Find your perfect spanking story…
How was your stay? Was your arrival anything like this?
Patience, dear reader, stories can not be rushed.
Such impetuousness.
I think you’d benefit from staying a while with Alice and Penny’s strict governess.
Just imagine that.
You’d arrive to find the girls sitting demurely in their juvenile dresses, their hair tied into pigtails, their hands folded on their laps like proper little girls. Told not to speak unless spoken to, they’d greet you with a polite nod of acknowledgement. Their governess explains their appearance by relating how naughty they’ve both been, how she caught them both lying naked on a bed, with a smutty book hastily hidden under a pillow.
“Do you know what happens to naughty girls?”, she asks you.
You’re too embarrassed to reply.
In lieu of your answer the governess tells the two girls to stand and lift the hems of their dresses. They jump to their feet, complying quickly and without complaint.
You gasp when you see their plain white panties are pulled up so tight they look like thongs, a thin band of material between each girl’s swollen lips. You can’t help but stare at each girl’s mound, shaved completely bare, and now almost fully exposed to your gawping eyes.
Then she instructs Alice and Penny to turn around and raise the backs of their dresses. Now you can see a round pink circle on each of their buttocks, with the thin strip of their panties running between them. As you can see, the governess tells you, I believe in the virtue of regular bare bottom spankings.
You’re speechless. But secretly it makes you tingle too.
“Thank you girls, you may turn around now”, she says, before adding:
“Now, you both be good whilst I take our new guest upstairs, and help her get changed…”
You open your mouth to protest, to say that won’t be necessary, but her hand has already grasped your wrist, tugging you towards the door.
Because upstairs, a frilly pink polka-dot dress and fresh pair of plain white panties is waiting for you…
Reader lost-little-faerie writes:
I’ve been a bumbling mess all day. I dropped papers, stumbled and forgot what I was doing. I know exactly what’s waiting for me. Lunch came and I sat on in my car devouring the words in front of me. Completely unaware of my good beside me or the songs shuffling on the radio. I was two chapters into his suggested reading when my alarm went off. My heart, which till then beat a slow erratic beat, raced off and I muffled a scream. Entranced I didn’t realize my lunch was over. I started the car and drove back to work trying desperately not to grab my phone and keep reading. My day progressed with more dropping and fumbling. I could scarcely focus. I just kept seeing my plum colored panties laid out besides my brush on my freshly made bed…..
Getting home I glance at my bed and head straight to the bathroom. I put on some jazz and take a long hot shower. My mind can’t help but keep wandering back to panties awaiting me on the bed. I take my time drying off and blow drying my hair. Strolling over to the bed I try not to let my nerves get to he best of me. Fingertips brush the edge of the cotton. Propping up lots of pillows I bend over prepared to take my punishment. I’ve had very naughty thoughts of someone I can’t have. Sliding my hand up the handle I spank my bottom. “One.” Again, “Two.” Thwack. “Three.” The sound of wood against my fluffy bottom. It hurts so good comes to mind.
By fifteen my was pink and warm. At 34 I could take no more. I put the brush aside trying not to move my stinging bottom. Taking a couple of breaths I gingerly sat up. I winced as my panties slid over my red thighs and bum. Tugging them securely up and making sure they encompass my wet slit I tied them with a lavender length of ribbon making a little bow. I giggled, a little terrified of what I was going to do next…
I picked up my brush and laid 10 more lashes across my bottom. By now each land of the wood making me drip a little more into my painfully wedged panties. it was odd how something that should be so extremely uncomfortable was so arousing. Maybe it was just endorphins but I loved it.
Staring dubiously at the rope dangling from my bed post. After a short tussle I eventually got my self tied on my tippy toes. I hung there for what seemed like hours. Slowly inching my way down. The pain between my cheeks like needles and knives.
Untying myself i slowly stepped into my black plaid PJ’s careful not to rub up against my tender skin and bound a tight knot at the back with a length of plum ribbon. making sure my panties and PJ’s had nice tight knots, I crawled into bed to wrap myself around my stuffed elephant. My juices soaking through my pants. The torture!! I am tempted to rub up against my giant elephant just for some relief. But I don’t dare.
My alarm annoyingly goes off and without thinking I rollover onto my sore bum. Ouch. Turning off the alarm I manage to get upright and start untying ribbons. I am forced to peel my plum undies away from my swollen lips. A motion that has me biting my bottom lip….
To have writing described as decadent is praise indeed; words capable of inducing a sense of luxurious self-indulgence in those who read them.
It seems some like to read my stories in bed, already undressed. Some like to read in public, with a sly smile and blushing cheeks, others whilst soaking in a fragrant bath. A dedicated few dress up in old school uniforms, and read whilst sitting at a desk, imagining themselves in a classroom of old.
It seems some like to touch themselves, synchronising their final delight with the climax of the story. Others have more self-control, preferring to lose themselves in their imagination like a wanderer in a waking dream.
However you read, your enjoyment is my pleasure.
Reader dasflute writes:
Mr Spanking Theatrical, my response to your open question of the month was a bit long for that reply box, so I thought I would send it in as a submission instead.
