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Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

Month

December 2014

I made a chibi based on one of Miss Jenny’s students that gets to come to her office because of her success in school that I was wondering if I could show you?

Of course. I love seeing what these stories have inspired readers to create.

Anyone is welcome to submit their own stories or pictures via http://spankingtheatre.tumblr.com/submit

Or you can email spankingtheatre@gmail.com

I won’t post any submissions unless you tell me to publish them. So if you want to be promoted to a wider audience, do tell me so.

I made a chibi based on one of Miss Jenny’s students that gets to come to her office because of her success in school that I was wondering if I could show you?

Of course. I love seeing what these stories have inspired readers to create.

Anyone is welcome to submit their own stories or pictures via http://spankingtheatre.tumblr.com/submit

Or you can email spankingtheatre@gmail.com

I won’t post any submissions unless you tell me to publish them. So if you want to be promoted to a wider audience, do tell me so.

Hey there, Whats your most similar story to punishment panties?its my favorite :)

I think Ups and Downs is the most similar, as it’s also a nonlinear story featuring a strict lady disciplinarian, with a kinky punishment you can re-enact for yourself (see Naughty Game #3).

Hey there, Whats your most similar story to punishment panties?its my favorite :)

I think Ups and Downs is the most similar, as it’s also a nonlinear story featuring a strict lady disciplinarian, with a kinky punishment you can re-enact for yourself (see Naughty Game #3).

From the new festive story, Sandalwood and Ginger.

Wishing you all a wonderful Christmas with your loved ones. Be sure to hug and cherish them.

From the new festive story, Sandalwood and Ginger.

Wishing you all a wonderful Christmas with your loved ones. Be sure to hug and cherish them.

Recipe for a Hot Pink Bottom

Our table had a little leather bound menu, I flipped it open curiously to find a list of the bar’s cocktails. I didn’t usually drink cocktails, but then again I didn’t usually engage in kinky conversations with my physicians. It just felt like a night for trying new things. So I perused it, looking for something to take my fancy.

Underneath the usual favourites like Long Island Iced Tea and Sex on the Beach was a section headed ‘House Specialities’. Here was a list of drinks I’d never heard of before, like The Nightmare Before Christmas, a hangover-inducing concoction of pumpkin juice, spiced rum and brandy.

But it was the one below that really caught my eye. A mix of pink grapefruit juice, ginger beer, sloe gin and cherry brandy. It was called a Hot Pink Bottom.

The phrase stuck in my mind, growing louder and louder until it dominated my thoughts.

“I think I deserve a hot pink bottom…” I whispered with a conspiratorial smirk.

“I think so too. Say it out loud.”

My drink, when it arrived, wasn’t quite what I expected. It was served in a tall-stemmed cocktail glass, a cone of vivid pink. In the drink were two objects, the stirrer was an elegant balsa wood rod, curved at the top to resemble a tiny crooked handled cane.

But what really dominated the drink was a long stubby root. I picked it up quizzically by its bulbous end, and found the area that had been below the surface of the drink had actually been shaved of its tough fibrous skin. The root was as long and my middle finger and slightly thicker, and it had been carved to resemble a phallus.

“Is that what I think it is…?”

– from the new festive story, Sandalwood and Ginger

Would you order one?

Recipe for a Hot Pink Bottom

Our table had a little leather bound menu, I flipped it open curiously to find a list of the bar’s cocktails. I didn’t usually drink cocktails, but then again I didn’t usually engage in kinky conversations with my physicians. It just felt like a night for trying new things. So I perused it, looking for something to take my fancy.

Underneath the usual favourites like Long Island Iced Tea and Sex on the Beach was a section headed ‘House Specialities’. Here was a list of drinks I’d never heard of before, like The Nightmare Before Christmas, a hangover-inducing concoction of pumpkin juice, spiced rum and brandy.

But it was the one below that really caught my eye. A mix of pink grapefruit juice, ginger beer, sloe gin and cherry brandy. It was called a Hot Pink Bottom.

The phrase stuck in my mind, growing louder and louder until it dominated my thoughts.

“I think I deserve a hot pink bottom…” I whispered with a conspiratorial smirk.

“I think so too. Say it out loud.”

My drink, when it arrived, wasn’t quite what I expected. It was served in a tall-stemmed cocktail glass, a cone of vivid pink. In the drink were two objects, the stirrer was an elegant balsa wood rod, curved at the top to resemble a tiny crooked handled cane.

But what really dominated the drink was a long stubby root. I picked it up quizzically by its bulbous end, and found the area that had been below the surface of the drink had actually been shaved of its tough fibrous skin. The root was as long and my middle finger and slightly thicker, and it had been carved to resemble a phallus.

“Is that what I think it is…?”

– from the new festive story, Sandalwood and Ginger

Would you order one?

Sandalwood and Ginger

A spanking story, for Christmas

Do you know what it’s like to be spanked in public?

You might think the bystanders would interrupt, outraged at the indecency.
But they don’t.
They stay.
They lurk.
And they watch.

They are mesmerised by my nudity, their gaze ensnared by the curves of my cheeks, fascinated by the bright pink patches that suddenly appear.
They are captivated by the sound, that slow one-handed clap, that erotic rhythm, underlaid by my plaintive little moans. Because the sound of a bottom smacking is unique, and as seductive as a siren’s song.

I know this because I’ve been spanked in public countless times. In library aisles. In gloomy bars. On golden beaches. On garden lawns and under trees in parks. Often on the bare, always in front of disbelieving eyes.
But you never forget your first time.

Ah, now you’re curious, aren’t you?
Are you imagining me?
Bending over and exposed, about to get what naughty girls deserve.
Say it with me, under your breath.
I deserve a good spanking.
It feels good, doesn’t it?
I deserve a long, hard spanking.
Say it like you mean it.
And I’ll tell you my story…

He was, without doubt, the most impeccably dressed Highwayman I’d ever encountered. Those sharp edges of his tricorn hat, resting effortlessly above his salt and pepper hair. That elegant black frock coat and the white linen lace-up shirt, half untied, as if he’d recently leapt hurriedly from a boudoir window. Not to mention those tight black riding breeches, with a prominent bulge that ensnared the eye and incited the imagination. The whole ensemble finished by knee-length leather riding boots.

