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Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

Month

October 2016

How to enjoy an erotic ghost story

Stolen Essence, a brand new Halloween ghost story, has just been posted.

So here’s a few ideas for enjoying erotic ghost stories, and creating a playtime with a macabre twist…

The Captive

Imagine you’re held captive in a dungeon. Tie a wrist, a collar or your panties to the frame of your bed. Alternatively, tie your ankles to the front legs of a chair to hold your legs open. If your chosen scenario demands you are kept quiet, put your panties in your mouth to muffle your screams. Turn off the light and read the story illuminated by just your screen.

Why are you imprisoned? Perhaps you’ve been kidnapped or captured for ransom, perhaps you’re a rebel or pirate awaiting execution. Spank, pleasure and torment yourself as your imagination demands.

The Candle

Sit cross-legged and naked, with just a single long thick candle for company. Put a condom on the blunt end, light the wick at the other, and turn out the lights. Put something underneath you (like scrap paper) to catch any dripping wax, then read the story as you masturbate with the candle – without letting it go out.

If it does go out, give yourself a 2-minute spanking in the dark as a forfeit before you re-light the candle. If you like the burning sensation of molten wax, play with the candle above you, otherwise angle the candle away from you, with something underneath to catch the dripping wax. Perhaps you’ll be creative and use your candle to roleplay a witches’ coven, or an exorcism, or a seance…

The Magic Wand

Put on your wizard/witch’s robe (a sheet will suffice), with nothing underneath. As you read the story, cast spells with your magic wand – they might be protection spells, seeing spells, or punishment or pleasure spells that allow you the magician to vicariously experience aspects of the story.

If you own one of those old-fashioned wands – a stick, ruler or rod, cast your spells with smacks to your hands, thighs and bottom. If you have one of those new high-tech vibrating wands, you may cast your spells all over your body (and not just between your legs).

You might even want to go for a ride on your broom. Have you ever noticed how witches ride with their broomsticks right between their slits, tilted upwards to press their clits?

The Bedtime Story

Get someone to put you to bed, and read you a creepy story by candlelight. The reader doesn’t need to be in the same location as you, they can read it over a video chat. If they are nearby, it means reassuring hugs, rubs and cuddles during the scary bits. You might even find the story literally scares the pants off you.

Just be sure to ask for your storyteller’s permission before touching yourself, or your might find yourself pulled out of bed for a spanking, before being made to stand in the corner with a sore bum in the dark…

Halloween is a great excuse to explore and experiment with darker, more shadowy themes like
trepidation and anxiety, transgression and escapism, and jeopardy and torment. If you have a partner, and like the idea of Halloween-themed playtime, you might want to share this post with them. 

And if you’ve read Stolen Essence, and are keen to carry on playing, here’s a few more erotic ghost stories you might enjoy…

Stolen Essence

A Gothic Spanking Ghost Story

“… and as she dangled before the assembled townsfolk, the wicked witch cast her most terrible curse. Its infernal power magnified by being spat out by her dying breath. All those watching as the hanging witch choked in the noose suddenly felt a fiery grip squeeze their own throats, as if they’d each been assailed by an invisible strangler. They flailed helplessly at their necks, staring at their neighbours with panicked, bulging eyes…”

“… and then, at the very moment the witch’s feet stopped kicking: the entire population of the town fell to the ground. Stone. Dead.”

Evelyn delivered the denouement of her tale with a clap of her hands, sending a shudder through the seven other girls listening. Her friends sat cross-legged in a circle, their faces shrouded in darkness. Surrounding them was a ring of white candles, whose timid flickering flames also seemed to tremble at Evelyn’s revelation, straining as if trying to hold back the encroaching blackness.

There was a murmur of approval for Evelyn’s story – definitely the creepiest and most disturbing so far. The Ghost Story Circle had become a tradition at Jessica’s Halloween parties, with everyone expected to take their turn as the storyteller. Some even spent weeks researching, writing and memorising their stories. Everyone knew Evelyn was a perfectionist, and had chosen as her inspiration the hoary old local folk tale of The Village of the Damned.

Some say, long ago in times of old, that a band of travelling tinkers once stumbled across a deserted village. Empty of people – but full of skeletons. Their bones scattered across the town square like an abattoir floor. They told of a single vacant noose dangling from the gallows that loomed over the silent village square. But what had really happened there? An epidemic of pestilence? A bandit massacre? Who can say for certain? Perhaps there’s a grain of truth in every ghost story, and that’s what really scares us.

Almost everyone had told their own story by now. There had already been tales of serial killers and ghost ships, dread pirates and horrific contagions that made the skin blister and bones melt. The stories had definitely been getting gorier as the friends had got older, as they’d become intimately familiar with blood and bleeding. More recently, their imaginations had assimilated new vocabularies from horror movies, and the psycho-sexual dramas of the gothic.

Now, it was Evelyn’s turn to pass the candlestick to her left, to the next girl in their circle. The storyteller would be the only one illuminated, a single flame lighting her face as her audience sat timorously in the dark, the speaker’s words conjuring sinister visions between their ears…

Amelia took possession of the old iron candlestick, desperately hoping that inspiration would strike. She’d known she’d have to tell a story tonight, and had made up something she’d thought was rather scary at the time. But now, after hearing the exceptionally crafted terrors of her friends, her own tale seemed tame and – even worse – embarrassingly childish. She wracked her brain, frantically searching the archives of her mind for something horrible, a long-forgotten memory of something that once shocked and frightened her. But her imagination remained as dark and devoid as the room all around her.

Until, unbidden, one memory did materialise in her mind. But it wasn’t at all what Amelia had been trying to remember.

She remembered a night she’d been doing her homework. She had needed to write a story, but try as she might, her imagination had deserted her. It was late, and soon Daddy would be up to put her to bed and turn out the lights, and she’d never complete her story. She’d go to school the next morning, be asked for her story, and be humiliated in front of the whole class.

No one had ever been spanked at her school, but a wholly unexpected sequence of images suddenly flashed through her mind. Being put over her teacher’s knee. Having her skirt lifted. Having her panties pulled down. Having her bare bottom spanked with the wooden ruler until it was hot and pink. And then having to take her seat, sitting down on her sore bottom as all around her classmates giggled.

Amelia could remember exactly how the fear bubbled inside her, like the contents of a foul and fetid cauldron. She could feel her heart thumping, her clammy skin beginning to tingle, her tummy fluttering and churning. And a sudden wetness between her legs.

