No bedpost, no problem. You just need to improvise.
You’ll just need a hairbrush with a smooth handle, or better still, a dildo or vibrator.
Then find a flat hard surface that’s about thigh height, one that you can comfortably straddle. A bedside table or a chair might suffice. Then rest your penetrating object on the surface beneath you, and cup your hands around it so it’s vertical and just below you.
The idea here is that the object that penetrates should stay still, resting on the hard surface, and you do the moving as you ride up and down upon it.
I think many have found the bedpost story so arousing because it involves a very different way of masturbating. Usually when you play by penetration, you remain still and it’s the object that moves in and out. The bedpost scenario is exactly the opposite, the intrusion is immobile, and playing involves working your legs, moving your whole body rather than just your forearm.
Bonus idea for the naughty: hold the protrusion in one hand, and spank your bare bottom with the other as you ride…
The bedpost story has been proving very popular recently. So here’s some playtime ideas for those naughty girls who fantasize about straddling a bedknob and slowly being filled…
“I don’t know if you take suggestions but my little panty wettening
scenario is something I’d love to read, but I’m not a writer. At the
least I’d like your opinion on my fantasy. It’s a boarding school &
all the girls sleep in one room. No touching oneself. If you get caught
by a patrolling matron the headmistress is called & punishment
begins. First all the girls must gather round to watch. Your nightgown
and legs are to be raised & you are inspected. Humiliation is a big
part of this.
Matrons then use the ridged handle of the paddle & their gloved
hands on your clit to make you cum-spanking after orgasm = greater pain.
Then you are bent over the foot board-all of the beds are discreetly
designed for such punishment-& spanked by the headmistress-length
& specific goings on of this bit vary from occasion. Next comes the
real punishment. Since your desire was pleasure you are to give it to
You are made to mount the bed post, which goes in your front bottom or your arse. You bring
yourself to an embarrassing climax in front of of your friends &
classmates. Once your moans have faded you are very humiliatingly washed
& your holes are filled with variously shaped plugs, hands tied
behind your back & you are put to bed naked.
*very much love you
& your work. Love to know what you think of my dirty mind* – aching anon”
It seems many find the prospect of riding a bedknob very arousing indeed. I wonder how many learnt to play that way, first locking their bedroom doors, then straddling their bedframe. Probably with panties on at first, but then, as the urge to be more adventurous became too great to resist, the last layer of modesty would be discarded.
Rubbing slowly at first, feeling the tingle as cool wood or metal kissed your hot moist folds. You didn’t intend to go further, you were just experimenting, and surely there was no way that huge thing would fit inside. But you kept rubbing, getting wetter and wetter until the bulge of the knob began to slip easily between your slit.
Perhaps you began thinking about spankings at this point. What a naughty, filthy thing to be doing. If you were caught, you’d deserve a good hard spanking on your bare bottom for sure. But that just made you even more excited, you find yourself pushing down, feeling the tip of the bedknob rub against your tight entrance.
Maybe you reached behind you, to rub your bare cheeks, thinking: I am so naughty. Filthy girls caught riding their beds would have to be severely dealt with. Perhaps at that point you began wondering if your best friend also rode her own bedposts. You find yourself fantasising, stroking your clit as you imagine you’re both straddling the bedknobs at the bottom of the bed, and then you begin to ride them together…
Your up and down gyrations are now making obscene squelching sounds. Mindful of being overheard, you slow down, bending at your knees, pushing against the bedpost until… at last… it begins to slip inside…
Well, perhaps I should turn this mini-story into a longer tale.
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.
Now updated with a few more new stories, including the just-posted dark erotic fairytale Rape-punzel, and two other recent stories: the classroom-set The Caning Emporium, and the public humiliation story The Booth. Enjoy…
Fair Rapunzel had lived the entirety of her young life pleasantly confined in a vertiginous tower, secreted away in the depths of a dense foreboding forest. Her bedchamber, perched at the very of top of the thin lighthouse-shaped spire, was ringed by a balcony from which she could look out in every direction over a spectacular green ocean of treetops. But as far as the horizon, she could see no other buildings. And no one except her Guardian ever came to visit. Aside from the little birds who sat chirping on the balcony rail to keep her company, she was quite alone.
Yet, scattered around her living space, countless luxuries compensated her confinement so completely that she’d long stopped wondering what lay in the world outside. In fact, as she’d got older and her teenage wilfulness had mellowed, the world beyond began to seem ever more sinister and dangerous in comparison to her predictable little haven.
And the very worst aspect of the outside world, were men.