Like everyone else in the room, he was wearing a mask. His blue eyes inset behind a thin band of black leather. The mask stopped before the bridge of his nose, leaving the rest of his face defiantly unconcealed, suggesting his attire was chosen more for an air of roguishness than a serious attempt to disguise his identity. It’s funny how one formulates these first impressions, but my suspicions were that this outlaw’s crimes were more likely to have involved ravishment than larceny.

I might have been gawking now. But he did look familiar. That long face, with the slightly curved aquiline nose, the five o’clock shadow around the modest pink bump of his lips, a visage rounded off with a stout eye-catching jaw.

More than that, he also smelt familiar. It was a musky, spicy, woody smell, like dark earth after summer rain. Like the scent of a fragrant market-stall, hidden deep within the twisting alleyways of a remote desert souk. A virile smell, like he’d just galloped here via an enchanted forest through a tempestuous storm.

Perhaps it had been his fragrance that had led me here. I couldn’t see well through my own nekomini mask. It had been a rather silly choice in retrospect, chosen more for its cutseyness than practicality, with tiny eye holes and little pointy kitten ears, and a cute button nose with short whiskers. Robbed of my peripheral vision, I was finding it increasingly difficult to weave between my fellow partygoers without ricocheting randomly in a series of apologetic bumps.

In the moments before I bumped into him, I had closed my eyes, just letting myself go, to be carried along by the milling of the crowd. I remember smelling him before I saw him, that enticingly familiar aroma of fragrant wood. I must have gravitated towards it, until I abruptly bumped into its source.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” I gasped as my trance-walk came to an embarrassing stop.

The outlaw just looked at me. His mask made his expression difficult to read. But if I had to hazard a guess, I think it would have been surprise.

I wracked my brain for something to say. I’d spent the evening mingling, I didn’t recognise anybody here, of course, but that was the whole point – after all, it was a masqued Christmas Ball. So to help prevent my smalltalk from being too minuscule I’d hit upon the tactic of finding something about my fellow partygoers’ costumes to comment on. Then I’d come up with some cleverly observed quip in the hope of demonstrating my brilliant sparkling wit.

Perhaps it was the bubbly, but I think I’d been getting less circumspect as the evening had progressed. Of course, at the time I was oblivious to my declining subtlety, if anything, I felt that I was becoming funnier and ever more entertaining with every passing encounter. Make way, here comes the life and soul of party! I scanned his body urgently, looking for something to catch my eye.

“So… um…”

My mumbling made me feel like an idiot. And then I saw the leather riding crop nestling in his belt, and my mind grasped it like a float thrown to a drowning man.

“… do you like whipping?”

The words left my mouth before I’d had a chance to vet them. As opening statements to complete strangers went, I have to admit it was astonishingly brazen. I felt my cheeks burning behind my childish polkadot mask, hoping it concealed enough of my face to preserve at least some of my decorum.

Never one to miss the opportunity to dress up, I’d chosen what I considered to be my cutest kawaii costume. It was a Sweet Lolita outfit, consisting of a scandalously short polkadot mini-skirt, a medley of ruffs, frills and ribbons whose hem barely covered my bottom, only a pair of similarly coloured lantern shorts underneath preserved my modesty. My look was suggestive without being titillating, and I’d complemented it with an appropriately adolescent perfume, a saccharine mix of spice and flowers that made me smell like a bouquet of gingerbread.

The Highwayman paused, pondered my question for a moment, and then smiled.

“Yes, I do.”

“Er… oh…” I mumbled, I hadn’t expected such a candid answer.

“So, did you tie your horse up outside or take the Tube?”

He laughed. Phew. The delicious buzz of approval.

“There was no room in the stables. I had to take a taxi.”

“I do hope you paid.”

“Of course not!” he scoffed.

“I commandeered it. Reckon I’ve got forty-five more minutes here until the Redcoats arrive.”

With a voice like that, I found myself thinking, he could commandeer anything. It was deep, slow and authoritative, as if he always had something serious to say, even when he was joking.

“Then we’d better make the most of it…” I suggested.

“Yes,” he nodded purposefully, “we should.”

That smell. That chin. That voice. There was definitely something familiar about this man. The way he spoke, as if he’d carefully deliberated over every word. Perhaps a lawyer.
Or maybe even… a doctor.
Oh.
Shit.

The pieces suddenly fell into place.

There it was, the small V-shaped birthmark on the side of his throat.

It’s the mark I stare at when my gyno talks to me. I stare at it because it gives me something to focus on, so I can look at him and avoid accidentally looking into his eyes. Because when I look into his eyes I quiver, and I feel like the naive schoolgirl who used to blanch at the descriptions in sex ed class.

He was so certain, so commanding. The only man who’d ever seen me naked and not gasped, whistled, slobbered or stuttered. The only man who’d ever looked me straight in the eyes and patiently explained how he was going insert things into my vagina. The only man who’d seen my clitoris, but who’d never touched it.

“My goodness!” I exclaimed at last, “Dr Jasper?”

He nodded modestly, he didn’t seem to be at all bothered that I knew who he was. Which made me suspect he didn’t know who I was.

“You have me at a disadvantage, Madam. Do we know each other?”

I hesitated, contemplating the implications of revealing my own identity. If I said no – how would I explain knowing who he was? Better to come clean, than end up seducing the man under false pretenses.

“I’m Leila Faulks. I visit you every year or so, and you squeeze my tits and put a couple of fingers into my pussy.”

Saying that made me giggle, it sounded so much more salacious spoken out loud than it had when I’d planned it in my head.

“Then let me say you look even better with clothes on, Ms Faulks” he reposted.

I wasn’t quite sure if that was a compliment or he was just teasing me. But I decided two could play at that game.

“It must be very exciting for you, staring at pussies all day.”

“On the contrary. What is between our legs is just anatomy.”

“So what turns you on?”

Goodness, this conversation had escalated quickly.

“Undo your shorts and pull them down to your ankles” he suggested, perfectly seriously.

“What? No! There are people watching!” I hissed in a shocked whisper.

“You have your answer.” he said cryptically.

I stared at him, open mouthed, mentally rewinding our exchange. Deciphering it. Clearly it wasn’t the prospect of nudity that excited him, but something more subtle. Perhaps it was my reaction to being naked in front of others, and the reaction of all those around me. Whatever his secrets, he certainly wasn’t intimidated by my lewd questioning.

“It’s a shame that you’re my doctor.”

“Really? Why?”