She clamped her thighs shut, aghast at the terrible realisation that she might have wet herself. She could feel the tingling sensation between her legs now, her hands immediately flew to her crotch, hoping to hold back the pee whilst she fled to the lavatory. Her fingers found her pyjama bottoms were wet; but it was a completely unexpected kind of wet.

In the distance, Amelia heard Daddy’s footsteps approaching, plodding slowly up the stairs. She turned off her light, and retreated under her bedcovers, exchanging goodnights when he opened her door, then resuming her explorations when he’d gone.

That night, she dreamed about her wetness; where it had sprung from, and why. It soon became a recurring dream, endlessly embellished and elaborated upon until it had become one of her favourite fantasies. Whenever she summoned it, she always took care to place a flannel in her pyjamas, to soak up what she inevitably spilled. What she saw in her mind somehow felt more than fantasy, like somewhere within it was a grain of truth, an aspect of reality that wasn’t entirely imagined.

In the darkness around her, Amelia heard giggles. The familiar fear of humiliation began to bubble inside her, like the baleful froth of a pernicious potion. She could feel her skin, clammy and tingling, like a hoard of insects had begun crawling across her flesh. And between her legs, the wicked slick of her wetness.

You know what happens when you get wet, girl; said an imperious voice deep inside her head. Why don’t you tell them?

When Amelia next opened her mouth, it was her voice, but it felt as if someone else was speaking for her. A river of words began to flow, and soon it had swept her disbelieving audience away.

In a realm beyond our seeing, Amelia announced ominously, a devious magical being dwells.

The Warlock is a sorcerer. An alchemist. He exists outside time, now immortal, having long ago discovered the secret of eternal youth. Yet mortality stalks him like a fearful spectre. To preserve his vitality he must imbibe it. But he can not concoct it. So he must steal it.

The Warlock is a thief. An abductor. To keep death at bay he must seize the vital essence on which he depends. From any one of us. Because the essence he seeks is a dew that seeps. It is the product of our most intimate lips.

And so he watches our realm, his consciousness hovering above us, in the ghost dimension we can not see. Watching. Sensing. Like an octopus floating just above its buried prey. His tentacles feeling, probing. Waiting to plunge, and whisk you away.   

But the Warlock’s selection is most particular. Those made wet by their lust are of no interest, he seeks only the naughtiest girls, those whose wetness arises from some sin. Those who act out of pride, or sloth, or envy. Shall I tell you where the Warlock found me? And how he caught me?


It was a warm beautiful autumn day, and I was sneaking out of the house, tip-toeing carefully down the stairs with a little pack on my back. I was dressed for mischief, wearing my favourite light pink summer dress.

I knew there were chores to be done. Visitors were coming to our house later, and my Mum was already busy cleaning. I knew if I was seen, I’d be certain to be roped into some drudgery. But I wanted to go out and play. To be more precise, I wanted to go out and play with myself. Underneath my dress, I was not wearing any panties.

Ever since I was a little girl I’d been exploring a little island of woodland near our house. I began to venture deeper and deeper, drawing maps at first, plotting all the tracks and the paths. Giving names to places: there was a Bluebell Grove and Old Mr Oak, Brambly Thickets and Hollybush Hollow.

I had come to regard it as My Wood, my private little kingdom – because in all my time I’d spent trudging through the place, I’d never encountered another soul. Dog walkers kept to the nearby common, as technically there wasn’t any public right-of-way; I had to traipse across farmland to reach My Wood, simply ignoring the weather-bleached “Private Property” signs. But no-one ever confronted me.

As I got older, I came to appreciate its seclusion for another reason. I had discovered the pleasures that lurked between my legs, but my bedroom door had no lock to hide behind. An intense rubbing in the shower or behind a locked toilet door could take away the craving, but if I wanted to play for longer, to explore without arousing suspicions amongst my family, I needed somewhere with some privacy.

That’s when I remembered the wood I’d explored so comprehensively when I was young. So whenever I felt the craving to play I’d venture into the woods, along its familiar tracks and trails, until I reached a little clearing on a mound. My ordnance survey map labelled this place a tumulus – an ancient barrow grave. Goodness knows what skeletons lurk beneath my feet. But I loved it because it was a perfect vantage point, somewhere I could hear anyone approaching, long before they caught sight of me.

As I began to visit the mound regularly, I started to bring a little yellow and black picnic blanket in my rucksack. I liked to spread it on the ground, so I could lie down and unbutton my jeans, then tug down my panties and play, the foliage of the ring of trees surrounding me, muffling my naughty gasps.

Soon the mound began to appear in my dreams, I’d imagine sneaking off to play, only to find a strange man waiting for me in the clearing. He’d tell me he knew exactly why I was coming here, and that I was a very bad girl who needed to have her bare bottom smacked. Somehow he had one of my bedroom slippers in his hand.

There’s a couple of small trees on the mound, and I noticed my stripy yellow and black blanket was already draped over one thick branch. The stranger led me by the hand until I was standing in front of it, then pulled my pyjama bottoms right down. The branch was slightly too high for me, so he wrapped his hands around my hips and lifted me up, until I was bent over the branch, my hands and feet dangling in mid-air.

Then I imagined he spanked me, long and hard, until I was crying profusely, my tears trickling down my face, and dropping into little craters in the dusty earth beneath my kicking feet.

After that, my fantasies became ever more elaborate, I’d imagine leading you all into the woods, and the stranger would make us all undress and examine each other. And then, under his meticulously strict supervision, we’d take it in turns to spank each other hard, until all of our bottoms were pink and sore.

I became bolder in my own real-life playings too, when I arrived at the mound I’d sometimes undress completely, imagining the strange man was somewhere in the bushes watching me. I’d lie down on my blanket and spread my legs, so my imaginary voyeur could get a better look. As I played, I’d give him quite a show.

I started bringing a wooden ruler in my rucksack, just so I could imagine the stranger interrupting me just before I came. He’d scold me and lead me to the special spanking branch, covering it with my blanket. I’d bend over it, hauling myself up so my feet were dangling off the ground – and then I’d spank myself just like I imagined he would have done, reaching round to whack my bare bum with the end of my ruler.

Soon, my spanking branch also became my favourite wanking branch. I’d straddle it, my legs dangling on either side, and slowly grind myself upon it. I loved to watch the birds and the bees flitting through the canopy all around me as I rode the tree’s rough bark, its knots and nodules just underneath my thin woolen blanket providing such varied sensations to my tender lips. Sometimes, if I was aroused enough, I could even push myself over the edge by spanking myself, grinding my button against the thick branch, climaxing as my feet kicked in the air and my bottom burned.

