Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears


April 2018

Which doll scene would you play?

From the story, Playing Dolls:

On the table before us is a glossy colour programme, which welcomes us and lists all the different scenes we guests can play. We’re staying in the southern half of the chateau, and it seems all the rooms in the northern half have been specially decorated in some kind of scene. Some rooms even have special guest appearances by famous doms and dominatrices. It’s like attending a music festival, where you can’t be everywhere, and you’ll going to have to make some excruciating choices.

Because today is the day the owners play with their dolls. Undressing and redressing them in new costumes, and taking them to all kinds of themed rooms. There might be a regency ballroom, a pirate ship cabin, realistic castle dungeons, old-fashioned schoolrooms, even suburban bedroom sleepovers.

Some scenes are erotic dioramas, static scenes of great eroticism or aesthetic beauty. Others are more interactive, featuring roleplaying that’s orchestrated by our owners. We dolls may not be able to move, but our sexual responsiveness is unaffected. It’s not uncommon for us to become highly aroused during a scene, seeping silently. And when we drip, we rely on our owners to wipe us.

I can’t move my eyes to read, so you flick through the programme, reading out what piques your interest. I can not talk, so this is not a discussion. I will accept whatever you decide is best for me, as always. I know here, I’m barely even a person anymore, just a soft malleable plaything, something to be controlled and molded.

Your voice fills my mind as I imagine what you describe to me…

The Stables. With ponies for the dolls to ride, led by their owners around the chateau grounds. A wide range of whips and crops available, as well as dildoes for the saddles.”

Tickle-torment. A room full of devious contraptions with moving feathers, apply them to every part of your doll’s anatomy, as they tremble, unable to move.”

The Clinic. Detailed intimate examinations, performed by our medically qualified nursing team.”

The Spa. Experience our soothing baths and bubbling waters, and wash your charge clean again.”

A Visit to Uncle Montagu. Step back in time to this meticulously recreated 1950s household, where naughty boys and girls can expect the slipper.”

Ballet School. Visit the gymnasium to have your doll tutored by our renowned ballet teacher.”

The Royal Court. Taking place in the gilded splendour of the Great Hall. Attend this opulent scene as aristocrat or commoner.”

The Studio. Pose your charge in a diorama, and have them painted by our world-class artist.”

Rape in the Woods. Let us hide your doll in the woods. Owners will be supplied with a map. Dolls will wait in suspense, until their owner surprises them – or someone else does.”

The Sanatorium. Hot and flustered? Enemas and cold showers should bring your charge’s temperature down”

The Nursery. Nappy facilities available, along with lots of toys.”

The Shibari Cellar. Our rope bondage masters will assist you in binding and suspending your doll in beautiful contortions.”

The Libertine’s Bedchamber. Watch as your charge is expertly fucked by our quixotic and masterful lover.”

Statues in the Fountain. Visit the courtyard, and add another statue to our marvellous display. Let streams of tingling water run across your charge’s body.”

Chores for Cinderella. Dress your doll as a maid, and we’ll put them to work cleaning the chateau.”

The Medieval Dungeon. Slap your wench in chains, and commit them to the stocks. Watch or aid our skilled team as they administer a myriad erotic torments.”

Instructed by the Governess. Let our professional domme teach your charge how to behave with proper decorum, with lessons in manners, cleanliness and good posture.”

Picnic in the Park, au naturel. Shed your clothes and join us to bask in the fresh air. Parasols, cold drinks and delicious treats provided.”

The Geisha Lounge. Our make-up experts will transform your charge into a beautiful white-faced Japanese doll.”

The Headmaster’s Office. Appointments available for naughty dolls. Bottoms will be bared and thoroughly caned.”

The Pirate’s Cabin. Watch on as our crew of lovable ruffians abducts and violates your most treasured possession.”

The Salon of Whores. For those who believe in sharing. Leave your doll here to be fucked, whilst you enjoy the charms of others.”

The Bucolic Glade. Let us transform you and your charge into fauns and satyrs, then come frolic in our enchanted wood.”

The Classroom. Watch from the back of our authentically recreated school room as your doll is tutored by one of our team of experienced headmistresses. Misbehaviour will be punished…”

So, if you had a choice…

Which scene would you choose? Click to cast your vote.

Share the joy of the written word


New readers might be interested in this master list of all my stories, ranked by popularity. The up arrows indicate stories that have moved up the leaderboard, whilst new icons show stories that you might not have encountered yet.