“Because I’d love to see where this conservation is going…”

I reached across to his belt, and drew my finger down the stiff shaft of his riding whip.

“… and I quite like whips too.”

I saw him nod his head in understanding. And then there was a pause.

Around us the hubbub of polite conversation mumbled on. But it felt like we were in our own little bubble, the air between us crackling with sexual tension.

“If you want to continue flirting with me, Ms Faulks, I’m afraid you can no longer remain my patient.”

“And how do I change that?”

The Highwayman reached into his frock coat, and somewhat incongruously produced a mobile phone. After holding his fingertip down on the unlocking sensor he tapped on the screen for about a minute. Then he turned the phone towards me so I could see what was displayed on it.

“This is the app we use to review our schedules and manage our patients. Here you can see your name, and here you can see I’ve reassigned you to Dr Marjorie Allam.”

“Marge is a dear, you’ll be in excellent hands. Just press the button marked Update, and you will no longer be my patient.”

I looked up at the Highwayman, his mouth was expressionless, just those cool blue eyes shining behind his mask. I looked back down at the phone, glowing seductively; I had no idea doctors had apps like this, but thinking about it, it made perfect sense.

I extended my finger tentatively, as if wary of an imminent electric shock.
And I pressed the button.
The phone emitted a little chirp of acknowledgement.
And looking back, that was the moment when my whole life changed.

“Shall we get a drink, Doctor?” I suggested.

He nodded, and offered me his arm.

“Do call me Adrian.”

* * 2 * *

The venue of our Masqued Ball was a rather exclusive establishment. Decades ago it would have called itself a Gentlemen’s Club, but that archaic restriction had been recently abandoned. What hadn’t changed was its spectacular interior decor, ornately sculpted stucco plaster ceilings looming high overhead, dark oak wall panels studded with portraits of Georgian lordships, and below, wide plush expanses of blood red velvet carpet.

We had retired to a quiet alcove in one of the building’s many bars. At first, we introduced ourselves – after all, we were still strangers, albeit strangers where one had already seen the other naked, and conducted some rather intimate examinations too. My memory of those occasions was vivid, and there was something I was aching to tell him.

As per the party rules, we kept our masks on, which helped make our conversations simultaneously extremely earnest and remarkably flirtatious. What a strange couple we must have seemed, Lolita and the Highwayman. Cutie and the Rogue.

My doctor was refreshingly easy company, and soon we were messing around, making up lurid backstories of our fellow partygoers. One couple in an alcove opposite us had caught my eye, one had dressed as Snow White, and the other as the Wicked Queen. Their costumes were gorgeous, Snow wore a sparkling blue corset above a chiffon gown of radiant yellow, and the Queen wore a beautiful coal black cloak over a striking violet evening down. Snow had a cherry-red bow in her hair, whilst the Queen wore a small jagged copper crown whose edges glimmered in the half-light. And both wore porcelain white face masks, which made them look like life-sized dolls.

“I bet they they have a Queening Throne at home…” I ventured.

This was my little test. A chance to discover if my dear doctor knew what I meant, to learn if a kinky mind dwelt beneath that calm professional demeanour. His immediate knowing smile told me I needn’t have worried.

“Ah yes, but who sits upon it?” he replied.

I pondered his challenge for a moment, then described what I imagined. The Wicked Queen seated imperiously, the back of her long gown hitched up at the back. I told of how Snow White would approach the dais, bowing submissively, and then kneel before the evil monarch, begging to be granted the privilege of serving her. Then suddenly Snow would be enveloped by a swirl of violet silk, and feel the heat of her Queen’s hungry pink maw against her lips.

He nodded, congratulating me on my creativity. Or perhaps it was the other way round, he suggested. The Queen had been vanquished, and Snow had claimed the throne. Every day the defeated regent would be brought from the dungeons, naked but for her chains and her chastity belt. The prisoner would be made to pay homage to the new sovereign in the most intimate possible way. And despite her innocent monicker, he suggested Snow White would demand her captive thoroughly lick her bottom before she earned the right to service her Mistress’s soaking slit.

Goodness I thought. My new friend did have a filthy imagination. How could I follow that? I felt I could hold in my own secret no longer.

“I have a confession to make, Doctor…” I said in a low voice, leaning in conspiratorially.

He merely raised an eyebrow quizzically. So I continued.

“Last time I visited you, when you put your fingers within me, I was soaking wet, and it wasn’t just the lubricant. I was desperate for you to inspect my lips and massage my clit.”

I had to pause to catch my breath.

“I wanted you to masturbate me, Doctor…” I whispered.

“I wanted you to use your intimate knowledge of my secret spots to bring me to the edge, and then keep me there, squirming desperately in your stirrups until you decided it was time for me to come…”

I have to admit I was rather disappointed by his reaction to my shocking revelation.
He didn’t even blink.

“Becoming aroused during an intimate examination is perfectly normal.” he explained, in that groin-tinglingly serious tone I remembered from my appointments.

“But professional standards need to be maintained. Our duty is to your health, not your libido.”

He looked at me intently, two rings of cool blue glowing through the black band of his mask. The effect was quite mesmerising.

“I think you can do better than that. I think you have even more deeply hidden secrets.”

He leaned forward, as if he was about to share something of the utmost importance.

“What’s the naughtiest thing you’ve ever done at Christmas?”

At first I was flummoxed by his challenge. I tried to think what I did last Christmas, and then the one before that. Some good parties, a bit of dressing up, some rollicking sex, a bit of festive over-indulgence. Did any of that count? None of it was what I’d consider naughty, in that I wasn’t remotely ashamed of any of it. Was I really that boring that I didn’t have any sordid secrets?

I closed my eyes, searching deeper and deeper into my memories. Christmases spent abroad, at university, at school and at home. When I tried to remember the details I was surprised to find they existed as stills rather than movies, a vague recollections of being somewhere, of being with certain people. Each successive memory became fuzzier the deeper I reached.

Then I stumbled across a memory whose vividness shocked me, an experience from my childhood that still seemed vibrant and real. I was young. An impetuous little girl. And I was doing something I most definitely shouldn’t have been doing.

Was this what he meant? This was something I was ashamed of, perhaps my guilt had preserved the memory in such detail, revisiting it, unable to let it go. In retrospect it wasn’t a big deal, just a childish misdemeanour, but at the time it had felt like a very naughty crime indeed.