Even though she’d never actually met a man, that is, talked to one, she’d read all about them in her books. Sometimes she’d even occasionally see them passing by, drawn here by curiosity, stopping to stare at her towering home. But then, when she appeared on her balcony to greet them, they’d leer and shout obscenities. What crass obnoxious brutes!
During the long hot summer months, Rapunzel had become used to wearing nothing, wandering around her little domain naked. She liked how her long golden hair felt as it tumbled down her bare skin, and how she could swish it around herself like a gossamer cloak. How was she to know it was the sight of her own body that was provoking such boorishness?
How she’d laugh as the tiny figures scuttled around the base of her tower, frantically looking for a doorway and a way inside. The poor fools, there was no door, and certainly no stairs to ascend. Because only her Guardian ever came to visit her, and she flew up to her chambers on a broomstick, alighting elegantly on the balcony. It was a means of arrival that was quite unremarkable to Rapunzel, ever since she could remember, she’d always flown in this way.
Her keeper was a beautiful woman, with a strict authoritative demeanour that belied her youthful appearance. How strange that in all the years she’d known her, even as Rapunzel got older, her Guardian never seemed to change. If anything, she seemed to be getting younger. She never failed to ask if there was anything Rapunzel desired. Food, books, new musical instruments or manuscripts, Rapunzel only need mention it, and somehow her Guardian would reach behind her back and produce exactly that.
They would dine by candlelight as the last golden rays of the sun streamed through the panoramic windows. They’d feast on the most sumptuous luxuries, as her Guardian related the latest news, which seemed to be almost universally terrible, the kingdom beset by all manner of awful calamities and disturbing unrest. It always made Rapunzel quite grateful to be hidden away, safe in her high sturdy haven.
Later, after dessert, they always played out their little bedtime ritual. Her Guardian would lead Rapunzel by the fingertips to her bed – and, if she’d bothered to wear any clothes all, undress her. Carefully removing every fold of silk until she was completely bare. Then she’d lay Rapunzel on the bed, and lift up her legs, so the slit between her thighs was gaping.
Then she’d ask a single question, the same question she always asked.
Have you been a good girl, Rapunzel?
Her Guardian knew the answer already, the little spy she left behind made certain of that. But she always asked anyway.
If Rapunzel had been naughty, she would have to confess to it. Being naughty meant Rapunzel had broken The Golden Rule. That she had touched the only place in her luxurious little world that was out of bounds. The little slit between her own legs, from the little button beneath the fleshy arch down to the tight wet hole between those soft velvety lips. From an early age, her Guardian had warned Rapunzel that this area was strictly out of bounds.
Upon her bedchamber wall was a conspicuous reminder of the painful fate awaiting naughty girls. A harbinger of the consequences should Rapunzel ever give into temptation, and touch herself. The wicked cane.
This enchanted rod kept watch on her from its ornate brass cradle, sizzling and glowing as if about to catch fire should it ever witness any transgressions. Then, when her Guardian arrived, if there was naughtiness to report, it would lie smouldering with expectation, waiting for the moment when it would soon be fetched and wielded.
Have you been a good girl, Rapunzel?
Her Guardian knew, of course. Her cane had already told her so.
If Rapunzel had something to confess, her Guardian would tsk dismissively, and retrieve the cane from the wall. The rod would respond euphorically, sprouting a dozen candlewick-sized flames, its whole length seeming to sizzle with delight.
Rapunzel’s subsequent spanking would be meticulous, painful and humiliating. She would be flogged until the stripes on her burning bottom merged into a single blaze of rosy pink. The enchanted fire smouldering on the edges of the rod only compounding the burning heat of every searing stroke.
She would be whacked until she was seeping from every orifice, tears streaming, nostrils dripping and mouth dribbling. And until the region that was the source of her temptation leaked a messy, musky goo.
As a result, Rapunzel hardly ever masturbated now. So when her Guardian visited, she‘d almost always discover her charge had been a very good girl indeed. Whereupon her Guardian would herself disrobe and lie naked on the bed beside her, before telling Rapunzel to rise and straddle her face.
Her Guardian’s skillful tongue would make her seep so copiously, that by the time Rapunzel collapsed, exhausted and spent, her juices would be smeared across every patch of her Guardian’s nubile body.
Some speak of legends where witches have stayed forever young, by anointing themselves with the excited secretions of a virtuous virgin. But only one whose tight haven had yet to be contaminated by a man’s tainted member.