I liked to look down at my little pile of discarded clothes, imagining the drama if I was to climb one of the highest trees and someone was to come looking for me. If they accidentally stumbled across my secret glade and saw my clothes, they’d think I’d been abducted for sure! I especially enjoyed imagining looking down from a lofty perch high in a towering tree as everyone I knew fretted and searched for me. No matter how down I was, that would always cheer me up. I would climax believing I was actually very important, that although no one ever said it to my face – secretly everyone really cared.

So I began fantasising about my own disappearance, plotting the details, and imagining how much I’d be missed. It made me wet. Soaking wet.

And that’s when he took me. As I masturbated self-importantly as my mother slaved away in the house, wondering where I’d gone, doing all the chores I was supposed to do.

Everything I’m going to tell you next happened within the blink of an eye.

One moment I was in the wood, straddling my branch, my fingertip frantically rubbing my little pink button. I could hear my heart thundering in my chest, the thumping in my ears quickening as I sped urgently towards my climax.

The very next moment I found myself chained by the neck to a cold stone wall.

I was naked. And I was not alone.


Two shocked faces stared back at me, as if they’d suddenly just noticed something obvious in the corner of the room after several hours of overlooking it completely.

Like me, both had heavy iron collars around their necks, which were connected by a chunky chain to a rail fixed to the wall. The chains allowed each of us only enough freedom to shuffle along our beds, which were set against three of the room’s four walls. The fourth wall had an opening, where one might have expected a door to be, it was the cell’s only aperture. There were no other windows. The stones of the cell glowed with a cold wan light.

Unlike me, my cellmates were clothed. On the bed opposite me was a young lady of oriental appearance. Pale-skinned, with shiny neck-length black hair, she was dressed in a sailor-style school uniform. To my left, on the bed facing the doorway, was another pale-skinned young lady, but this time one with auburn hair. She was dressed in what looked like an old-fashioned full-length white linen nightgown. I hadn’t been wearing anything when I was playing with myself in the woods a moment ago, and I still wasn’t wearing anything now. Fortunately I was able to wrap myself in a sheet from the bed to keep myself warm and preserve some of my modesty.

My first action was to stand and walk forward, until the cruel collar choked me back, craning my neck to try to look out through the doorway. What I glimpsed made me teeter with giddiness.

Outside our cell was a vast cavernous space, in the far distance, a constellation of light twinkled in the darkness. At first glance, I thought I was looking out into a clear starry sky, only to realise the lights in the far distance were actually cells just like my own. It became apparent that this was an enormous prison built into the sides of a grim mountain range. When I peered down into the chasm of a mist-shrouded valley beneath us, it might well have been bottomless. Above me, towers and turrets clung to the tops of the highest peaks and crags. The sky was the darkest of blues, the colour of the deep ocean, just before the last vestiges of sunlight are swallowed by the abyss.

I staggered back to the bed disorientated, my head swimming with questions.

Constance, the redhead in the nightgown introduced herself first. She spoke with a refined English accent, and her language was rather archaic, as if she was trying too hard to project an air of superiority. The girl in the sailor uniform turned out to be Japanese, her name was Hanae. But communication with Hanae proved more laboured as her knowledge of English was quite limited.

Neither girl knew how long they’d been captive here, but both knew the identity of their abductor, a powerful being they called The Warlock. What we could see through the doorway was part of his castle, a vast structure of towers and dungeons, home to countless numbers of captives, just like us.

But why us? I wondered if it was a coincidence that I was naked the moment I was brought here, and was the only one of us unclothed. So I asked my cellmates: what was the very last thing you remember before you arrived here?

Constance said she was lying in bed. Hanae said she was in her school’s lavatory. That would indeed explain what we each were wearing. They were naturally curious why I was naked, so I lied and said I had been in the bath, which triggered the exchange of knowing looks. They knew something, I realised. So I probed Constance a bit further.

After some cajoling, Constance revealed her story, a curious tale of sisterly rivalry and a pilfered chocolate cake. It seems a dinner party had been planned for the Queen’s coronation, and Constance had been quarrelling with her younger sister Clarice, over something utterly trivial, as siblings are want to do.

On the day of the party itself, Constance had been doing some chores in the pantry when she had stumbled across a newly baked chocolate cake. Deep within her, a devious plan began to boil. She wrapped the cake in a towel, and secreted it away from the kitchen and upstairs to Clarice’s room. There, she carved out a slice and enjoyed it guiltily, before hiding the remaining cake in her sister’s bedside table. Finally, Constance had gathered a handful of dark brown crumbs and scattered them conspicuously outside her sister’s room and the nearby landing. The plot was complete once she’d cleaned her teeth, washed the chocolate from her fingers and lips, and innocently returned downstairs.

The hullabaloo started an hour later when the cake was reported missing. The anxious servants had begun an urgent house-wide search, soon stumbling across the helpfully laid trail of crumbs, which they fastidiously followed to discover the stolen cake in Clarice’s bedroom. Summoned in front of their mother, Clarice was understandably unable to account for its presence of the cake in her room. Constance had to smother her smirk as it was announced Clarice would be spanked at tonight’s dinner party and sent to bed early.  

That evening, Constance dressed up in her fanciest clothes, making her feel very grown-up and important indeed, whilst her sister suffered the ignominy of attending the dinner table in her nightclothes. When the time came for dessert, and what remained of the cake, Clarice’s shabby crime was announced. To tuts of shame and disapproving shakes of the head from the assembled guests, she was led from the table in disgrace by their father. Clarice was then made to kneel on an ottoman, her hands on the floor, and in full view of everyone, the hem of her nightgown was raised to her back, exposing her bare bottom for all to see. If she was going to steal like a little girl, she could expect to get spanked like one too, without modesty.

The honour of disciplining Clarice was given to Reverend Smight, the local vicar.. A vivacious middle-aged family man with three teenage daughters of his own, he was well aware of the importance of Christian discipline. Thus in the large bible he carried everywhere, he used a heavy leather strap as its bookmark. Tonight, before he performed his solemn duty he gave a brief reading on moral rectitude from Proverbs, and a short lesson on the virtuous effects of a spanking on wayward young ladies.

As she related her story, Constance admitted how she watched transfixed as their vicar placed the thick strap against her sister’s quivering bottom. Constance said she’d never been more excited, she could even feel her own wetness seeping in her drawers, her little button made hot and hard.

