh? Sinning with her fingers? That’s a delightful way to put it. It seems they’ve been watching their sister masturbating, and then they’ve gone to tell their nanny to visit their sister’s room. How cruel.
Now the writer is describing how they returned to their secret spyhole just in time to see their sister being caught. Goodness me. The nanny lifts the girl’s gown and examines between her legs, and then inspects her fingers. The writing is coy, narrative and apologetic rather than voyeuristic, but I feel my own heart pounding at the inevitability of what will surely happen next. Sure enough, Nanny undresses her, and makes her kneel on all fours on her bed whilst she goes to fetch the strap.
Addressing a higher power, the writer acknowledges their wickedness, but continues their spying, unable to break their gaze away. The writer watches as the unfortunate girl has her bottom strapped until it is bright pink, before being told to stand so her sinful hands can receive the same treatment. Finally she is made to lie back on her bed to have her inner thighs spanked, as a lingering reminder that virtuous girls keep their legs closed.
In the last sentence the writer admits to the same sin of the fingers, and begs for absolution. The writer seems devout and god-fearing, perhaps by writing this they hoped to avoid having to reveal their own sins in the confession box. I close the book, turning it over in my hands, wondering if the strap that forms its spine is part of the same leather that chastised that poor girl’s bottom, over half a millenium ago. The enormity of the span of time makes my head spin. I close my eyes.
And then I saw her: kneeling naked on the bed.
I am peeping through a tiny hole in the corner of her bedroom wall. I am looking down, as if I’m standing on something. I am astonished to realise I can see everything, just as the journal had described it. A moment, frozen in time. I can see thin rays of sunlight streaming through the gaps of the window’s wooden slats. Motes of dust halted in mid-air, her head bowed to her bed in shame. Frustratingly my viewpoint doesn’t allow me to see between her legs, to glimpse the glistening sheen on her puffy lips, to ascertain how close she came to release before being so cruelly interrupted. But somehow I can see everything that the writer had seen.
The shock of this vision must have jolted my eyes open. Now I see the stacks of musty books again, collectively looming around me in the dingy gloom like encroaching tunnel walls. Disorientated, I teeter backwards, only just managing to avoid toppling a column of books.
I sit down, cross-legged on the bare wooden floorboards, and take several deep breaths to steady myself.
Then I close my eyes again, and find the same scene rendered behind my eyelids. And there she is again, still kneeling on the bed, motionless. My focus shifts to the motes frozen in the sunlight, I find myself willing them to move, to unpause this scene so I can witness what comes next. I feel my temples throb as my imagination engages, and slowly the scene begins to stir, like time restarting, the motes of dust beginning to twinkle and dance in the shaft of sunlight.
At first, time flows slowly. I gradually become aware of other details, like the faint trembling of the girl’s limbs, how her chest rises and falls in shallow nervous gasps. Moments later, the bedroom door is thrown open, and an older woman enters with a strap in her hand. She begins to scold the girl on the bed in a form of old French I’ve never heard spoken and can’t understand. Soon the strap is dangling against the poor girl’s bottom, as she pleads one last time for mercy – or possibly absolution.
The slap of the strap’s impact rings in my ears, and shockingly, burns across my own bottom.
I can see it all. I watch as her beautiful pale white bottom is spanked until it’s thoroughly pink. She takes her punishment well, like a penitent sinner, pushing out her bum out each time to meet her disciplinarian’s strap. And I feel the echo of each strike, reverberating through time to sting my own backside.
When I finally open my eyes, I look around woozily to see the dingy tunnel of books looming over me, this strange book lying open in my lap.
They say books are portable magic. Just rows and rows of dark pigmented squiggles, through which one can hear the voice of another. It can be someone who has been dead for centuries, yet open a page and suddenly the author is speaking to you, clearly and silently, inside your head. Writing reaches across the ages to connect people who never knew each other. What is that if not magic?
I have always thought of reading as dreaming with open eyes. But this book is something extraordinary, almost supernatural. It isn’t just the voice of a long-dead writer whispering their story into my mind, but their visions and sensations too. Their every experience recreated and rendered with a staggering lucidity, barely distinguishable from reality.
In French, they would call this enchanted tome un grimoire, a spellbook.
I stare at it, awestruck.