I opened my eyes, and began to tell him everything. Every footstep and every quivering sensation, a Christmas confession I’d suppressed for decades. He listened in silence, just an occasional nod of encouragement when my courage faltered. At the end he didn’t offer me absolution, just an brusque observation.

“Yes, that is very naughty.”

Perhaps he was somewhat disappointed. Perhaps he was hoping for something more rousing, a thrilling tale of shattered rules and broken taboos. But what I’d told him was all I had. For the first time this evening I felt the lurching queasiness of self-doubt. From the way he looked at me I knew he found me attractive, but I wanted to be more, I wanted him to find me interesting. No, it was more than that, I wanted to be fascinating.

He looked down at our empty glasses.

“Another drink?”

* * *

Our table had a little leather bound menu, I flipped it open curiously to find a list of the bar’s cocktails. I didn’t usually drink cocktails, but then again I didn’t usually engage in kinky conversations with my physicians. It just felt like a night for trying new things. So I perused it, looking for something to take my fancy.

Underneath the usual favourites like Long Island Iced Tea and Sex on the Beach was a section headed ‘House Specialities’. Here was a list of drinks I’d never heard of before, like The Nightmare Before Christmas, a hangover-inducing concoction of pumpkin juice, spiced rum and brandy.

But it was the one below that really caught my eye. A mix of pink grapefruit juice, ginger beer, sloe gin and cherry brandy. It was called a Hot Pink Bottom.

The phrase stuck in my mind, growing louder and louder until it dominated my thoughts.

“I think I deserve a hot pink bottom…” I whispered with a conspiratorial smirk.

“I think so too. Say it louder”

I hesitated, suddenly self-conscious, then obeyed his instruction.

“I deserve a hot pink bottom.”

“Louder.”

“I deserve a… Hot. Pink. Bottom.”

“Louder!”

I squirmed uncomfortably, hoping my voice was getting lost in ambient burble of surrounding conversations.

“I deserve a Hot Pink Bottom!”

Now I could hear my own voice booming in my ears. I caught the eyes of the couple at a neighbouring table, I’m sure I saw smirks on their faces.

“Louder!”

I’m almost certain I wouldn’t have complied had my face not been concealed by my mask. But something about my anonymity emboldened me. I shouted out my wish as loud as I could manage.

“I DESERVE A HOT PINK BOTTOM!!!”

This time, heads turned all over the room, I could see some knowing smiles, but their interest was remarkably transient, and moments later they had all resumed their own conversations. My brazenness did capture the attention of a member of the bar staff though, and he scribbled down our order. A Hot Pink Bottom for me, a Bushmills on the rocks for my companion.

My drink, when it arrived, wasn’t quite what I expected. It was served in a tall-stemmed cocktail glass, a cone of vivid pink. In the drink were two objects, the stirrer was an elegant balsa wood rod, curved at the top to resemble a tiny crooked handled cane. But what really dominated the drink was a long stubby root. I picked it up quizzically by its bulbous end, and found the area that had been below the surface of the drink had actually been shaved of its tough fibrous skin. The root was as long and my middle finger and slightly thicker, and it had been carved to resemble a phallus.

“Is that what I think it is?”

We began laughing, and continued giggling until I my eyes began to water behind my mask.

“How very apt!” he said at last. “Do you know where the word cocktail comes from?”

“I’d never thought about it to be honest.” I replied.

“Well, in the 18th century, a cock-tail was a horse that had its tail cut short, which indicated it was a mixed breed.”

Our conversation seemed to be veering into bizarre territory, so I eyed him skeptically. But he ignored my frown and continued his explanation.

“To fetch higher prices for their cock-tails, horse traders would put a thumb of peeled ginger into the anus of their merchandise. And as you might expect, this would put a spring in the horse’s step, so the animal would sell for more. Hence the word cocktail came to mean something that had been tarted up or adulterated. Like the elaborate additions made to a simple drink.”

“Wow.”

“How appropriate to have a cocktail with a proper thumb of ginger. How ingenuous!”

The ruffian looked at me intensely.

“Have you ever been figged?”

“No!”

“I think I should pull down your panties and push it deep into your bottom. Right now, in front of everybody…”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

In retrospect, that was a dangerous challenge to issue.

The rogue held me with his gaze, and spoke slowly and deliberately.

“Unbutton your shorts.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

He was right. I sheepishly reached down and obeyed.

“Now pull them down to your ankles.”

“What? Here?”

When he didn’t answer, I realised how foolish I was making myself. This wasn’t the voice of a mature, sexually confident adult answering, it was the voice of a little goody-two-shoes who was afraid of what others might think. But that wasn’t who I believed myself to be. I needed to prove that to myself, more than I needed to please the man opposite.

So I reached underneath the table, lifting my bottom off my seat, and slowly drew my shorts down to my ankles. Nobody around us seemed to notice, but why should they? What was so special about us?

“Good girl. Give me your shorts.”

It wasn’t an unreasonable request. I reached down and drew them over my shoes, and placed them in his outstretched hand. He folded them neatly and put them into his jacket pocket.

“Now give me your panties.”

I felt my eyes widen behind my mask. Was this what I was afraid of? Exposing myself? Surely not, I’d already been naked before him several times. This was different. This was acquiescing, submitting to his rules, becoming a player in a game of his devising. And I had to admit, the prospect felt very exciting.

But there was no harm in letting him wait a bit longer. So I stirred my drink with its little cane and saluted him, and then took a long sip, feeling the tart taste of the grapefruit tingle my tongue moments before the heat of the spirits burned in my mouth. He reciprocated with a toast of his own, raising his whiskey and sipping contentedly. I think we understood each other.

And then I stood up, reaching under my ridiculously short mini-skirt to pull my knickers slowly down my thighs. I had to bend down to get them over my shoes, gasping as air teased between my legs. Then, as daintily as I could manage, I handed my knickers over to the Highwayman. This rogue, this thief of my dignity, he grasped his prize like it was a silk pouch of jewels.

“Hmmm. Soaking wet, m’Lady” he observed.

It was impossible to deny, his presence had seduced me.

“Now I intend to rob you.”

“Of my virtue, Sir?” I asked the ruffian coquettishly.

“Oh no m’Lady. Of your shame.”

I wasn’t expecting that reply, and was still puzzling over what he meant when I received my next instruction.

“Open your mouth.”

I did as I was told, waiting patiently whilst he rolled up my panties up and placed them carefully in my mouth. I got the impression that from now on if I needed to communicate it would be through nodding, and I was definitely not expected to start shaking my head.