Such was the treasure that Rapunzel’s Guardian kept hidden in the tower, faraway, deep in the wooded wilderness. Safe from the foul cocks that would ruin her precious prize…
One sunny day, as she lay basking naked on her balcony, Rapunzel heard rustling in the bushes below. She looked over, to see a man tying his horse to a branch. His face was concealed by a handkerchief, giving him a highly dubious appearance. His clothes were rough and dirty, he looked common, and dangerous. Like a thief, a brigand or highwayman.
The wretch was probably on the run from the King’s Men. They’d hunt him down eventually, they always did in the end. They’d capture him and take him back to the castle gallows to dangle and kick. She could feel a warm rush between her legs as she imagined him so helpless, his strong hands tied behind his back. No! She mustn’t think that! She wanted to be a good girl, and that was almost impossible once the throbbing got started.
She leaned on the balcony watching intently as he fumbled with the front of his pantaloons. The bucolic silence was then broken by her squeal of shock.
The brigand had opened the front of his trousers, and a long fleshy appendage had flopped out. Rapunzel gawked disbelievingly – and quite indignantly – as a stream of water spewed from his member, splashing against the base of the tower, running off to pool in a little puddle in the parched earth between his feet.
Rapunzel wasn’t entirely naive, her books and pictures had taught her that men and women had anatomical differences. But she’d never seen a penis in the flesh, so to speak. Its sheer size shocked her, far in excess of the tiny tubes she’d seen in artworks, and the little bumps on cherub boys that didn’t look all that different from her own.
Somehow, seeing his penis made her own slit throb. Something intuitively told her the two illicit places had a connection, some icky kind of shared purpose.
Her shriek had alerted him to her presence, and now he was looking up at her, admiring what he could see of her naked torso, the long streams of her hair barely covering her breasts, coquettishly teasing him. Had it not been for the base of the balcony, he would have been able to stare upwards unimpeded into her most intimate places.
They observed each other in silence, he stroking his member as she looked down on him. She watched, fascinated, as it appeared to grow between his magic fingers. Swelling, thickening, solidifying, until it stuck out rigidly beyond his clothes like an accusing finger. He seemed to be tugging at it now, wringing it with ever more increasing vigor until it suddenly spat a creamy stream of – something!? – onto the ground below.
She could see the brigand leering at her as he cleaned the dripping mess from his member on the cuff of his shirt. Then he buttoned his trousers shut, untied his horse and clambered onto the saddle. Before he rode off, he saluted her with a mocking half-bow, then disappeared into the undergrowth.
Obnoxious brute! thought Rapunzel.
To her surprise, the brigand reappeared a few days later. This time, he didn’t leer at her or fiddle with that thing in his trousers, but took a hammer and small sack from his saddle and approached the base of the tower. He took what looked like a long nail from the sack, which might have been the kind blacksmith’s used for horseshoes, and began to hammer it into the mortar between the tower’s big sandstone blocks.
Rapunzel was outraged by the racket, an awful metallic clunking and tinging. When the stranger had finished with the first nail he drove another one in just beside it, allowing him to step up onto his improvised stair.
Then, he started to hammer another nail in, at about knee-height, just to the side of where he stood. He repeated this process a dozen times, until his bag of nails was exhausted, creating a glinting spiral staircase that reached several metres off the ground. Using the claw end of the hammer to steady himself against the rugged wall, he climbed back down to the base of the tower.
Rapunzel could see him looking up with quiet satisfaction on his hour’s work. His face was still concealed by his mask, but it was unable to to hide his lascivious intent. Even though brilliant balmy sunshine was warming her all over, that parting look as he rode rode off made her shiver.
He would be back. He meant to scale the tower. She would be powerless to stop him. He would reach her sanctuary. And then…
That night, Rapunzel barely slept. Images of the masked intruder dominated her thoughts. That thing, that penis. She imagined it growing, the closer it got to her. Until it burst through the brigand’s trousers, big and stiff and hard.
The most shocking realisation was that ‘thing’ was in the perfect position and just the right size to be pushed into the tight little hole between her own legs. That was surely his intention, to continue to scale her tower, until he was standing over her as she lay naked across her bed. His rough dirty hands covering her mouth, stifling her scream.
Have you been a good girl, Rapunzel?
Would he spank her if she told him she’d been a bad girl?
Or would he just grab her legs, loom over her, and push his stiff penis into her forbidden hole?
What would that be like? Would it be like when she’d pushed her own fingers deep inside? That had earned her such a sore bottom she hadn’t done that again in years. But being filled had felt so, so good.
But then, her fingers strayed.
That night, Rapunzel was a very naughty girl.
And in the darkness, the watching cane glowed and smouldered.
A few days later, the brigand returned, and as expected, he brought another bag of nails. He glowered at her, his face still mostly hidden by the handkerchief mask, revealing only his eyes, which glinted with a hungry, almost primal, intent.