You can also see this list categorised by theme if you’re looking for a particular style of story. 

Cast your votes and like your favourites!

Now updated with the latest stories!

Have you read them all?

Kitchen Table

A story

“And… WHAT… are those?”

“Ankle cuffs”, I answered nonchalantly.

“And what are they doing on the legs on the kitchen table?” you asked incredulously.

“Isn’t it obvious? To keep your legs apart when I put you over it. And fuck you.”

Your mouth opened to protest. I could sense your indignance, and it pleased me that you seemed to struggle to find words to express it.

So naturally, I teased you. Restating my intentions with a meticulousness that mocked your own flustered reaction.

“I’m going to undress you.”

“Then I’m going to bend you over the kitchen table.”

“Then I’m going to spank your bare little bottom until you’re all hot and pink.”

“And then I’m going to fuck you.”

Each successive sentence made your cheeks flush deeper. I knew beneath your bosom your heart would be thumping. Some ancient limbic reaction deep within your primitive mind preparing for flight or fight. Whilst the higher echelons of your intelligence rendered my words into your imagination, making your pussy tingle.

Three ancient competing urges. To run. Or resist. Or submit entirely. I can almost sense the possibilities cascading through your mind’s biochemical soup.

Is that fear you’re feeling? The trepidation of being captured? Made helpless?

Or are you going to resist and struggle? Do you want me to overpower you? To push you down upon the table, and pull your ankles apart until they’re cuffed?

Or maybe the strongest emotion you feel is lust? Somehow, the air molecules my voice sent lapping against your eardrums unleashing an avalanche, one that’s now thrumming through your nerves and flooding your veins. Stiffening your nipples and making your skin tingle.

Yet a lurker looking in from our garden would know nothing of this, merely seeing a perfect picture of domestic contentment. Just the two of us, sitting quietly around the kitchen table, bathed the warm spring sunshine streaming through the open patio doors. I sipping my tea, you scooping up small spoonfuls of muesli.

But if they waited, they’d notice your spoon drop. And then your jaw hanging open. Gaping. Surprised. Almost bewildered.

And if they lurk for just a little while longer, they’ll see me putting you over this very table. Kneeling down to fix the cuffs to your ankles. Then tugging open your buttocks with both hands to see how excited you’ve become.

“When?” you said at last.

It was obvious you’d spent the intervening silence imagining it.

“When I say so”, I answered firmly.

Was that look lust, or bratty indignance? No matter. I treat both the same way.

I could tell you to stand up right now. To undress before me. I could even tell you to stand before the table, reach down, and close the cuffs around your ankles. Would you like that? Following my instructions. Being obedient?

Or maybe I’ll send my instruction out of the blue, when you’re least expecting it. Perhaps one evening when I’m travelling home from the office. What a delight it would be to arrive in the kitchen, to find you lying over the tabletop, perfectly presented, and aching to be seen to.

Or would you find it more exciting if I took control? Suddenly grasping your wrist, leading you towards the kitchen. I could undress you myself. A stern expression silencing any dissent as you’re stripped naked in front of the garden windows. I don’t think the neighbours can see in. Though if I opened the patio doors, they might just be able to hear you.

I wonder, shall I cuff your wrists too? Or have you keep your hands on your head as I deal with you? Or maybe I’ll just pin them to the small of your back with my free hand when the time comes to smack your bottom.

I glance up from what I’m reading, and see you’re already squirming in your seat. Have you already made a mess in your panties?

Be assured, my inspection, when it comes, will be very thorough indeed. Not because your intimate little world is unfamiliar. Quite the contrary, I’m going to enjoy returning to some favourite places. My roaming fingers skimming over every tender fold and furrow. Every contour of your curves.

I shall kneel between your thighs and advance, until my nose nestles between your tender slit. So I can inhale deeply, and smell your moist florid scent. When I retreat, I will tug you open to explore your crevice of glistening vivid pink. I know I’ll find you leaking, almost aching to be filled. So I’ll remind you sternly, that you’re going to have to wait.

Because first I’m going to spank your bottom.

I’ll leave you squirming, frustratedly pulling at your bonds, when I go off to fetch the paddle, and a few other little treats. On my return, I make you wait some more, standing behind you to admire the view. Whispering. I wonder how wet I could you make you in this position, with just my voice alone. And my warm breath on the back on your neck.