“Time for your ginger, don’t you think?”

I nodded reluctantly.

Our alcove had padded leather bench seats that backed onto those of our neighbours, tapering at the top to form a rounded dividing ridge. The Highwayman politely apologised to the couple sitting beside us, and then directed me to kneel on the bench and straddle the top, so my other knee was on the bench on their side.

Then he told me to bend over. Raising my bottom into the air made my miniskirt flip upwards, effectively baring myself. With my head down I couldn’t see the reaction of those sitting beside us to this lewd intrusion, but I could hear the hubbub in the room getting quieter as more and more of the bar’s patrons stopped talking to stare at me, at the extraordinary new spectacle that was developing in front of their eyes.

A crowd of strangers, I realised, were now staring at my bare bottom. What made the experience bearable was nobody here knew me, my pride was safely hidden behind my mask. Yet a part of me was still scared, worried that someone here might recognise me, that this would suddenly turn into a humiliating ordeal. But an even greater part of me felt exhilarated, like this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to do something incredibly transgressive, my little girl dream of misbehaviour without consequences. What a delight it was to be robbed of shame.

Suddenly three loud slaps stung my bottom, it was like he’d called for the room’s full attention by tapping a glass with a spoon. The murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses stopped almost immediately, replaced by a brief murmur of gasps, chuckles and catcalls. I was grateful my eyes were hidden from their gaze, I could almost feel the weight of their stares.

I felt a large warm hand pull one of my bottom cheeks to the side, and then the cool hard ginger root being rubbed between my sticky lips. I moaned quietly into my impromptu gag.

Then I could feel the tip of the root circling my bottom hole, painting it wet with my own arousal. Moments later I felt it enter me, just a fraction, and then leave. It was a process he repeated a dozen times, collecting my arousal and then pushing the plug in a little bit deeper. The root was had been chilled and felt cold, like I was being masturbated with an icicle. Yet wherever the root touched warmed quickly. Soon I could feel a fiery heat developing inside my bottom hole, one that was momentarily quenched when the cold root re-entered, only to feel even hotter each time it withdrew.

Behind me I could hear people oooo and giggle. It was scarcely believable. I was being figged in public. I liked to keep myself hairless, so those watching would have seen every fold and cranny between my parted thighs. Yet no-one raised their voice to complain of any indecency. It seemed our wanton exhibition had captivated our audience, and they were hungry for more.

I began to relish being the centre of attention, I felt the urge to perform, to be more than just flesh to be gawked at. So I lifted my hips, pushing back so the ginger penetrated ever deeper. I could feel my passage burning now, like the root had just been plucked from a pan of boiling water. My impetuousness earned me a few more spanks that resonated amid the eerie hush.

And then I could feel the base of the plug, hard and slightly scratchy against the ring of my bottom hole, and his warm whiskey-scented breath whispering against my ear.

“Good girl.”

The next sensation was the tip of his whip being exploring the exposed regions of my body. My instinct was to resist, to flinch and try to evade the intruding implement – but that, I was quickly learning, made me tense up, so my bum gripped the fiery ginger root even tighter. So I tried to relax as best I could, pushing my arse upward in supplication.

The Highwayman began to whip me, slowly at first, which had the effect of silencing the remaining murmurs. The room was now completely quiet, the silence broken only by the smacks against my skin. To try to reduce the burning inside my passage I kept my bum aloft and my legs splayed apart, even though I knew I was revealing everything to those behind me. But the lewdness of my exposure didn’t seemed to matter any more, as my gentleman thief robbed me of my shame with every stroke of his crop.

I could feel hot stinging patches glowing on my bottom now. As a girl, I’d never been spanked, but I’d often fantasised about being sent to see an authority figure. A favourite was imagining touching my toes in front of a strict headmaster, the thrill of having my skirt flipped up and my white cotton panties pulled right down. Then the patient tap of the cane, before I did a little dance for my disciplinarian, swaying and bobbing as I received each of my sizzling stripes. But afterwards I always said Thank you Sir, just as a good girl should.

Every now and then, my whipping stopped, and my black-masked rapscallion would reach between my cheeks and slowly pull the ginger in and out, like he was stoking the fires within my arse. And I’d find myself gripping the top of the bench, moaning into my impromptu gag.

Then my spanking would resume, bringing me out of my daze, confronting me with reality again. That I was being spanked in public, and I was loving it.

I wonder how those watching me felt. Were the ladies frowning behind their masks, aghast at my subjugation? Or did they envy me? Was my predicament making their panties damp? Were they whispering to their partners: why don’t we do that? I wondered if I was making the men in the room hard, as they stared transfixed at the plug between my cheeks and my glistening slit beneath, each imagining what it would be like to slide inside me.

By now my clit was aching for attention, but still my rascal doctor hadn’t touched it. I longed to feel his fingers slip between my lips, sliding forward until they reached the spot. I wouldn’t have minded if he’d rubbed me to climax there and then, even if I came, bucking, dribbling and shuddering in front of everybody here.

But he never touched me where I wanted it most.

Instead he’d just wiggle the plug and continue my whipping, until my bum was burning inside and out. But every whack just made me want him more. I bet he knew.

And then my spanking stopped.

I can still remember the perfect silence, as the whole room collectively contemplated how best to respond. Perhaps they were waiting for an encore, but when they saw him extend his hand to me and help me down from the bench, spontaneous applause began, as if it was the only way the accumulated tension could be relieved.

From behind our masks we caught each other’s eyes.
We didn’t need to say anything.


He helped me back to my seat, and I sat down on my sore bum, still light-headed from what had just happened. Then he gestured that I should open my mouth, taking out my sodden panties and stowing them in the pocket of his frock coat. But he left the ginger inside me.

“Look around…” he whispered.

I surveyed the room, grateful for the sanctuary of my mask. A sea of veils and visors stared back expressionlessly, some nodding in acknowledgement as I caught their gaze. Somehow I could tell beneath the faceless masks minds were whirring. And I could see a few couples already leaving, tugging each others’ hands with a “let’s go home” kind of urgency.

“I think we may have inspired a lot of fun when folks get home tonight…” I observed.

“Well, Christmas is a time for giving…” he replied.