He resumed his progress, stepping up the impromptu stairs with considerable agility. No doubt he was practiced, thought Rapunzel, probably a professional burglar. Her room did contain luxuries of considerable value, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was the most precious possession in the tower.
It wasn’t long before his spiral of iron had wrapped around the tower twice, and all Rapunzel could do was watch in growing horror as the masked assailant crept towards her private sanctum.
She began to await his visits with considerable trepidation. Sometimes he’d come back after 3 days, other times it might take 5 or 6. Each delay made her hope she’d seen the last of him, that he’d been caught, shot by the King’s archers, or was awaiting the noose in a dank and fetid dungeon. But inevitably, he’d return with a new sack of enormous nails, and her cherished silence would again be wrecked by the lout’s incessant hammering.
And the following night, Rapunzel would fall into lucid, lurid, disturbing dreams.
With every visit, the top of the brigand’s nail staircase edged ever closer. Soon, it circled the tower 3 times. Then 4. By the time it had reached halfway up the tower, it circled it 5 times.
Who would reach her first, she wondered? Rapunzel’s growing anxiety had been assuaged by the prospect of her Guardian’s impending return. Surely she would save her, she’d use her arcane powers to make the nails crumble to dust, just before he reached the top, letting him fall screaming to his doom. Or maybe she’d enjoy the irony of transforming this impetuous outlaw into something small, cute, fluffy and timid – and Rapunzel would be allowed to keep him in a cage.
But her Guardian never came. As summer wore on, the little iron staircase crept ever closer to invading her world. Until one day, when Rapunzel realised that it would only take one more visit before the intruder would finally reach her balcony.
That night, her dreams grew ever more vivid, wretched and obscene.
And the cane on her wall glowed red as it spat and smoked and sizzled.
The next morning, Rapunzel was woken by the familiar sound of nails chipping into the stonework just beyond her open balcony. He was so close now, she could feel the vibrations of each hammer blow trembling in her clit.
Her Guardian had indeed forgotten her. She had nowhere to flee. Ever since she could remember she’d accepted that this tower was inescapable, even if she’d wanted to.
How should she wait for him, on her bed, naked and helpless?
Or standing by the balcony, arms folded, proud and indignant?
Or perhaps bending over, the wicked smouldering cane gripped between her bottom cheeks?
She could hear his grunting now, his hands scrabbling against the edge of the balcony. A coarse, expletive-filled voice. And a faint stench of ale, horses and musty sweat.
Heavy boots thumped onto the floor of the balcony, then approached ominously. Threateningly.
I love fairytales. Not the bland, colourful
fast-food served up by Disney to fill its theme parks, but the dark,
archaic gothic tales that have been told and retold around the glowing
hearths of Europe over countless cold winter nights.
Fairytales fascinate because they are abstract stories,
they tell of a imagined past that never was, yet one we can conjure
effortlessly into being in our imaginations. Fairytales are not
histories, but fables – stories about morals, archetypal characters and aphorisms.
Jung believed these archetypes came from our common psychology, the
thoughts, dreams and values we share with every human being ever born.
These universal stories form the foundations of our shared culture.
I believe fairytales have a special, secret magic: that each story
shares the same words with its darker twin, hidden in plain sight, which
we can see if we read the tale just slightly differently. Through a
If your mind is so attuned, you’ll see the secret
world that others can’t. You’ll begin to watch for it, you’ll learn to
recognise the covert clues, even when it’s in disguise. Where others see
an innocent fairytale, you’ll see a tale of submission and dominance,
obedience and rebelliousness, subjugation and eroticism.
you’ll develop a special fascination with the stern, domineering
characters, you’ll imagine their dungeons as places of taboo excitement
rather than despair. Maybe you’ll see the story not as good versus evil,
but as a banal, rule-bound world being rattled by iconoclast upstarts.
What is wickedness, really? Seeking to corrupt innocence and virtue, or
seeking to impose it?
The magic of fairytales is they contain two stories, light and dark, coexisting, twisted around each other like a double helix, waiting to be untangled by the reader’s mind. Is it a story of escape or desertion, capture or salvation? Do you see ravishment or submission? Do you see an abduction or a rescue? Do you see love or lust? And does the story end in agony or ecstasy?