I wonder if our neighbours can see us, and whether they’d be shocked or as aroused as you are.

I pull a wet wipe from its tube, and with both hands, tug your buttocks open, placing the cool damp tissue against within the crevice. I feel your struggle with humiliation as I wipe your bottom clean.

I’ve brought another little treat, your beautiful glass buttplug, it seems to shimmer in the sunbeams like a giant frozen raindrop. I open your mouth, and slip it between your pouting lips.

I grasp the paddle purposefully, rubbing the soft velvety side up and down your thighs, then back and forth across your bottom. Then between your open legs, smearing your excitement across the stiff leather blade.

Is this this what you want, my dear?

Your answer is obvious and assumed.

The spanks start.

Slow. Forceful. Smacks.

Cute pink puddles form on your pert pale cheeks.

Your yelps and moans are stifled by the obstruction filling your mouth.

I kneel behind you again, splaying your cheeks open with both hands, now feeling even warmer to the touch. I run my tongue between your globes, delicately tracing your crevice, circling the dimple of your bottom hole. I hear your muffled moans escalate as I lick you.

It makes me hard to think only I know this secret side of you. The high-flyer who gets her bare bottom smacked. Who comes home from work complaining of arselicking office politics,  powerless to prevent her lover’s tongue from exploring her bum over the kitchen table.

A sore, stinging bottom, with my firm tongue probing deeply in between. I can smell just how excited that makes you.

You taste so good my dear. You taste earthy, like a kind of primal lust.

I rise from my knees and pick up the paddle again. I can hear your little mew of disappointment. My left hand gathers your wrists against the small of your back. I feel your muscles flexing, trying to free yourself, but my grip is unbreakable.

I resume spanking. Slow, hard whacks, that make you moan and yelp.

I fetch the plug from your mouth, now glistening with your excited drool. You whimper as I place it against your bottom hole, then push it gently until it slowly slips inside.

I kneel behind you once more, splaying your spanked cheeks open once more, running my tongue between them. When I encounter the base of the plug, I grip it between my lips pushing it deeper then sucking it backwards.

The way you buck and struggle against your cuffs just makes me even harder.

I contemplate pulling your plug out completely, and filling the empty hole with my eager cock.

Or maybe I’ll just leave the plug in place, and slide myself into your hungry cunt.

I enter, so easily.

And I fuck you forcefully across the kitchen table. Quick, deep thrusts. Sometimes breaking the rhythm by halting inside, stopping just long enough to feel you gently clench around my cock.

When you look over your shoulder, your eyes sparkling and glaring, our glances seem to collide in a lusty conflagration.

We fuck until we both come across the kitchen table. Until we both sprawled and exhausted.

You see us naked, as we are.

A perfect picture of domestic contentment.




@spankingtheatre 2018

As odd as this may sound, I want to thank you for the diversity of your stories. It’s not all men spanking women. I do appreciate when a woman steps into the dominant role. As a lesbian I do appreciate the inclusion of women spanking women. It makes it easier to put myself into the shoes of the one getting punished. I haven’t seen any men spanking men on your blog but perhaps I haven’t looked hard enough. Thank you for representing so many ways to spank.

You’re very welcome.

I believe the key to good writing is embracing diversity. To create different characters and unexpected scenarios, and that means exploring the wonderful variety of human nature.

I’ve never wanted to just tell the same story over and over again, just with different names. I wanted to the explore what it means to be dominant or to be submissive, or subservient or obsessive or bewitched, and all the other intoxicating emotional states the human mind can conceive.

Being a straight male, I prefer my stories to involve a strong feminine presence, which is why I haven’t (yet) written any gay male spanking stories. But that’s just a matter of personal preference, I think the best stories are those that arouse their writers.

Spanking is an expression of our fundamental sexuality, the collision of physical force and interpersonal power. Because it’s non-penetrative, gender is irrelevant. Anyone can spank or be spanked, that’s the beauty of it. And why I love spanking.

a good hot story


This morning, for the first time in ages, I masturbated to fiction.

Specifically, this piece by a longtime favorite, @spankingtheatre: Pride and Obedience. This story has everything that I sought in erotic fiction back when I discovered it as a teenager: spanking (duh), training, discipline, humiliation, and it takes place in regency England, which is always a bonus. I don’t know why historical fiction gets me going more than other types of erotica, but I’m not complaining.