While I’m not sure if this is the spanking experience I would most like to read in your grimoire – how could I choose from among so many temptations? – this is the idea that came to mind first. The page I first flipped to, if you will. I imagine the proper script of a young lady, the youngest daughter of a merchant family in late Victorian or early Edwardian England. Raised in a strict Dissenter household, she would of course know to behave at all times – especially in those areas that ought only to be explored in a marital context. She tried to b a good girl, of course she did – but having older sisters and cousins who gossiped and giggled over their own relations, marital or otherwise, perhaps a slip was inevitable. It was just her bad luck that her fingers strayed just as her mother happened to check in on her…
So the young lady was quietly bundled off to Dr. Samson’s Attending Clinic for Wayward Youth, a facility which prized itself for the discrete attention to the children of well-off families who suffered from the sin of self-abuse. Imprisoned in her small cell, she would be completely alone. Meals eaten in the room slid under the door, not even one of her precious books that she so cherished reading at home. Just…herself.
Once a day, however, things would change. That was when she would be taken from the cell by matron, into Dr. Samson’s office. There, bent over his desk, matron would check her drawers for signs of moisture, and then she would receive twelve of the best with the rattan cane, before the venerable doctor even addressed her, telling her that she was here to learn self control, discipline, morality. She would learn strength, for the heat of her corrections would refine her soul, and smelt the impurities out of it. Better the heat of the cane than the heat of Damnation.
She would try to explain that she was a good girl. That she had only slipped up that one time. That she had learned her lesson. That would inevitably only earn her an extra round with the cane from the good doctor.
Sitting in her cell, the young lady could imagine how the idleness might tempt other girls to sin. But she resisted, the dullness aside. Whenever matron came to fetch her, she would always seem disappointed by the lack of dew from her fig. The young lady of course thought it was a good sign. She had been cured, hadn’t she? They would have to let her out soon, certainly?
That was when the elaborately-sculpted, gleamingly-polished ivory phallus began to be delivered along with her morning porridge.
For several days, she avoided it, trying not to stare at it. Then glancing at it, as if to prove to herself she could resist it. Then, holding it in her hand. By the time she realized she had doomed herself, it was too late. She could resist her wicked urges when it was just herself – but when there was a physical representation of her deepest urges there?
As if she were being observed, as soon as she succumbed to the allure of the phallus, matron immediately came to fetch the girl. Inspecting the ivory cylinder and its tell-tale slickness, matron pulled the young lady by the ear to the doctor’s office, where she was forced to admit to her sin, describe in excruciatingly embarrassing detail what had been going through her mind, and then request an even more severe thrashing.
“There there, my dear,” the doctor said to her gently, as she sobbed following her caning and as matron applied cream to her bottom. “You thought you were cured – but until we can fully tame these sinful passions of yours, I think it would be best if you remained my guest here, don’t you?”
Not only did her new ‘friend’, the phallus, remain in her cell, but the young lady’s temptations were soon added to by the fact that her daily meals now each included what might generously be termed reading materials. Literature of a decidedly base kind. There were writings describing a young lady selling herself at a gentleman’s club. A young lady being taken in hand by the vicar. Ladies in peril from the savage natives of the Sepoy Mutiny or the American West, noblewomen in the French Revolution being used to sate the lusts of Jacobin hordes…and even literature of a Sapphic bent. Being forced to describe her thoughts as she diddled herself with the ivory willy while reading those were the most humiliating for her.
But she still did it. And she was still caned in response, and returned to her cell with the promise that she would not be released until she could resist temptation. And she still returned to her self-abuse.
She wondered, by then, if she diddled because it felt good – or if she diddled so she could reach her true pleasure, the caning at the hands of doctor and matron. She also wondered whether they were truly as invested in curing her as they claimed – or if they might, just possibly, have an ulterior motive in mind for her.
Unfortunately, that is where this particular page in the grimoire would end for me. Perhaps the next page will tell more. Or perhaps it will be the introduction of an entirely separate tale. I leave that up to you, dear reader.
Now, that is the end of my chosen grimoire recollection. But as our venerable American saying goes – but wait, there’s more! Ever since I first read the story, I was interested in where the grimoire might have come from, what forces could have collected the narratives within. I trust someone of your erudition will be familiar with the Jorge Luis Borges story “The Library of Babel”?
It struck me that the grimoire must have originated from, if not that library, one of a similar design – only this one existing solely to collect and catalogue every work of erotica, every bit of rude print or salacious scribblings or tempting thoughts and febrile fantasies that have ever existed, or ever would exist. And perhaps some member of the library staff distributed copies from the collection throughout the out of the way bookstores of the world, ones where only the true bibliophiles would find them – for the sole purpose of finding a reader so tempted as to claim it.
The heroine of your story stumbled upon the grimoire that indexed the spanking section of this vast universal library. And when at last her fantasies from the grimoire so consumed her, she might realize that it was the so-called ‘waking world’ that had become her dream – and to awaken from it would be to find herself in her new employ, as the newest librarian of the universal library’s spankophiliac section. And as such, being the newest recruit, is of course the lowest on the totem pole, and therefore vulnerable to the same type of bookshelf plundering that she fantasized over at the start of your tale.
Just my own idle musings, of course – but one does wonder…
If the question sounds bizarre, you should read this story first!