* * * * *
I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting here on the floor. This book has completely and utterly obsessed me. There are entries from every age, each in a different hand, some scrawled, others composed in meticulous calligraphy. There are dozens of languages: some I can recognise, like Latin, medieval French and old English, and some I’ve never seen before. Some entries are written in logograms, like Chinese hanzi and Korean hangul, which to my eyes look like the arcane inscriptions of powerful sorceries. The entries towards the end of the book are mostly written in modern European languages, their settings also becoming ever more contemporary, as if new stories had been added as the book was bequeathed to new generations.
Each page makes more questions bubble into my mind. Who wrote this? Every account seems to be written in a different hand, as if the book is an anthology of recollections, perhaps the owners of the book had travelled widely, collecting spanking memories from those who’d witnessed them, somehow capturing the essential essence of what they’d seen.
I close the book and open it at random, and begin to read another page. This one is written in English, in elegant cursive handwriting, it seems to be the account of a teenage girl sent to stay with her strict uncle over the summer. She describes her shock at learning her cousins are still regularly spanked, and her horror on discovering she was about to have her own bottom bared.
I breathe deeply and close my eyes, and suddenly I’m in the poor girl’s shoes. I can see one other girl standing in the corner of what seems to be a Victorian era drawing room, she is facing the wall, but somehow I recognise her as my own cousin. Her hands are on her head, the hem of her summer dress has been rolled high above her hips, and her bare bottom looks as if she’s been sitting on a seat coated with pink chalk dust.
“What’s the matter girl?”, I hear my uncle ask. “Never seen a spanked bottom before?”
I feel myself gawp dumbly in response.
Uncle takes my hand and pulls me towards a plush chaise longue. I am powerless to resist, because this story has already been written. The hem of my dress is being rolled upwards and my underwear is about to be pulled down. Uncle will pull me across his knee and spank my bare bum with such vigour that this experience will be seared into the narrator’s memory, and with such vividness that when she ultimately comes to write about it in this enchanted book, every little detail will be preserved.
From behind my closed eyes I hear her – our – voice begging weakly, and uncle telling me not to be such a silly little girl. Then his palm strikes my bum, and I feel the sting burning across my backside. The shock empties my lungs in a yelp. I share her thoughts, feeling myself clench my buttocks and thighs together, I want to squirm and kick, but know that would expose my secret places. I hear myself protesting I’m too old for this treatment, then pleading for leniency, but deep inside I admit to myself I deserve what I’m getting.
I know I can stop my vicarious experience at any time by opening my eyes, but like an addict I persist, enduring the pain, continuing until my naughty bottom glows. Then I’m escorted to the corner to stand beside my cousin in disgrace. Soon, the Vicar arrives for tea, and our pretty pink bums provide the talking point, a perfect parable of contrition.
Initially I try to stand to attention, imagining myself a soldier guarding Buckingham Palace, legs straight and buttocks clenched. But I can not maintain my posture, I soon tire and feel myself gradually slumping, cool air seeping between my legs. Behind me, clinks of fine china and polite sups punctuate the ongoing conversation. I can sense their eyes surveying me, roaming across the reddened regions where Uncle spanked me, and the folds between I’m slowly revealing. It’s simultaneously terrible and unexpectedly exciting. Naughty girls deserve their shame.
When I open my eyes again, I can still feel my bottom throbbing.
My fingers flick greedily through the grimoire’s pages, every hair on my body stands on end as I begin to realise what I’ve stumbled across. Each page is a doorway to another place and time, from medieval castles to stately homes, from boudoirs to bordellos, from preppy finishing schools to grim authoritarian orphanages. In my hands is an eye-witness anthology of corporal punishment and erotic chastisement through the centuries, with the ability to project each experience with absolute veracity into every one of my senses.
I must have this book.
As I spring to my feet, a sickening worry sweeps through me. How much would an artefact like this cost? Would it even be for sale? Of course not, it would be priceless. Perhaps the reason why the storekeeper was away from their desk was they were deep in the bowels of their shop, scrabbling through countless piles of books desperately trying to find this one extraordinary volume that they’d so carelessly mislaid. They would be haunted by its loss. Distraught. I’d only just found it, and already I can’t imagine relinquishing it.
But what if the storekeeper was waiting at the desk? What if they knew about its true nature? What if I asked to buy it and they refused? What if they were prepared to fight to regain it? What if below the counter there was a hidden knife, or a revolver? I’d be forced to hand it over, and I’d certainly never see it again. Suddenly the urge to possess this astonishing book is overwhelming, like a craving, an addiction.