The first whack reverberated through the dining room, the first of a dozen that left bright red bands on Clarice’s poor bottom. She took her spanking stoically, trying not to make an embarrassing scene in front of the distinguished guests. Constance could see how her sister fought the urge to squirm, gripping her thighs closed tight, lest she reveal the furrow between her legs. But her lunging position meant she was powerless to prevent her buttocks parting, so everyone got a peep of the little pink ring of her bottom hole.

After a dozen whacks, the reverend admonished Clarice and retook his seat, leaving the poor girl with her hands on the floor and her spanked bottom high in the air. Clarice then had to listen as the guests enjoyed the delicious dessert behind her, whilst pointedly discussing issues of modern morality and declining standards of behaviour. When the time came for the dinner table to be cleared, Clarice was eventually allowed to rise, apologise to all those present, and was duly sent upstairs to bed.

Later in the reception room, Constance overheard discussions between the vicar and her father. She was delighted to learn her sister would be receiving some remedial instruction after Sunday School on each of the Ten Commandments. It was agreed that this lesson would be most effectively delivered with her dress lifted, bending over her desk rather than sitting behind it.

For Constance, the whole scheme had been a stunning success. Her sister’s reputation had been thoroughly besmirched, whilst she herself had shone like a model of probity. And the whacking she’d got to witness had been thrillingly exciting, she couldn’t wait to get to bed that night and rub away the ache. She knew she had sinned, but was absolutely soaking. No one had mentioned the wages of sin felt this good.

In the darkness of her bedroom, she replayed Clarice’s spanking behind her own closed eyes, rubbing her naughty place in tight quick circles. Glimpses of another fantasy flashed through her fevered mind, watching bare-bottom canings at her Sunday School. Of course, she deserved a good hard whacking too, and she reached the edge of her climax just as the good reverend lifted her dress.

And that’s when The Warlock took her. That was the last thing Constance said she could remember.

So it seemed we’d both been snatched away whilst we’d been masturbating, on the very brink of orgasm. But there was a little detail of Constance’s story that lingered frustratingly in my mind, like a loose thread dangling from a sleeve. She had mentioned the new Queen’s coronation – but she also seemed to be English, so how could that be? Who was the Queen? I asked. Constance looked down at me like I was a particularly idiotic little child, and sighed: Queen Victoria, silly!

Her answer hit me like a slap; in fact, I remember physically recoiling from the shock of its implications. If Constance was telling the truth, she had just been transported here from the year 1838. Which meant if all this was not some elaborate contrivance, she had either been imprisoned here for almost 200 years. Or time had no meaning here at all.

Bewildered, I urgently asked Hanae for her story. Her English was imperfect but understandable, a product of attending an American-run ladies college in Kyoto. She claimed to be eighteen years old and insisted the current year was 1960 – a revelation I found most disturbing indeed.

It seems Hanae was the head girl of her school, and took her responsibilities very seriously indeed. With a bowed head and a meek contrite voice she readily confessed that she enjoyed getting her peers into trouble, since breaking school rules meant a spanking from Headmaster Kido-san. And Hanae always got to watch.

As head girl, Hanae was obliged to manage the ritual of corporal punishment. That meant escorting rule-breakers to the detention room, consulting the school rulebook and determining the consequences of each miscreant’s transgression. Hanae would then write their name, crime and sentence on a little card, which she’d fix with a safety-pin to the tails of the offender’s blouse.

As a mark of respect and penitence, girls were expected to be already bent over and bared when their headmaster entered the room, with their hands grasping their ankles. Thanks to Hanae the first sight he’d see would be a row of pale quivering bottoms, each captioned by a carefully placed card above, which explained both the offender’s crime and her expected punishment.

School regulations dictated all spankings be administered to bare bottoms, so Hanae was also responsible for unbuttoning and removing each girl’s skirt, and pulling down her knickers. In the interests of meticulousness, Hanae had taken it upon herself to conduct an unofficial bottom inspection of those due to be spanked, adjusting each girl’s stance so her feet were kept a ruler length apart. That did result in an inevitable loss of modesty, so Hanae helpfully checked each girl’s anus was clean, and her vulva wasn’t glistening with signs of sexual excitement. A quick wipe with a tissue would resolve both issues, and prevent any embarrassment when the headmaster ultimately arrived.

On the last day Hanae could remember, one of the younger pupils had dutifully handed her a packet of cigarettes and a lighter they’d found dropped in a corridor. The items had probably belonged to a teacher, as smoking amongst pupils was strictly forbidden, and Hanae should really have just handed them into the staff room. But in the illicit items, Hanae saw a marvellous opportunity.

She discreetly placed the packet in the senior girls’ common room, and then left, watching surreptitiously from just outside the door. The cigarettes were soon discovered, initially unclaimed, and then excitedly shared around those present. Soon, they were ignited too.

Moments later, Hanae strode purposefully into the common room, and into the stinking, choking fog. She’d already written down the names of those who’d been smoking as she stood in the doorway, and now read them aloud as the guilty hurriedly tried to discard the incriminating evidence. Those identified were to told to report to the detention room after school – and all knew they’d be going home with stripes on their bottoms. Those who took the bus home knew they would spend the journey standing.

Hanae visited her headmaster soon afterwards, reporting how she’d caught twelve of her classmates smoking, and respectfully requesting his presence in the detention room after school to dispense the necessary punishment. She had barely been able to hide her excitement.

Later that day, Hanae bowed to her waist as Headmaster Kido-san arrived to restore the school’s honour. The twelve girls had been divided into two groups on either side of the room, each facing the wall. Kido-san moved solemnly along both lines, reading the cards, familiarising himself with the names of the naughty. In all cases, the crime and sentence was the same. Caught smoking. 18 strokes of the cane.

The next time the headmaster moved down the line, he was carrying a long thin bamboo cane. Each girl was whacked six times before he moved on to her neighbour. He wielded the cane with the elegant artistry of a kendo master, covering the ground with the minimum number of footsteps, his rod arcing through the air in perfect curves that would have made a calligraphy master proud.

He moved through the girls three times, until each had received the 18 stripes their offense had required. Hanae admitted that she watched from behind in a state of silent excitement, her damp knickers clinging to the swelling folds of her slit. She wanted so much to touch herself, especially when the headmaster’s cane smacked the trembling bottoms of those she considered her rivals.

When the caning was complete, Hanae respectfully took the cane from her headmaster’s hands, returning it to the rack on wall. Hanae bowed as her Headmaster left, without saying another word. He did not believe in scolding, those with sore bottoms would have plenty of time to rebuke themselves for their own indiscretions before their marks faded.