“… and what a lovely gift we’ve given them. I wager there are dozens among this crowd tonight who’ve always been fascinated by spankings, but shied away from trying it. Now we’ve shown them how exciting it can be. That a whole room wanted to sit and watch, and no one thought it was perverted enough to want to stop it.”

I felt the same way. I’d come to the ball dressed as Lolita because I enjoyed my outfit’s sexual provocativeness. But as I sat squirming on my hot stinging cheeks, I was earnestly hoping my example would lead to at least half the room sharing the same fate tonight. It made me realise the thrill of truly being a provocateur. It was quite intoxicating.

“Isn’t that the point of life, to make people leave your presence better than when you encountered them?” I asked rhetorically.

He nodded in agreement.

“So, earlier, you asked what turns me on…” he said at last.

“I enjoy the thrill of transgression, breaking unspoken rules. So you might find sharing my company rather embarrassing. Do you still want to get to know me?”

I pondered what he’d just said, and all that had just happened.

“I was never much for rules myself.”

“So what do you think of the party?” he asked.

“A bit bland for my taste.”

“Back to my place?”

“Doctor Sandalwood! I thought you’d never ask.”

He rose, offering his arm.

“Then perhaps I can escort you home, Miss Ginger…” he said with a polite bow.

I rose, as demurely as someone without underwear and a burning ginger root deep in her bottom could manage, and steadied myself on his forearm.

We left the room together, basking in their acknowledging nods and admiring glances.

I had been hoping he’d offer to remove the ginger, or at least give me my knickers back. Without my shorts, my mini-skirt barely covered me at all. So I had to walk out of the building with my hands primly crossed in front of me, holding down the hem of my miniskirt that barely covered my crotch.

He kept my discarded garments in his pocket, meaning I had to sit with my legs clenched together during the taxi ride home, which only served to exacerbate the burning of the ginger in my bottom. It wasn’t that I’d suddenly become prudish, but I could see the driver’s eyes spending more and more time lingering in the rearview mirror, and I was terrified that if I inadvertently flashed myself, I’d cause a crash.

So despite the discomfort, I stoically kept my knees together until we arrived safely at his home, a cute little place in a quiet avenue near the river. He gave me the tour of the house with his palm on my bottom, wiggling the ginger plug between his fingers as if it was a remote control joystick. Eventually I fell to my knees on the plush living room carpet, orally persuading him it was time to take the intrusion out of my bottom. After a while, he came to see the virtue of my argument. I can be very persuasive.

Much later that night, I eventually felt his finger reach my clit.

It was better than I’d ever dreamed.

And that was just the start.

We didn’t get much sleep.

* * *

In the run up to Christmas our respective workloads lessened, and so we began to see each other regularly. By then he’d already spanked me in public again, this time on a cold park bench following an early morning jog. He’d put me over his knee and pulled down my jogging bottoms, in moments the accumulated warmth of my exercise had bled away, replaced by the chill of frosty air nipping at my exposed skin. But he soon warmed me up again.

A few joggers ran past us in the halflight, but intriguingly, nobody stopped. Perhaps they mistook my spanking for a cramp-relieving massage. I was beginning to perceive something quite profound about eroticism in public. People see what they want to see.

Later that night, I found myself rather tied up. With ropes.
And he was holding a little brush between his fingers.

“Perineum” I moaned.

He was a master of teaching me things about my own anatomy I never even knew. Tonight he was gently tickling parts of my body with a tiny makeup-brush, challenging me to identify where I was being touched. It was more difficult than it sounds, especially once my mind clouded with lust and the throbbing in my clit threatened to overwhelm every other sensation. And if I got it wrong, six more strokes would be added to the bend-over dance I’d be performing for him afterwards.

I was already due six whacks for gasping “Clitoris!” when his brush had teased my hood, when obviously I should have said “Prepuce”.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” I asked.

He looked up at me as if this was a rather surprising question, coming as it did from someone currently naked and spread-eagled on a bed.

“I usually fly off for some sunshine. But I haven’t decided yet.”

“Stay here with me,” I implored, “come have dinner with my parents.”

“I might behave outrageously…” he warned.

“I certainly hope so.”

“I might embarrass and humiliate you.”

“Mmmm, sounds wonderful” I admitted.

He smiled.

“Six more strokes of the cane, I think.”

“Whatever for?!” I protested.

“Changing the subject.”

And the little brush danced between my legs again.

* * 3 * *

On Christmas morning, Dr J and I nestled beneath the tree and exchanged colourfully wrapped boxes. I hesitate to call them gifts, lest I devalue the preciousness of what we’d given of ourselves to each other over the past fortnight. The items under the tree were mere trinkets by comparison, playful tokens of our affection.

I had bought him a small carving knife, a finger-long blade of gleaming steel, with a handle of intricately decorated Indian sandalwood. I had to make several phone calls and scour some of London’s most esoteric markets before I found it. It been carefully treated, so even now, it smelt faintly of his signature scent. It was an object that encapsulated how I felt about him, sharp, brilliant, beautiful – and devilishly difficult to find.

It was whilst researching where to buy sandalwood that I’d learned it belonged to the same botanical family as mistletoe. How funny, how unexpected. It felt like a sign, an augury that this Christmas I’d stumbled across something that was always meant to be.

After admiring the craftsmanship of the knife, he’d enveloped me in a huge hug, whispering into my ear a promise that he would make good use of it, and carve fresh ginger plugs for me regularly.

The present he passed over to me was also a small box, which I unwrapped with trembly fingers. Inside was heavy velvet-covered box, which flipped open to reveal a gorgeous crystal-tipped butt plug. I laid it in my palm, feeling its weight, and the changing sensations as the metal was warmed by the heat of my hand. The inlay inside the box revealed the plug was solid brass, coated in pure silver. It looked like a magic artefact, gleaming and sparkling like a fallen star.

I punched his shoulder playfully, then threw my arms around him.

* * *

A few hours later, we drove to visit my parents at my old family home. My siblings now lived abroad and were spending Christmas with their new families, so I’d accepted my parents’ invitation to join them for dinner. They’d been understandably thrilled when I’d announced I might be bringing a male ‘friend’ too.

The drive to their house was unexpectedly enjoyable. I was wearing my new plug, which to my delight vibrated deliciously whenever Adrian accelerated, it was as if I could feel the thrumming of the car’s engine inside my bottom. Alas, my highwayman lover had cruelly robbed me of my panties as soon as we’d stepped out of his house, and my underwear was now deposited in his jacket pocket for ‘safekeeping’. I wondered if the above-knee skirt I’d chosen was long enough to preserve my modesty. But given my companion’s dirty mind, I needn’t have fretted; I was unlikely to remain decent for long.