It was then that I knew that I had to take it. To steal it.
Instinctively I look over my shoulder, and then slip the book into my handbag. It fits perfectly, as if it was always meant to be.
I turn to face the direction I entered, hoping I haven’t lost myself in this bizarre paperback maze. On the bare wooden floorboards I can hear the thump of my footsteps quickening, a hot flush spreading across my cheeks. I’ve never stolen anything before. Now my imagination feverishly tries to anticipate the possibilities.
When I approach the front desk should I stop to say “Merci. Au revoir!” to the shop-keeper? Should I engage in smalltalk? Or should I just nod? Should I be smiling? What constitutes looking suspicious? What happens if the owner is a burly man, and he’s blocking my way? What if he demands to search my bag?
My footsteps are even faster now, I’m almost jogging. The dim light is getting brighter as I get nearer to the open door. I feel myself clenching my sweaty fists, flight or fight, ready to sweep aside anyone who might deprive me of my prize.
So close. So close. I can see the front desk up ahead.
What if I’ve been here so long the shop has been locked up for the night? What if a passing gendarme spots me hurrying from store?
I don’t really recall what happened next. My mind must have gone blank, swamped with worry and desperation. I can’t remember seeing the shop-keeper or even leaving the store. I think I just hurried out of the bookshop, the city’s hot dusty air blasting my face as I strode across the threshold and into the sidestreet, the grimoire hanging heavily in my handbag.
I think at some point I broke into a run. I only stopped when my feet began to hurt.
* * * * *
It has been over three years since I found my grimoire. That evening I took it back to my hotel room and began to eagerly devour its stories as I caressed myself. The testimonies it contains are remarkable, recollections from those who hated being spanked and those who enjoyed it, and from those who administered whackings as well as recipients. There are also numerous stories from witnesses, some describing public punishments, others lured into covertly spying by the seductive nearby sounds of smacking.
My grimoire allows me to travel into their minds, to see what they saw, and to feel what they felt. The smells of yesteryear are astonishing, the waxy smokiness of lamps and candles, the perfumed scents of the elite’s elegant clothes and the sweaty reek of those less fortunate. I’ve been learning to read all the languages in the book, even the obscure ones. As my understanding improves, I see new details in each scene when I close my eyes.
I keep my grimoire in a fireproof safe behind a still life painting above my bed. It is too precious to countenance losing. If it were ever stolen from me, I would be bereft.
But I pay a heavy price for my larceny.
It takes the form of a recurring dream, one that’s subtly different every time. I dream I’m back in the bookshop, hurrying towards the door with the grimoire in my bag – and then…
“Madame?”, this time it’s a male voice.
I want to keep walking but my body freezes. I look across the front desk and see the storekeeper rising from his chair. I try to say something, but in my dreams I find I can’t remember any French, I don’t even know how to say hello, I hear myself babble some gibberish that even I don’t understand.
“You have one of my books”, he says, matter-of-factly.
He steps beside me, close enough that I can smell his lavender aftershave. He opens the flap of my handbag, I want to slap his hands away, but can only watch in horror as he takes the grimoire for himself. I feel suddenly desperately hollow, afflicted by an awful craving, as if I have not eaten for a hundred years.
Then he scolds me, in a manner that makes me feel so small and naughty. And I know what must happen next, so I do not complain as I am bent over the counter, or when my dress is lifted. He smacks the back of my thighs with his palm, making me feel like a little girl caught stealing from a sweetshop. I squirm and kick my legs trying to avoid his blows, but that just prompts him to pull down my panties.
My subsequent bare bottom spanking is long, very sore and sexually unsatisfying – just as a shoplifter deserves. When it’s finally over, I wince as I pull my panties up over my burning cheeks, and then I’m sent on my way. I dream that I walk home in disgrace, my hands behind me rubbing my poor spanked bottom, whilst passers-by stop and point and snigger.
And that’s usually when I wake, with my face blushing hot with shame, my bottom unblemished, craving a real-life spanking, one that’s long, hard and painful, one that will wash my sins away.
The first time I dismissed my dream as the feverish imaginings of my guilty conscience. But almost every night since I’ve found myself back in the bookshop. Sometimes the storekeeper is a young attractive man, and sometimes when he spanks me, it’s almost quite exciting; alas my guilt always overwhelms my pleasure, making the experience frustratingly unsatisfying.