Hanae left the twelve girls bending over in position for 30 minutes, time enough to stroll down the two rows, inspecting the thin red lines that had been painted on each buttock. When the time came to get each girl to step into her knickers, she checked between their legs as she pulled up their underwear, and wasn’t surprised to see most of her classmates had glistening lips too.

By the time she’d pulled up everyone’s panties, Hanae confessed that she was desperate with desire. She told the girls to put on their own skirts and dismissed them, before hurrying away to a single room toilet a few corridors away. Door locked and alone at last, she pulled down her own panties to reveal a sticky, gooey mess, and an urgent ache in her slit that required her immediate attention.

Hanae freely admitted that she sat on the lavatory seat and rubbed herself wantonly, any lingering guilt about getting her classmates punished now banished from her mind. Instead, she replayed their whackings in her head, every swish and smack, and every stifled sniffle. She spread her own thighs wide, stretching her sticky knickers taut between her ankles, arching her back, feeling the cool air tingle her gaping lips as she prepared to come hard.

And then everything changed. That was the moment the Warlock took her, and Hanae found herself alone in this cell with the collar around her neck. Overcome with guilt, Hanae’s initial reaction was to burst into tears. Constance had materialised out of thin air some time later, an answer to Hanae’s prayers, someone to keep her company at last.

As a Buddhist, Hanae thinks this place is the Bardo, and she is being punished for her selfish wickedness. I had to admit, given the depravities we’ve each been guilty of, it’s as good an explanation as any. One thing seems clear, we hadn’t just been brought here from different places, but from different times.

Perhaps the Warlock’s world is a realm outside our time. I know for a fact the year is 2016. Yet if Constance is who she says she is, I’m looking at someone who has been dead for at least one hundred years. I’m looking at a ghost. Hanae will have been withered by age, and perhaps she too is dead. I may well be in the company of ghosts.

Yet as I pondered my predicament, I could feel the moistness seep between my legs. I must confess I’d found my cellmates’ stories rather arousing, and discreetly slipped my hand underneath my sheet to try to satisfy myself. But I could not, I found a powerful force repelled my fingertips – cruelly foiling any attempt to touch between my legs, as if it were the coming together of two similar magnets.

Suddenly, the light that illuminated us was extinguished, plunging us all into a frightening abyssal darkness. With no other sanctuary, we curled up in our beds like frightened little girls until we are smothered by the blessed blanket of sleep.

That’s when he comes for us.


Days do not exist here. We do not eat, or drink. When not staring out into the grim eerie void, we spend our time chatting. We have jokingly come to call our new home The Faraway Land of Naughty Girls.

We talk and share stories until, eventually, our light is extinguished, immersing us into a terrifying, absolute blackness.

We cower in our beds, trembling until we fall asleep, until we plunge into intensely lucid erotic dreams. It took me a while to understand what is happening, but I think I understand it all now.

The Warlock is farming us.

He is harvesting us for the precious dew that drips from our slits when we are excited the most. He knows the highest quality essence comes from those long denied, that’s why we’re kept in a state of enchanted chastity, unable to touch ourselves. That’s why we’re kept in bondage, he knows our predicament torments us, yet it also excites us. He leaves us to ripen, our empty minds eagerly filling themselves with naughty thoughts, not just our own fantasies but those of our cellmates.

Then, when we’re wet enough, he comes for us in our dreams.

The Warlock appears differently to each of us. When he comes for Constance he assumes the role of Reverend Smight. Hanae and I share her dream as wordness witnesses, we are dressed in Georgian finery, all ruffles and petticoats, seated at the dinner table. This time, there are no other guests.

Where once was the ottoman Clarice knelt on for her spanking, now there is furniture of a very different kind.

I have come to call it the milking plinth. It is exquisitely sculpted, a knee-high column of the purest white marble, topped by a tall angled dildo with a round bulbous head. Little ridges and undulations protrude from its shaft, this is a device designed to amplify its sitters pleasure, thus maximising the essence she drips.

From the dinner table I see Constance is naked, her mound hairless and smooth. The reverend guides her towards the plinth, she kneels as instructed, in some obscene parody of prayer. Below her crotch, the thick knobbly protrusion parts her lips, lurking just beneath her glinting entrance.

The reverend has the black leather strap in his hand, he begins a short sermon, telling Constance that she has sinned, and this is the hour of her repentance. Constance begins to sink lower onto the protrusion, moaning as it fills her. She takes it all, surprisingly deep.

Now the vicar swings the strap, slapping Constance’s bum with a vicious smack that rings in our ears. She recoils, sliding upwards on the dildo, before sinking down to its base again, emitting a long low groan of pleasure as she does so.

The milking process couldn’t be simpler, her whacking nudges her up the dildo, before gravity ensures she sinks back down on it. Meanwhile Constance’s arousal runs down inside the tiny channels engraved on the shaft, and into a crystal collecting vessel. There is also a curved dish in front of her mound, to catch and collect any vital essence she might happen to squirt.

The reverend spanks Constance long and hard, sometimes stopping to splay apart her hot red cheeks and plunge a finger deep into her bottom hole. Hanae and I watch in stupefied silence as Constance convulses upon the dildo, trickling ever more dew into the tiny shimmering vial.

When Constance has been milked to the point of delirious exhaustion – our shared dream fades, and becomes the turn of Hanae, or myself.

Hanae walks contritely into her school’s detention room to find the marble milking plinth waiting for her. Constance and I watch in silence from the back of the room, impeccably dressed in our cutesy sailor uniforms. Hanae is naked, and kneels submissively on top of the plinth, obediently placing her hands behind her head, and lets herself sink downwards, mewing as the dildo stretches her pussy.

Then the Warlock enters in her headmaster’s guise, bamboo cane in his hand. Without saying a word, he begins her whacking, elegantly swiping the thin rod against her trembling bottom. Hanae recoils forward, before gravity pulls her back, sliding back down the shaft until she is fully impaled. That’s when the next stroke lands, the process repeating until Hanae is rhythmically sliding up and down like a piston.

Hanae rides the dildo crying out imploringly in a language I can not understand. Perhaps she is pleading an apology, or urging her disciplinarian to whack ever harder – to make an example of her. Constance and I fiddle with the hems of our skirts, powerful forces preventing us from reaching up any further. By the end of her ordeal, Hanae’s bottom is a grid of bright red lines, a final volley of artfully placed strokes spanks her to a gasping climax, and we see her little vial is almost full.

Then it is my turn.