After the hugs, introductions and welcomes we dandered into the kitchen to help prepare dinner. It seemed every time Mum or Dad’s back was turned, his hand would wander towards the hem of my skirt, reaching upward to tug or rub the base of my plug. On several occasions he ran a finger between my moist lips, before raising it to his mouth and announcing loudly: “That’s tastes like it’s ready!”.

At first I must admit I was embarrassed by his intrusions, but there’s something about the frenzy of new lust, and soon I was enjoying our secretive sexy encounters behind my parents’ backs. There was something exhilarating about being in the house where I’d spent my formative years, and feeling like a teenager again.

If it hadn’t been for his strict instructions not to touch myself, I would have fled to the furthest bathroom and relieved myself. When I did need the loo, he had accompanied me, parting my lips to inspect my wetness before I went, and then wiping me dry afterwards. But this erotic mollycoddling just excited me even more.

By the time we sat down for Christmas dinner I was acutely conscious of the plug in my bottom and the soaking patch between my legs. I was worried my parents might notice me squirming, hear a squelch or comment on a strange smell. But in the end, my lover’s wandering foot and our furtive mischief helped make it the best family dinner I think I’d ever had.

Afterwards we retired to the living room, gathering around the fire to exchange our presents. Unexpectedly, Adrian had another present for me, a large but not especially heavy box. When I opened it, I was surprised to find a pair of rather ordinary pale blue pyjamas, together with a pair of slippers.

“Do please excuse us” he said to my parents, and ushered me out of the room with the box still in my hands.

Once in the hall, Adrian asked me to take him to what was my bedroom when I lived here. So I led him upstairs and a few doors down – there it was, since I’d moved away it had been cleared of my cluttering juvenalia, and been redecorated as a more minimalist guest bedroom. But it was still recognisably my bedroom, the space where I’d slept and played and laughed and cried. It was the room where I’d grown up, and just being there made a shiver run through me.

“Get undressed please” he instructed.

I stared at him, trying to second guess his intentions. Did he plan to fuck me? Right here in my faithful old bed? This bed had already been the venue for some significant sexual milestones. It was where I’d first masturbated, where I’d had my first orgasm, and years later when Mum and Dad were away for the weekend, where I’d lost my virginity in what was a rather disappointing encounter.

There was only one way to find out. I kicked off my shoes and pulled my blouse over my head, then let my skirt fall to the floor. Moments later my bra and necklace joined it, and I was naked.

“Now put on your new pyjamas.”

I hesitated, tongue-tied and trembly. He seemed to have that rare ability: to be able to make me stutter and quiver. To make me feel like a teenager again. Infatuated and wobbly.

“Do I keep my plug in?”

He nodded.

“Do I get my panties back?”

He shook his head like that was the most stupid idea in the world.

I pulled on my pyjamas and the slippers without further comment. They were similar to what I used to wear when I slept in this very room, looking in the mirror was like viewing a reflection of my past self.

“Now, young lady, we’re going to go back downstairs, and you’re going to confess to your past Christmas misdemeanours.”

“What?” I stopped, trying to work out what he actually meant.

Ah, that confession. The one I’d made the night we first met, the one intended to make me seem daringly rebellious and interesting. There was, I was now forced to admit, a strong possibility that tactic may have backfired.

“No!” I protested.

“What did you tell me you deserved that night?”

“A spanking” I mumbled reluctantly.

“I seem to remember you were a bit more specific…” he prompted.

I looked at him pleadingly, but he held my gaze without flinching. Eventually I was forced to admit what I really deserved.

“A good hard slippering on my bare bottom” I said at last, feeling my bum clench in shame around my plug as the words left my mouth.

“May I please have my spanking when we get home, Sir?” I begged obsequiously.

“Certainly not. The crimes were committed in this house. So it’s only proper that your punishment takes place here too.”

“Oh Sir!”

My appeal was half-hearted. Not just because I knew I deserved my comeuppance, but because I’d been fantasising about it for as long as I could remember. The prospect of humiliation had always turned me on, and in Dr J I’d found someone I could trust enough to shame me in front of others, and yet keep me safe whilst doing so. After all, that’s why I’d invited here.

“Now shall we get this over with before that damp patch on your pyjamas gets any bigger?”

My new lover understood me too well.

He took me by the hand and led me back downstairs. I felt like a little girl again, my tummy queasy and churning in apprehension. I could see the surprise on my parents’ faces when I re-entered the living room in my pyjamas. We retook our seats without providing an explanation, sitting on the sofa opposite.

“Sorry to keep you waiting” Adrian said at last, in a matter of fact tone, as if we’d just been away waiting for the kettle to boil.

“Now, I think Leila has something that she’d like to confess…”

I looked nervously across at my parents, who were trying to smile pleasantly, but who mostly were wearing expressions of puzzled bewilderment.

“Mum… Dad…” I began.

“When I was little I used to sneak downstairs on Christmas morning whilst everyone was asleep. I wanted to try to snatch a glimpse of Santa, and maybe even feed the carrots to his reindeer! But no matter how early I got up, I was never able to catch them.”

“So, every Christmas morning I seemed to end up alone downstairs with all the presents under the tree. I think my anticipation of finally seeing Santa fed an uncontrollable impatience. So when I missed Santa I just couldn’t wait to tear open my presents instead. I knew it was wrong, so I got some sellotape and taped them closed to cover my tracks.”

Time softens all crimes. Had I confessed this twenty years ago, I’m sure it would have resulted in severe frowns and a good telling off. But now it was met by nostalgic smiles, as if my parents were picturing that scene from long ago, enchanted by how cute it was.

“But I couldn’t stop there. Next Christmas I needed to know what everyone got first. So, I fetched the letter opener from Dad’s office, and carefully opened everyone else’s too. And then I taped them up again so no-one ever knew.”

“And why did you peek inside everyone’s presents?” he prompted.

“I peeked because it made me feel like I was being extra naughty” I confessed.

What I didn’t say was that my subterfuge was motivated by the kind of hijinks I used to read about in my comics. But being morality tales in disguise, the comic characters always got caught in the end, and were often spanked for their transgressions. So after I concealed the evidence of my intrusion I would go back to my bed and imagine what it would have been like to be caught and spanked. It used to give me a strange tingle between my legs. So I began to rub myself to make the tingling go away, and then I discovered that just made me want to rub it even more.