I am not in control of these dreams. I want to apologise, to make it up to him, to kneel on the dusty floorboards with his stiff cock in my mouth. Or to feel him spurt in my bottom after he’s spanked me hard, so I can feel his cream dribbling into my panties as I rub my cheeks during my final walk of shame. But I can not, I must endure what imagination gives me.
Sometimes the storekeeper is a leery older man. As I approach the front desk he’s holding the telephone, threatening to call the police. I implore him not to, he puts down the phone and instructs me to undress – and I comply slowly and reluctantly. Once I’m naked, I’m told to climb on top of the counter and lie on my back. Then he begins to explore every inch of my body with his rough wizened fingers, which he makes me lick before he pushes them inside my vagina. I feel my face burn with embarrassment. He likes to spank me with a martinet, a cruel little leather whip, as I hold my knees up to my chest, allowing him to discipline my most intimate places.
Sometimes he makes me undress and carry a sawhorse to the main street nearby. He makes me bend over, tying my wrists and ankles to the feet of the frame before writing VOLEUR with a marker pen across my back. After branding me as a thief he leaves me there, at the mercy of passers-by. Despite being so exposed, no one violates me. Some jeer and reprimand me, some slap my bottom as they pass, others stop to pull their belts from their trousers, or take the flip-flops from their feet or fetch their hairbrush from their handbag.
Sometimes the storekeeper is matronly maman, who treats me like her own recalcitrant daughter. She scolds me as she drags me by the ear upstairs to the flat above the bookshop. I feel myself shrink as she dresses me in her daughter’s childish clothes, and ties my hair into bunches. Then I’m pulled by the wrist to the big chair in the middle of the living room, where maman sits and pulls me across her knee. Then she bares my bottom, and shows me what happens to naughty little Parisian urchins as my feet kick helplessly in mid air.
I go to sleep every night expecting to be punished, only to wake wishing the chastisement was real. But my curse is capricious, sometimes I dream of nothing at all, then when I get used to nights of blissfully undisturbed sleep, the dreams of punishment return.
Yet sometimes I do manage to evade the owner and escape from the bookshop. I hurry down the back streets hoping this time I’ll get away with my crime.
I hear a shout behind me, “Arrêtez-vous!”
I freeze as commanded, unable to continue. A blue-shirted gendarme marches to where I’m standing, and politely asks to look in my bag. He pulls out the grimoire, and asks how I came by it. Robbed of my ability to speak, I can only babble incomprehensibly. He scowls at me reproachfully, my guilt is obvious. I hear the click of handcuffs on my wrists.
He escorts me to the corner of a busy junction, where there’s a lamp post with a vertical bar midway up. He cuffs my hands above the bar, stretching my arms above my head. He announces to all within earshot that I have been found guilty of theft, and that the sentence is a public spanking on the bare bottom. My garbled pleas only serve to attract a crowd, passers-by begin to stop, horns toot, and the sluggish traffic crawls to a stop. I feel the constable’s fingers at my waist, prising open the buttons of my jeans, there are whistles from the crowd as he draws them down my legs. Moments later, my knickers are bunched around my ankles.
I had always thought the round wooden handle on a policeman’s belt was that of a truncheon. But this constable draws a flat-bladed wooden paddle. I feel the cool wood tap against my bottom, and sense the crowd collectively holding its breath. The first whack of the paddle is greeted by cheers, my own squeal lost in the din. He spanks me hard, a humiliating punishment befitting my nefarious crime. He makes me dance and squirm for the crowd’s titillation, until the burning pain behind me makes me oblivious to my disgrace.
Sometimes I even make it all the way home, only for the police knock on my door. My flat is searched, and I’m heartbroken when the grimoire I’ve so carefully hidden is confiscated. During the search they find my extensive collection of sex toys and spanking implements, whereupon a lady police officer dismisses her colleagues, and escorts me into my bedroom.
I hear the snap of latex gloves, and she tells me to undress. I am told to bend over and grab my ankles, before being throughly strip-searched. The female sergeant’s skillful fingers probe deep into my vagina, she knows exactly how to rub each of my most sensitive spots, taking me right to the edge, but each time cruelly denying me release. Then I’m led to my own bed where my wrists are cuffed to the bed rail.