I find myself walking naked into my little clearing in the woods, it is vividly real, I can feel the little twigs on the ground scratch my feet. Ahead, I see the strange man waiting for me. I turn to run, but he overtakes and catches me easily. He cuffs my hands behind me with a cable-tie, and leads me back towards the clearing. The milking plinth is there, ready and waiting for me.

He makes me straddle the dildo and kneel, I feel it push between my soft wet folds. Stretching me, massaging me. I can already sense my wetness dribbling down its long bobbled shaft.

The stranger admonishes me for venturing out into the woods all alone. Hadn’t I read any fairytales? Didn’t I know what horrors might befall me? I feel his hands close around my throat, tatty rough leather gloves, throwaway gloves, the kind a serial killer might wear. I’m suddenly possessed by mortal fear. The others were spanked, but perhaps I’m due to suffer a different fate. Strangled in the woods, milked of my precious essence as I dance on the dildo, my excitement intensified as I struggle for my life.

Spank me I plead. I’ve been so naughty.

I hear the stranger kneel behind me, and unzip his trousers, and then the hot sticky knob of his cock presses against my bottom hole. His hands are wrapped tightly around my throat as he penetrates me. I can not see Constance and Hanae, but I know they are watching. Probably high up in one of the surrounding trees, watching in a state of confused excitement as I’m so indecently violated.

I’m sliding up and down the dildo frantically now, pleading to be spanked, begging for my life, but his squeezing fingers reduce my pleas to a croaking whisper. I impale myself deeply on both intrusions, feeling my essence streaming between my legs. I’m now unable to talk. Please, I’m now thinking. Please let me live. Please, I’m worth more to you alive than dead.

My terror makes my muscles clench, is this how rigor mortis begins? I feel my bottom hole clamp against his cock, tighter than I’d ever squeezed before. Moments later a hot spurting sensation fills my bottom. My assailant continues to fuck me as plunge up and down on the dildo. My last breath was so long ago, my vision is dimming, I am so dizzy, only the presence of his hands around my throat is preventing my head from lolling to the side.

Then suddenly, he withdraws. I feel his hands loosening from my throat. A moment later he slaps my bottom with all of his might. And again, and again until I come.

A combination of sheer relief, empty lungs and the nefarious dildo make me climax harder than I’d ever come before. Unlike a cock, which evolution has merely streamlined into a plunging implement – a glorified water pistol to shoot semen deep into its target receptacle, the dildo of the plinth has been meticulously designed to maximise the essence it extracts from its sitter. As I convulsed upon it, I could feel my body squeezing against its myriad protrusions as if I was trying to wring out every droplet of my pleasure.

And then we woke in our beds, knowingly used.


The next time the Warlock came for us, everything was different.

This time we accompanied Constance to Sunday School, we in our Sunday best, she completely naked. The plinth was waiting for her in the classroom, she knelt as in prayer as the reverend caned her. She came with her tutor’s middle finger deep in her bum, whilst repeatedly taking the name of her God in vain.

Hanae found the milking plinth waiting for her on the stage of her school assembly. She was whipped naked in front of everyone after a tearful confession. The whole school got to watch her ride to climax too; she was sobbing uncontrollably as she came.

And I stumbled across the plinth as I wandered deep into the woods. The stranger tied me up and made me ride it, half-choking me with his thick cock as he fucked my snivelling mouth. I came deliriously as he spurted his sticky mess all across my face.

And my next time was different still.

I was lost in the depths of the woods, desperately searching for the path that would lead me back home. Instead I found a noose dangling from a branch, and beneath it, the plinth. I turned and ran, but once again the stranger caught me, tying my hands and hauling me back to the clearing.

When I mounted the plinth, he put the rope around my neck, tugging the free end, squeezing my throat as I was lifted to the top of the dildo. He left me there to flail and struggle, the bulbous head of the intrusion just inside my entrance, I could feel my wetness dripping from me as I gasped. Then he suddenly let go of the rope. My weakened body immediately slumped back down onto the dildo, taking it deep, to its fullest extent. In my woozy state I could feel myself gush, as the knot at my throat mercifully loosened.

But my respite was brief. The stranger pulled the rope tight again, lifting me upwards until I was dancing again on the tip of the marble cock. My hangman milked me skilfully, ensuring my toes never left the ground, but hoisting me up and down the dildo until I finally came, convulsing on the protrusion in a state of breathless exhaustion.

Before all went black, I found myself wondering: did witches come hard as they were hanged?


Eventually, I lost count of the number of times we had been milked. I had begun to despair of ever being released from this infernal place. Perhaps Hanae was right, that we were captives in some kind of limbo. Or perhaps I had been murdered by the stranger I’d glimpsed in the woods, and these elaborate fantasies were the fevered imaginings of a dying brain.  

The Warlock came for Hanae first. He appeared at the entrance to our cell, the first time any of us had seen him as he was, and not the guises he adopted in our dreams. His appearance was that of a tall, cadaverous young man, clad in scintillating sky-blue robes so bright it hurt the eyes to look at him directly. When he unfastened Hanae’s chain from the wall, she instinctively hugged us goodbye before he led her outside. She never returned.

Was the Warlock actually the Reaper – that grim visitor found in every known culture? Some said Death is itself a climax, the orgasm of life. Is that what I’m experiencing, the end of my life visualised as some kind of erotic analogy? Repeatedly being brought to the plinth until I’m finally ready to relinquish control, to let my corporeal body dissolve into orgasmic ecstasy? Perhaps my lascivious mind visualises his instrument of dissolution as the plinth, where country serfs might once have seen a scythe. Is the Grim patiently waiting to transport me to the afterlife, after one final dance impaled upon his mystical phallus?

Even more disturbing possibilities surfaced in my mind. When he visits me in my dreams, I always seem to come whilst panting for breath, with my hands tied behind my back. What if all my memories, and all I’d ever experienced, were just the dying hallucinations of a gasping witch, dangling in a creaking noose?

He came for Constance next. We hugged and kissed goodbye, my heart heavy that we never had the chance to meet in the real world. We would have been fine friends. I never saw her again.

And then he came for me.

The Warlock led me out of the cell and onto a narrow path outside, overlooking a perilous precipitous drop. If I dallied, he tugged the chain attached to the collar, like I was a dog. We must have walked past hundreds of cells just like mine, I peeped inside to see women of all ages, some naked, some dressed in garments I’d never seen before.

Eventually we reached a stairway carved into the mountainside, climbing higher and higher until we arrived at the pinnacle of a tower, one that was open to the stygian sky. From here I could see the true expanse of the Warlock’s vast castle sprawling vertiginously beneath me, and the absolute nothingness that surrounded the crags beyond. It was as if the surrounding world had simply been erased.