I forgot what it was like to get caught up in erotica so gripping and arousing that I just can’t tear my eyes away. As I read, I could feel myself throbbing hard, could feel my pussy swelling and spreading. It was a slow burn, and that’s the best kind of burn because the relief of putting that fire out is nothing short of euphoric. Reading this made me feel nostalgic for being eighteen or nineteen and hungrily devouring whatever spanking-related story I could find on the internet before getting under the covers and furiously rubbing one out. 

It’s nice to know that a good story can still do that for me. That I can still get sucked into worlds in which unruly young women are sent to strict, cane-friendly boarding schools, or are married off to no-nonsense men who believe wives should obey their husbands lest they get spanked. Stories like that taught me who I am and what I need.

Side note: I showed the above story to BB and he said we should make a stool like the one pictured. Maybe it’ll be something I’ll have to sit very still on as punishment. I don’t know what I get myself into sometimes.

Except, I do.

I guess I can thank a good, hot story for that, too.

Thank you @crimson-uncovered, for this lovely reminder of the magic of the written word.

Through fiction’s enchantment, one can read a story and see extraordinary new
sights in our mind’s eye. Those who’ve read Pride and Obedience will have witnessed the scene in the parlour, as vividly as if they’d been lurking unseen behind the curtains. These are gifts of
imagination, new treats to add to your own private collection, to be safety retained in your most secure and private
repository, the one between your ears.

For we writers, the imagining is even more vivid. An idea tumbling from the fiery forge is when
it’s at its most intense. We witness the brilliance of an idea’s
initial glow, something we can never quite express to you in words, no
matter how articulate and loquacious we might be. We have the honour of
fashioning ideas to our whim, thrilling in a shower of sparks as we
hammer our stories into shape. Oh the details I have seen, dear reader. I wish you could have seen them too. It was like walking in a lucid dream.

Immersive stories reward those who return to read them, each
visit reinforcing and refining your imagined world. As Picasso once
said, everything you can imagine becomes real.

Yet whereas erotic videos come fully rendered, with little room for your
imagination, the cinema between your ears has infinite scope. A
limitless special effects budget, your favourite actors, your pick of
the world’s locations, and you in the director’s chair. All you need is a
screenplay – and that’s where we writers come in.

better, the scenes you add to your erotic lexicon can be acted out,
either by yourself or with your partner. Each scene can become a
playground, with endless opportunities for improvisation. How will you
interpret that lifted skirt or passionate kiss, that lingering bottom
inspection or that thorough spanking? You might even find reading it written down helps overcome the awkwardness of erotic experimentation. After
all, it was the story that made me do it.

So, Crimson’s partner is absolutely right, you definitely should be creating your own obedience stool.

And continuing the adventure this story has started…

Pride and Obedience


A Spanking Story


Image by Katou Kahoru (source unknown)

Regency England, 1817

raised the hem of her candy-striped skirt to her hips, and hovered over
the little ebony stool, as her Mistress looked on encouragingly.

a good girl! Mister Cholmondeley and his wife will be here soon. You
know how proud I am to have you kneeling at my feet.”

Beneath her
elegant dress, Serena was wearing nothing else. Her underwear having
been confiscated when she’d first arrived at Althorp House. At the time
she’d protested vociferously, a bit too petulantly as it happened. A
little tizzy that had cost her all her clothes, and ended with her being
spanked like a silly little girl over the knee of her Ladyship, and
being put to bed with a very sore bottom indeed.

That first night,
Serena had wept into her own pillows, distraught at the prospect of
having to spend the summer in this horrible place. In subsequent days
she’d discovered just how seriously her hostess believed in discipline.
The house rules were numerous and byzantine, but there was only ever one
punishment for breaking them: a good hard spanking, on the bare bottom.

first, Serena behaved as if she had a choice when it came to following
her instructions – a delusion her new mistress had found cheerfully
endearing. But in the three weeks since she’d arrived here, Serena’s
obedience had improved considerably. When she’d first been introduced to
the stool, she’d resisted bitterly, of course. But now she welcomed the
firm deep push of its double protrusions, and would take her seat
without complaint. In fact, Serena couldn’t remember the last time she’d
sat upon a proper chair.