That night in the bar, I’d told the good doctor that as I’d got older I used to fantasise about Daddy catching me red-handed sitting amongst the pilfered presents. As I rubbed myself I’d picture being led to the sofa, and being put across his knee. My pyjama bottoms would fall to the floor and he’d pluck a slipper from my foot. Then I’d be spanked, just hard enough to make my bottom tingle, but not hard enough to wake those still sleeping upstairs. Not that he ever would have dreamt of hurting me in reality, of course. But perhaps the improbability of it all was what made it so erotic.

“And what do you think should be the consequences for your childish naughtiness?”

I drew in a deep breath, and turned to face my lover.

“I deserve a good hard slippering on my bare bottom.”

I must have practiced that phrase in my mind a thousand times, it felt so good to be able to finally say it out loud. Even though I could feel my cheeks scorching with embarrassment. But my parents were smart, open-minded people, and whilst growing up I’d overheard the sound of spanking coming from their bedroom many times. So I suspected they’d understand what was really going on.

“Yes, I think that would be an apposite punishment” Adrian confirmed.

I felt his fingers brush against my sides, entering the elastic waistband of my pyjamas and helping them over my hips. The garment fell to the floor as silently as snowflakes, revealing my bare mound to my parents’ startled eyes. Without needing to be told, I wilted over his knee.

He plucked a slipper from one of my flailing feet, and held it for a moment across my bare bottom. Mercifully from where they were sitting, my parents wouldn’t have been able to see the sparkling jewel between my cheeks, or how swollen and wet I was.

The first whack echoed around the room, shocking my mother into a stifled gasp. Despite our audience, Adrian did not hold back, he spanked me just as hard as he would have done at home. The soft rubber soles of the slipper delivered a shallow pain, each smack stinging a wide patch of my tender cheeks.

I kept my hands on the floor and took my punishment like a good little girl, never begging or pleading or squirming, just the occasional involuntary ooo! and ah! when the heat in my backside became too hot to ignore.

Occasionally Adrian would pause, and engage my parents in conversation, as if the spanking he was delivering was an unremarkable event.

“I believe Leila was never spanked as a little girl?’

“Oh no” answered my father, “We didn’t believe in that.”

“Very laudable” Adrian replied, “I think this is a far more appropriate age to punish childhood misdemeanours.”

I looked up from the floor, shocked to see my parents nodding in agreement. I had thought they’d be looking on in horrified fascination, but they both seemed remarkably relaxed, lounging back on the sofa, just enjoying the show.

My spanking resumed. I counted them under my breath, another twenty whacks, one every five seconds or so. One cheek, then the other, so the impact of the last spank was still burning by the time the following one landed. As I kept my legs apart, sometimes the slipper landed between my cheeks, and then I could feel my butt plug trembling.

Every part of my bottom felt hot and stingy now. Every spank landed on an area that was already sore. When he eventually stopped and rubbed my bum with the slipper, the smooth sole no longer felt soothingly cool – it felt surprisingly warm.

Adrian let me lie across his lap for a few minutes, whilst the others continued their conversation. From my position staring into the carpet I could only shriek when I heard him reveal that I got regular spankings at home, and that they’d probably already noticed an improvement in my behaviour. He really was an awful tease.

Afterwards he helped me to my feet and pulled up my pyjamas, and I retook my place beside him on the sofa, my sore spanked bottom smouldering underneath. I listened in stunned silence as my parents begin to spill my childhood secrets, revealing all the naughty things they could remember me doing. At this point Adrian took out his phone and, to my horror, started making notes. By the end he was promising that I’d be soundly spanked over the coming months for my past misdemeanours.

Rather than complain about this long-deferred retribution, I decided to hold my tongue and found myself wondering what would happen if parents really did keep a naughty book of each child’s misbehaviours. After all, there would be no need to spank a child if you could warn them that they’d pay the penalty for their misdemeanours when they were all grown up.

When would be the right time to open that naughty book? Perhaps when the son or daughter prevailed in that ultimate rite of passage: meeting someone and falling in love? Perhaps that’s when the naughty book would be finally be opened, handed over like some kind of heirloom, or a dowry. It could be exchanged at weddings, the transgressions of the bride and groom. Young children might not understand, but teenagers certainly would. I pondered how that might change teen behaviour, knowing a future soulmate might eventually discover all their laziness, brattiness and intransigence.

By the sound of it, my own future would be featuring bottom warmings I’d earned by sins committed long ago, and knowing Dr J, many of those spankings would take place in public. I squirmed on my plug and my stinging cheeks, keeping my knees clenched firmly together, lest I reveal the damp patch spreading across my crotch.

When Adrian had finished accumulating details of my past naughtiness, he took me upstairs to change back into my big girl clothes. But not before he had me get onto all fours on my old bed for a thorough inspection of my sore bottom and my wet gaping slit. I begged him to take me there and then, but he just smiled and told me to be a good girl.

So I left my old bedroom achingly wet and desperate for relief. Which might have contributed to my eagerness to say cheerio to my parents and get back to the car. Not that they seemed especially disappointed. If anything, they seemed rather happy to see us go. Although I didn’t quite understand why at the time.

We drove home through a dark frosty night, laughing and giggling about our kinky capers. When we did eventually reach Adrian’s place I rang my parents to announce our safe arrival. Oddly though, no one answered.

“I wonder what they’re doing?” I asked.

“Fucking, probably” he replied nonchalantly.

I squealed in mock disgust, but then realised: if that really was what they were doing, it would undoubtedly be the best gift I’d given them in years. It was kind of weird imagining mummy over daddy’s knee, and what might happen afterward, but why shouldn’t they enjoy that pleasure? I found myself hoping the good doctor was right.

* * *

There’s a gift better than any gadget, better than any shoes, better than any garment or luxurious trinket. A gift that can’t be bought, or wrapped and left under a tree.

It’s the embrace of a lover, of knowing them intimately. The sensation of perfect safety, the freedom of finally revealing yourself. The adventure of a lifetime. It is a gift that can make its recipient delirious with joy.

We fucked under the glow of the Christmas lights, in front of a roaring fire.
We inhaled each other deeply.
He smelt of sandalwood.
I smelt of ginger.

@spankingtheatre 2014

Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.

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