The top of the tower was dominated by a huge marble statue, his immense white hands reaching down to the floor. The stone had an eerie glow, as if lit by moonlight, even though the moon was nowhere to be seen.  

My collar was tugged, dragging me reluctantly towards the Marble Giant’s outstretched palm. At the Warlock’s bidding I straddled it, gasping as I felt the cold stone against my desperate lips – it was the first sensation my pussy had felt since I was brought here.

The Giant’s index finger is folded back towards its palm, its thick fingertip resting against my entrance. Its wrist is bent, angling its palm slightly downwards, so as soon as I’d straddled it, I could already feel myself slipping backwards, slowly impaling myself deeper on its monstrous finger. If I had control of my hands I would have clung onto the statue’s wrist, but I find my hands are magically pinioned above the small of my back.

To my surprise the Giant’s hand began to lift upwards, leaving my legs splayed wide, dangling helplessly on either side of the massive palm that was cupping my crotch. The statue’s other hand moved too, I struggled desperately as the tip of its mammoth index finger pushed towards me, seemingly on course to crush my poor throat. But it stopped just short, beneath my chin, lifting and directing my head upwards, leaving me locked in a stare with the Giant’s munificent gaze.

The Warlock stood alongside me, I was lying level with his chest. He placed his hand on my bare bottom, stroking and fondling, I could feel the tips of his long bony fingers parting my slit, exposing my wet little hole.

Without his lips moving, I heard his whispers in my mind. Grave, slow and hollow, like the tolling of a distant bell.

Naughty girls drip the most exquisite essence.

I would savour you longer.

But your blink is almost over.

You must be returned.

Before your reality misses you.

I didn’t understand his words at first. They sounded like just another cruel tease.

Then I felt the Warlock’s palm spank me, hard strong smacks that reverberated through my groin. I could feel my vagina enveloping the protruding finger, as if I’d become a viscous fluid, beginning to flow around the marble intrusion. Each perfectly placed spank made me squirm and kick, bringing my inevitable climax closer.

I looked up into the Giant’s brilliant gazing eyes, two full moons staring deep inside my soul. I prepared to surrender, to open my locks and let this thief steal my treasure. Beneath me, I could already feet the hot wetness streaming from deep inside my cunt, as I spilled my essence into the giant’s marble palm, to trickle away into a little crystal vial.

The Warlock knew precisely how to spank me, exactly how to make me come.

I lay sprawled on the statue’s palm, my body taut with tension as the climax tore through me for far longer than I’d ever thought possible. My legs quivered uncontrollably, dancing in mid-air as my back arched so sharply I could feel my spine ache. All the while my sodden cunt contracted wildly around the protruding finger, spilling little showers of my precious essence. I was overcome by a cascade of potent emotions, excitement and humiliation, lust and shame. All I could do was roar out my lungs, crying out with pleasure until I began to go dizzy.

And then everything changed. Yet nothing was different.

I was back in the woods, at the end of my blink. But I had no memory of what had just happened, any recollection of my recent ordeal had utterly vanished. I had been taken on the cusp of my orgasm, and before I could stop myself, I came, grinding against my wanking branch as I shrieked with delight.

I think I am alive again. Real again. Though who can really tell?


Her face basked by candlelight, Amelia suddenly realised she had been speaking, but she couldn’t remember anything of what she’d just said. She felt a sudden hot wetness pooling between her legs, as if she’d suddenly wet herself, and her bottom tingling, as if she was feeling the lingering echoes of a long-ago spanking.

Around her, Amelia’s friends sat open-mouthed and gob-smacked, exchanging looks of disbelieving shock.

Each girl shifted bashfully, already feeling the physical effect of Amelia’s extraordinary story. Exacerbated by sitting cross-legged, eight pairs of damp panties clung tight to their owners’ clammy lips. Evelyn felt an almost overwhelming yearning to stop telling ghost stories, and start playing spanking games. Whilst Jessica felt a compelling urge to excuse herself, fetch her hairbrush and push the handle deep between her legs, as far as it would go.

Echoes of what Amelia had described swarmed through her own head, like figments of a long-forgotten fairytale. She was dimly aware of some really quite filthy revelations, how much of that had she just told her friends?

Amelia blushed in the half-light, and reached left to pass on the candlestick, unaware that in the gloom, at the very fringe of the wavering candlelight, a dread shadow lurked.

“But it’s only a story…” she added, uncertainly.

.

.

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@spankingtheatre 2016

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.

You’re welcome to reblog and share.

Runaway

spankingtheatre:

I wandered into their world at Hallowe’en, when the boundaries between our realities are at their thinnest.

The further I fled from the city, the lonelier the roads became, until I found myself quite alone, coasting down country lanes. Destination anywhere.

Just the hum of my car, the whirr of its tires, and all around me, the mesmerising colours of autumn. It was meditative, yet almost sublimely unsettling, driving into a forest that had once been so verdant, so full of life, but now was withering.

I sped through a beautiful melancholy. Around me, it felt as if the spirit of nature itself was dying – or fleeing, aware of the advance of a malign icy force lurking over the horizon. A presence that was slowly obscuring  the sun, concealing its light, lengthening the shadows. I could already feel its chill influence when I ventured outside, a frosty spirit that sapped me of energy, encouraging my primeval self to retreat back to my shelter.

For our ancestors the encroaching winter must have felt like a malevolent invasion, as if the world around them was fighting for its continued existence. Precarious, anxiously awaiting the chilling, killing, smothering shroud of snows.

I stared through the windscreen at the passing blur, feeling a lingering sorrow for the leaves, their lifeforce being inexorably extinguished by the cold enveloping mists. Never was the passage of time so evident, at Autumn we watch as what was once so exuberant shrivels with age, yellowing and tumbling before our eyes. Annihilated by an invisible, irresistible power, one scarier than any monster we can imagine.

Perhaps our unease at this time of year fuelled folk tales of ghosts and vampires. Yet they don’t haunt our imaginations in the dark depths of midwinter, their time is at the end of October, when the world around us is visibly dying. Hallowe’en was a memento mori, a reminder that regardless of your youth or your power, vitality was transient. That everything you held dear, all you’d ever love and struggle for, all would ultimately shrivel and fall. It was inescapable, indisputable, immutable; whether meek or mighty, in time we’d all share the fate of the leaves.