There was a knack to mounting this low
dildoed stool, which Serena felt she’d now mastered. The trick, she’d
found, was to straddle it, and lower herself until she felt the slick
head of smaller stem poke against her bottom hole. Then she’d allow
herself to sink ever deeper, until she could feel the bulge of its head
stretch her open and push inside her. As she sank ever lower, the
thicker bulge of the other phallus would intrude between her slit,
probing her wet entrance like an over-eager lover.

continued her slow descent to the floor, until her knees were embedded
in the lush velvety softness of the salon’s dark carpet. She stifled a
moan as the protrusions penetrated deeper and deeper, stretching her
wider and filling previously unfelt spaces. At that point Serena would
be sitting on her haunches, her bright red shoes on either side of the
stool’s tiny legs, with her bare bottom resting on the narrow wooden
platter that formed its seat.

Once seated, she’d let go of her
dress, allowing her hem to fall to the floor like a finale’s stage
curtain, completely concealing the stool and its intimate protrusions.
Any visitor subsequently arriving would be completely unaware that just
beneath her pretty striped dress, both her holes were filled by dildoes.
Visitors would simply see what they expected to see, a beautiful young
lady kneeling adoringly at her Ladyship’s feet.

Keep reading

Pride and Obedience was an opportunity for me to travel back in time, and write a spanking story set in the Regency era. Most readers will have encountered this world through the novels of Jane Austen, which give the impression of a chaste, modest, almost sexless world. But let’s no forget, de Sade’s groundbreaking erotic novels were written around 40 years earlier. Perhaps this age wasn’t as innocent as it seems…

Perhaps the social hierarchies of the aristocracy were sexual hierarchies too, where paying proper respect to those higher on the social ladder involved a degree of sexual submissiveness. Perhaps this wasn’t just an age of long skirts and strict manners, but also one of whips, obedience and discipline. What would such a world look like? I couldn’t help but visit it, through the time machine of my imagination.

Whilst researching I stumbled across the image by Katou Kahoru shown above, and knew immediately how that cruel double-protrusion obedience stool would fit within the story. I think many of those with submissive inclinations would love to kneel at the feet of their Master or Mistress, impaled and filled as their hair is gently stroked.

What do you think?

Are you ever going to write anything new?

Yes, I am.

My notebook is filled to bursting with literally hundreds of story ideas and early drafts. Unfortunately real world commitments have meant I haven’t been able to devote as much time to writing recently.

Although I have still posted some shorter stories, such as the Interactive Discipline series.

And I know many readers of this blog won’t even have read all the stories I’ve already posted, hence the ongoing retrospective of past stories.

So don’t worry, I still have many more stories to tell.

In the meantime, perhaps you’ll enjoy exploring the archive, there’s over 900 posts, with all sorts of treats to discover…

Playing Dolls: part 2


This is the concluding part of a two-part story, read the first part here.

The next morning you wake me with a chime, as a golden light spills through the open window like a luminously syrupy waterfall.

You bring me into the bathroom and sit me on the toilet. Then we shower, or at least I stand obediently as you lather me in warm foamy perfumed suds. A quick once-over with the razor to ensure everywhere is presentably smooth and flawless. After all, I’m going to be on display to the public today.

You dry me off, and clean my teeth, then lead me back to bedroom to dress me. You’ve chosen an adorable little outfit, a vintage Edwardian girl’s dress, powder blue, woven from the finest wool. You put my underwear on first, lifting my arms for my silk camisole, then stepping me into its matching half-slip, which you pull up to my waist. You repeat the same manoeuvre with my snow white lace-fringed petticoat. In the mirror, my ghostly reflection resembles something Wilkie Collins might have described.

Fortunately my charming little one-piece dress provides a splash of welcome colour, it’s knee length, with embroidered trimmings embellishing the side and around the skirt. You hoist it up to my chest, before feeding my hands through its armholes. I marvel at myself in the mirror, resplendent in a dress that’s over a hundred years old, wondering if the mother who bought it would ever be able to comprehend how it would eventually be worn.

I feel you moving behind me, buttoning me up at the back. After that, there’s just one final garment, a one-sided frilly pinafore with a high collar that covers my neck and extends down just as far as my nipped-in waist.

You sit me down by the dressing table to complete the look, plaiting my hair into a single braid, then applying a touch of white face powder, and a brush of rouge to my cheeks. When you’ve finished, I see you in the mirror, standing behind me, admiring me. You call me beautiful. And inside, unseen, I feel I might burst with pride.