It’s a genre I’m keen to return to, so starting tonight I’m going to be posting an new anthology of erotic spanking fairytales, starting with a brand new story:
I’ll update this post with links to the new stories as they’re posted, in the meantime, here’s two other gothic fairytales I’ve written. Look out for the themes of light and dark, try peering beyond the reflection, and you never know what you might see lurking behind the mirror…
I’ve devised a punishment based around your story, Punishment Panties,
and, as you’re the inspiration, I thought it only fair to tell you (and
to add to the humiliation of the punishment). Basically, I needed a
punishment that could be done while my roommates were home with my door
somewhat open for my pets – so, silent and relatively undetectable but
still very much a punishment.
This lead me to my current
predicament: lying back in bed, with my dress hitched up and
my blankets pulled up, ribbons looped into my panties and tied to my
headboard. The ribbons are just long enough that I can lie down but
doing so causes my panties to gather between the cheeks of my arse and,
the further down I wiggle, pull tight up against my slit.
my punishment is for wasting my time on the internet (particularly on
the naughty side of tumblr) when I’m supposed to be doing work and
chores, I’ve been scrolling through my dash looking at all the naughty
posts but I’m not allowed to touch (not that I can, really, with how
tight my panties are currently). At the naughtiest posts, I get a little
squirmy and it pulls my panties tighter and increases the burning
between my thighs.
After I send this message, I’ll be allowed to
get up and untie my ribbons and pull my panties down. I’m going to do so
in front of the bathroom mirror, so I can see the little red stripe
Your stories never fail to inspire, thank you.
An appropriate punishment, dear reader. And I hope the fact that your confession is going to be seen by thousands of readers will add further humiliation.
As you’ve already discovered, panty-pulling is an excellent punishment for those who lack sufficient privacy for a good spanking. A sore pink stripe between the legs rather than a sore pink bottom.
In a previous post I’ve described some other activities that you can perform discreetly. To these I’d also add the chastity belt, which can be worn under clothes in public. Having your mound and slit shaved completely bare is another act of self-discipline I encourage, providing a continuous reminder of your need for discipline every time you lower or raise your panties…
Contrasting sensations can amplify each other. Pain and pleasure. Silence and noise. Hot and cold. You’ll be familiar with the hot ache of arousal, and the fiery stinging heat of a good hard spanking, so in this challenge you’re going to couple that warmth with a completely different sensation, the seasonally-appropriate, cool numbing chill of ice…
To begin, make some ice cubes. Put a tray into the fridge if you haven’t any ready, and wait for them to freeze. Then put them into a bowl of water, which will help take off the frost and melt away any sharp edges.
If you’re playing in your bedroom, put a towel or two on your bed to keep your covers dry.
The idea of this challenge is to alternate between spankings and ice play. For instance, you might begin by circling your breasts, watching as you make your nipples harden. Follow it up with a series of spanks to warm up your bottom.
Then lie down and nestle an ice cube in little dimple of your belly button. Your job is to make sure it doesn’t slide off. A test of your self-control as you feel the ice begin to melt, its cool water dribbling down your heated skin.
Follow this with another quick spanking. Extra hard if you let the ice cube slip.
Then try pulling down your panties and placing an ice cube in the gusset. Then slowly, pull your panties up. Where will you feel the chill nip of the ice? On your bottom hole, your perineum? Boys might feel it against their balls, or the base of the cock. Girls might feel it slip between their lips, or numbing the hot little bulb of their clit.
Pull your panties up until they’re tight and snug against your crotch, leave them in position for a minute, whilst the ice chills and melts, as you feel the trickle of meltwater soaking your panties, mingling with your own arousal. In effect, this a variation of Ups and Downs, where you’re pulling your underwear up and down until the ice is completely melted. And when the ice is gone it’s time for your spanking.
You may have your spanking on your cold wet panties, or you can take them off and have your bottom smacked bare. Either way, aim for a good thorough bottom warming.
When your bottom is hot and pink, get another ice cube to cool it down. To avoid numbing your fingers, you might want to hold the ice cube with a cloth or flannel. Trace the ice across your cheeks, paradoxically you may feel your bottom getting hotter, as the bitter cold is interpreted by the nerve endings in your skin as a burning sensation. You may feel the muscles of your vagina and anus involuntarily clench, hard…
I hereby award you a Gold Star for your diligence, dear reader! ⭐
Personally, I’m more of a producer than a consumer of spanking content, so rather than just get my opinion, I’m going to invite everyone’s opinion.
So if you have a suggestion for audio, visual or written spanking erotica, reblog this post and add a link to your nomination. That way, everyone gets to discover new treasures, including me!
I’ll go first, and recommend the wonderful creations of @asajones2, (asajones2.tumblr.com) who not only writes stories and lovingly photographs them, but also then generously shares them online for others to enjoy. A lovely guy, bravo.