A chill sensation ran over my skin, raising goosebumps. And it felt like everything and nothing had suddenly changed…

Keep reading

Continuing our Halloween countdown, a reminder that you can’t run away without ending up somewhere.

And don’t forget, a brand new story will be posted at midnight tonight…

Fall

spankingtheatre:

A Halloween spanking story

It floated ghost-like in the corner of her vision. A thin line, like a hair trapped inside a pair of glasses. Only Judith didn’t wear glasses.

It was so faint as to be almost imperceptible. If she tried to focus on it, it vanished. It was curled idiosyncratically at one end, reminiscent of a shepherd’s crook – or, come to think of it – the canes on the wall of the headmasters’ study. Judith was now a senior pupil of an old-fashioned New England school, and so had sat beneath the canes many times, always mesmerised by what they represented. A means of punishment, of ensuring obedience, of making bottoms sore. Not that Judith had ever been disciplined herself, of course. Her school record had been impeccable, her weekly visits to the headmaster had merely been to discuss school business, her responsibilities as a prefect, the logistics of field trips and the enforcement of school regulations.

Nevertheless, the canes on wall had become a secret fascination. When the head’s attention was elsewhere Judith’s eyes would be drawn, almost magnetically, back to those four thin rods, each lying horizontally in two little curved brass rests, crook handles downwards. She’d try to assess in a glance if any had recently been moved. Each cane was the same length, so usually they all lined up. But sometimes, one cane was out of position, a bit to the left or right of all the others. Which had to mean, at some time during the past week – my goodness – one of her fellow pupils had been…

Barbara interrupted her day-dreaming, “So… are you coming?”

Keep reading

Continuing our Halloween countdown, here’s what happens when a spanking story is set within a haunted house. Mind your step…

Glimpse

spankingtheatre:

A spanking ghost story

A single glimpse was enough to doom me.

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

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

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

Instinctively, I turned and ran.

Keep reading

Beginning our countdown to Halloween, a repost of my first ever spanking ghost story. Dark and metaphysical, this tale is still one of my personal favourites…

A New Halloween Story

The Halloween spanking story seems to have become a bit of a tradition on this blog, so readers may be glad to know I’ve finished a brand new creepy tale of sin, sore bottoms and the supernatural.

Entitled Stolen Essence, it will be posted Monday, October 31st…

In the meantime, I’ll repost the other Halloween stories I’ve written over the weekend. That should get you in the spooky spirit!

In Bed with a Girlfriend

AU LIT AVEC UNE AMIE

image
image

Image: Le Sommeil (The Sleepers) by Gustave Courbet, 1866.


I

Dès que vous êtes couchée avec une amie, mettez-lui la main au con ; n’attendez pas qu’elle vous en prie.

Once you are lying with a girlfriend, place your hand on her cunt; do not wait until you are welcomed.



II

Ne vous moquez pas d’une jeune fille parce qu’elle est encore pucelle. Il y a des infortunées qui n’ont jamais fait bander personne.

Do not make fun of a girl because she is still a virgin. There are some unfortunates who can never get anyone hard.




III

Souvenez-vous que dans la position dite « 69 » la place d’honneur est réservée à la personne couchée. Une petite fille doit toujours occuper la place de dessus.

Remember that in the so-called “69” position the place of honour is reserved for the person lying down. A little girl should always take the place on top.


IV

Si votre amie s’y prenait mal pour agiter sa langue au point où elle vous touche, il serait du dernier mauvais goût de lui pisser à la figure dans un accès de mécontentement.

If your girlfriend performs badly by waggling her tongue at the point where she touches you, it would be in very bad taste to pee in her face as a sign of your displeasure.


V

Quand vous éteignez la lumière en disant à votre compagne : « Laissez-moi vous appeler Arthur », ne vous dissimulez pas que vous lui faites une confidence.

When you turn off the light and say to your companion: “Let me call you Arthur” – be more candid, you are letting her in on a great secret.


VI

Ne faites pas honte à une jeune fille qui vient d’exécuter sur le trou de votre cul ses plus savantes feuilles de rose. Elle l’a fait certainement dans une bonne intention.

Do not shame a young girl who has just given your bottom hole the most skilful of ass-lickings. She certainly did it with the best of intentions.


[ Table of Contents ] .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . [ Next >> ]

Thank you for introducing me to Pierre Louÿs, I’ve found some wonderful writings. Do you have other authors who inspire you? ♥em

I wonder if it would come as a surprise to reveal that the writers who’ve inspired me most aren’t erotic writers at all. Let me introduce you to my two biggest influences.

First is Jorge Luis Borges, the master of the capricious short story, someone who could cram more mind-bending ideas into a dozen pages than many writers can manage in a novel. Some of his stories were surreal episodes, others labyrinthine logical puzzles, others were theses of high philosophy hidden within stories. If you want to explore his work, find a copy of his two best-known compilations, Ficciones and Labyrinths. You can thank me later.

The other is Iain Banks, a brilliantly imaginative Scottish writer with an seductively accessible style. He wrote effortlessly in several genres, from magical realism to science fiction, and delighted in telling stories of families with taboo secrets. Is it any wonder he appeals to a writer of erotic stories? To get started, treat yourself to Walking on Glass, it even contains a spanking scene. What are you waiting for?

Happy reading.

Do you have any tips for self-mouth-soaping? I’ve done plenty of self-spanking before along with other self administered corporal punishments and I’ve always wanted to try a mouth soaping but I am extremely intimidated by it.

My advice would be the same for experimenting with any disciplinary activity, whether it’s spanking, figging, panty-pulling or whatever. 

Start small, and work your way up. 

For mouth-soaping, remember the idea behind the punishment is aversion – putting something in your mouth that you personally find distasteful. This does not need even need to be soap, you could start with something bitter, like a sponge soaked in lemon juice, or a flavour you detest. You could even use a very hot chilli sauce. If you want to use soap, soak the sponge in soapy water so you can get used to it.

Remember, soap is caustic, that’s how it cuts through grease after all, so having a bar of soap in the mouth will irritate the mucosa (the inner lining of your mouth), and can result in blistering if left in place too long. So don’t start by biting down on a bar of soap – start small and experiment.

Be creative. If you have a butt plug, here’s an idea for you. Smear it with some soap (or chilli or ginger paste) and put it in your mouth. Perhaps then you’ll be spanked, and then sent to the corner. And maybe as you stand in disgrace with your sore pink cheeks on display, you might remove the plug from your mouth and insert it into your bum. And then you’ll wait with the taste of shame lingering in your mouth, as heat begins to smoulder in your bottom…

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