I sit patiently at the dressing table, watching glimpses of you in the mirror as you put on your own costume. I see you’ve chosen your colonial era white linen suit, another vintage item that you’ve had tailored, so the double-breasted jacket perfectly fits your tall athletic frame. Your decide against the waistcoat, just a simple white shirt with a small butterfly collar, and a thin blood red tie. Then you appear in the mirror behind me, running gel through your hair before slicking it back with a comb.

Your own preparations complete, you place your hand on my shoulder as we pose together. We look magnificent, like travellers from the age of H.G Wells. Perhaps all you ever needed to travel through time was a fully committed imagination.

You walk over to the singing bowl on the bedside table, and strike it with the little mallet. I feel energy surge through my own muscles again. You ask me to stand and join you, I walk over to your outstretched arm smoothly and suavely. I can do anything when the bowl rings, as long as you’ve told me to do it first.

We leave our room, arm in arm, and stride down the chandelier-lit hallway to breakfast, to join the congregation of the dolls…

Keep reading

The second part of this story provided a chance to expand on the original concept, to create a secret society of Dolls and their owners, who’d gather at a remote mountain chateau to indulge their shared interest.

Inventing the programme that the doll owners peruse was a great deal of fun. I resisted the temptation to fully describe each scenario, I thought I’d leave those as prompts, seeds to germinate in the imagination of readers. I hope they flourished into sweet dreams.

Playing Dolls: part 1


A fantasy of statuesque submissiveness

One particular fairy-tale from my childhood has always haunted my dreams.

You may roam around my home,

He said, go anywhere you please.

Except the library in the tower

What a most peculiar tease.

One day bored, she disobeyed.

Sneaking up the twisty stairs, and there,

On a plinth beneath the steepling shelves

A tome awaiting one who dared.

Curiosity overtook the impetuous girl,

Heaving open the hefty umber book

She knelt amid the misty sunbeams,

And consumed it in a single look.

But disobedience has consequence

The minx had read an enchanted scrawl

Now high in the clouds she’s petrifying,

Slowly transforming… into a doll.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be one of my dolls. Not permanently, of course, that would quickly become very tiresome. Maybe just a hour or two. Long enough for someone to play with me, to stroke my cheeks and comb my hair.

Please, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not a narcissist, but I do know I’m beautiful. I see heads turn when I pass by, long leering looks as strangers admire me. I watch as their eyes rove across my pretty face, quickly, trying to avoid the awkwardness of accidental eye contact. As if my own eyes were too bright for mere mortals to behold, and they risked staring into the centre of the sun. Then, their gaze will usually drop, to my slender neck, to linger lewdly on the small round mounds of my breasts.

I notice when others appreciate my slender body, the hourglass curves of my torso and waist. I know those who pass behind me will glance furtively backwards, trying to catch a glimpse of my perfect pert bottom. I often wonder: is this how a statue feels? To be an object of rare and graceful beauty, somehow contrived from the disorder of the universe, existing to enrich all those who gaze upon it.

And when I think of myself as a statue, or a doll, as an object that arouses others – it excites me.

One of the happiest moments of my life was when my hungry mind began devouring Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Quite unexpectedly, I turned the page and stumbled across the story of Pygmalion and Galatea. That day I wept tears of joy, which trickled down my cheeks to splatter silently on his precious words. Across two millennia, this exquisite Roman poet taught me that I wasn’t weird. That I wasn’t alone, that the ancients also adored and eroticised the beautiful figures they crafted from stone.

Soon I learned there was a name for it too: Agalmatophilia – a sexual attraction to a statue, doll, mannequin or other immobile figure, and the sexual arousal of such transformations too. I began to think of myself as Galatea, the beautiful statue etched from marble by the sculptor Pygmalion, the outcome of his magnificent labour of love.

Yet, despite all I’ve learned since about the wonders of sex, still nothing turns me on more than the thought of becoming a doll…

Keep reading

Playing Dolls is a recent story you may not have read yet, a tale for those who especially enjoy the mental side of
submissiveness, of being denied and immobile, and completely under the
whim of another. And especially those who fantasise about being spanked,
whilst not being allowed to move or make a sound.

The title suggests being a plaything to be used, but that’s to miss the subtlety of submission. This is actually a story about mindfulness – of the ability of sexual surrender to quieten even the noisiest minds. It’s hard to think of a time when we’re ever more in the moment than when we’re naked before a lover. But what if the scene was so intense, you could go one step beyond, into a hyper-aware trance?

What do you think?

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