As she waits for my arousal to diminish, she lifts her own navy skirt, and makes me watch as she pleasures herself with my toys. She pushes my ribbed butt plug into her own bum, slowly sliding it in and out as she tells me how she’ll soon be exploring deep into my own arse with her slick lubed fingers. But don’t worry, Ma’am, she assures me, I’ll stop before you get too excited.
She is true to her word. When my time comes she lifts my legs above my waist, first I feel her wet slimy tip of her gloved middle finger pushing against my bottom hole. She intrudes unhurriedly. Minutes pass before the bulge of her first knuckle pushes past my ring, and what seems like an age before I feel her second. Lying on my back I am powerless to push against her, at the mercy of her slow torment.
I squirm on my bed in frustration, her long thin finger deep inside me, as she lowers her head to my ear and whispers that she’d found my hidden rack of canes. She begins to slowly slide her finger from my bottom as she declares me guilty of theft. She addresses me by my full name, like a judge might, and cruelly announces my sentence at the very moment her finger leaves my yearning bottom.
I am to be caned. There is no appeal.
She unlocks my wrists and leads me to the bottom of my bed. A hand on the small of my back bends me over the bed rail, before she spread-eagles my arms and legs, cuffing me to the frame once more so there’s no chance of escape. Soon my own cane taps ominously against my cheeks. I can feel the lube glistening on my thoroughly inspected holes. Then she stripes my bottom until it resembles the chevrons on her arm.
And then I wake, gasping, feeling queasy from my guilt, wishing the punishment I’ve just imagined could be made real, anything to absolve me of my crime.
Of course, I could give back the book.
I could return to Paris, roam the streets and find the strange little bookshop, offer my sincerest apologies, hand back the grimoire, and never see it again.
I often wonder how I came to discover my treasure. Perhaps its previous owner had passed away, leaving countless shelves of orphaned books for an unsuspecting relative to box and give away. Or perhaps the previous owner, driven mad by the grimoire’s guilty dreams, had numbed their mind with absinthe and wandered deep into the urban labyrinth. They had chanced upon that bookshop, meandered deep within its book-lined tunnels, and pushed the tome into a random stack of books. Perhaps they hoped that act would finally free them of their obsession, or perhaps they’d wake the morning after, screaming as they realised just what they’d thrown away.
But I will never do that.
It would be easier for me to give away my own arm than relinquish my grimoire.
Every night I take my precious book from its little metal haven. I lie back on my bed, turning to a random page, and read some centuries-old words under my breath like a magic incantation. Then I close my eyes, and I am transported.
You would never believe the wonders I have seen.
My feeble descriptions do them pathetically little justice.
My grimoire is not just the scribbled memories of long-ago spankings, it is a portal into the minds of ancient witnesses. Through it I have shared the thoughts of hundreds of men and women, boys and girls. I have seen every flavour of cruelty and compassion, power and authority, dominance and submission. I have explored every aspect of eroticism and sexuality, from the coy to the explicit, from the mediocre to the sublime.
Through it, I know what it’s like to be a man, how it feels to secretly stiffen as you spank a beautiful arse, how it feels to see her folds winking back between her kicking legs, and the frustration of knowing you can not have her. Through it I have experienced the glorious sensation of reaching between hot spanked cheeks to find her soaking wet, the delight of being absolutely rigid, and the epiphany of slipping inside her slick tight hole.
Through it, I have given and received the tender love of women.
I have loved a man through the eyes of a man.
I have been unsure of my gender and loved regardless.
I have experienced pleasure in outrageously decadent balls, parties and orgies.
I have lost and taken others’ innocence.
I have disciplined out of love and out of anger.
I have spanked to punish and spanked to pleasure.
I have explored the erotic ingenuities of tying up.
I have induced unexpected climaxes in girls and boys with skilful whackings.
I have bared the bottoms of princes and princesses.
I have scolded and seduced in a dozen different tongues.
And I have played all manner of secret games.
If only I could copy my little magic book of spanking, and show humanity its sexuality as others have seen it.
Yes, I am a thief, and oftentimes my dreams are wracked with guilt. But my waking hours are blessed with sensual adventures across times and places that would stagger your mind with their lucid clarity.
I shall never, ever, give up my grimoire.
Though perhaps one day I will contribute stories of my own.
There are plenty of empty pages still.
This was my winning entry in the recent Library of Spanking Fiction Story Challenge. More stories are available at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com. If you enjoyed it, why not share your discovery with others?