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Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

Month

August 2018

I have this fantasie: To fabricate an extraordinary and expensive arousal gel the juices of denied women are used as base product. Since fluids from undenied women are decreasing the quality of the gel, these women would firstly be trained in something like the Denial Academy (from female-orgasm-denial) before starting to be used as lube fabricater for producing the arousal gel which is mainly bought by rich man for their wife’s to make brainless fucktoys. Would you write a story about this?

Thank you for your suggestion.

As it happens, I’ve already written a story about the harvesting the juices of erotically denied captives, and that tale is:

Stolen Essence

And I don’t think I’ll ever be able to write a better one. If you find denial exciting, I recommend it…

Story news

The finale my latest story Verso, Recto is now posted!

If you haven’t already, you can begin with the first part here.

Verso, Recto

A spanking story

We are alone in the grand old
convent. Walking among the ghosts of the chaste and the pious. Their
home was an edifice of lichen-encrusted granite, nestling in the woods
like a miniature gothic castle, a secluded haven that did not wish to be
discovered. But years ago you found it, you rescued it and restored it,
like you’ve done with so many wayward girls. You made it your own home,
and now, you’ve invited me to visit.

You promised me a tour, to
show me its secrets. You explain how the spacious open-plan kitchen was
once the main dormitory, where dozens of young ladies would bunk
together. The biggest classroom has been transformed into your home
office, and the cavernous assembly hall is now a magnificent
timber-beamed living room.

I trail along gawking admiringly. You
escort me upstairs, our ascending footsteps muffled by the opulently
plush carpet. The rooms on either side of the long hallway were the
nuns’ private quarters it seems. You point to the door furthest away,
explaining that it was where Mother Superior dwelt. The ultimate
authority in this place, well, secondary to God I suppose.  

We pause at the top of the stairs, and you point to the ominous door at the end of the corridor.

“Go inside. You’ll find your instructions painted on the wall.”

That
comment was most unexpected, almost shocking. I found it difficult to
imagine anyone would deface such a beautiful old building by scrawling
on its walls.

I hesitated, but you sent me on my way with an
encouraging smack to my bottom. I began dawdling towards the
destination, looking over my shoulder, looking for confirmation of your
satisfaction. Reassurance that I was doing as I’d been told.

You
remained at the top of the stairs, watching silently and sternly, until I
reached the door. Then, to my surprise, you turned and left me,
descending out of my sight down the grand old staircase. Leaving me
alone to carry out your command. Trusting in my obedience.

I
gripped the little brass doorknob, twisting it until I heard the latch
click. I pushed the door open, trembling with anticipation, wondering if
we were really alone here, or whether I’d be interrupting someone
inside. Too late, I realised I hadn’t even knocked.

To my relief,
the room I entered seemed unoccupied. It was large, but surprising
austere, the plush carpet of the hallway giving way to exposed wooden
floorboards, its bare walls coated with an aged, off-white plaster. The
only decoration was a painting, seemingly a portrait of a young nun.
Contrary to my expectations, there was no writing on any of the walls.
If my instructions had been painted, I was clearly looking at it now.

The
only furniture was an elegantly carved wooden plinth that barely
exceeded the height of my knees, nearly identical to the one depicted in
the painting. Lying on top of it were what seemed like a pile of folded
clothes, predominantly black and white.

I realised this was a
test of my initiative. A test of my obedience. The garments looked like a
nun’s habit, a coarse black serge tunic, a white linen coif, a white
cotton undershirt.

I eased the door shut and began to undress,
folding up the outfit I’d chosen with such meticulous care in a vain
attempt to impress you. I placed my clothes in a neat little pile in the
corner, finishing by removing my panties, I suspected few nuns would
wear lingerie under their habits, and I strongly suspected you’d like to
check.

I pulled on the cotton undershirt first, realising this
was as close as my new outfit would come to underwear. The coif, the
tunic and stockings followed. The latter were authentically archaic,
without elastic they had to be tied around my calves by bright red
ribbons, the sole splash of colour in my monochrome garb.

Once
dressed, I knew you’d expect to find me in the same position as the
portrait, kneeling by the plinth, fingers arched. I mimicked the
position of the young lady in the picture, pondering the nature of her
prayers. Was she pleading with her God, imploring Him to forgive her
nocturnal transgressions? Those wandering fingers? Or the embraces with
her sisters that had escalated into kisses and rubbings?

How
strange this religion of love had become a global sexual denial cult.
Surely if we are made in the image of God, the Creator would want us to
pleasure ourselves, to glorify his creations by elevating each to state
of ecstatic bliss.

Despite the thick tunic, I could already feel a
faint draught between my legs. A subtle breeze teasing my slit, as my
undershirt tempted me further, rubbing across the exquisitely sensitive
skin of my newly waxed mound, in a continuous trial of my faith.

I
clasped my hands and prayed. My knees and elbows aching against the
hard unforgiving wood of the floorboards and the plinth. I found myself
praying you’d join me. Wishing you’d lift my robes and help satisfy me.

After
a while, I began to appreciate why prayers were made with clasped
hands. Had I not been clasping them so tightly, one of both would surely
have wandered beneath my thick scratchy gown and into my warm, wet,
aching cranny.

And then, suddenly, my prayers were answered.

The door creaked open, and you returned.

“Do you like my painting?”

I nod my head enthusiastically.

“It’s
a Martin van Meytens. An 18th century studio copy, admittedly. The
original is in the national gallery in Stockholm. Such a lovely place.”

“It’s beautiful,” I reply.

“What do you see?”

“Humility, grace, and piety.”

“And chastity?”

“Yes…” I gulp nervously, earnestly hoping that wasn’t your actual intention.

“Submissiveness?”

“Oh yes.”

“Innocence?”

“Oh, very.”

“And yet, sometimes appearances can be deceptive…”

I stare back, puzzled, not quite sure to what you’re referring. The canvas? Or me?

“Did
you know some paintings have two sides? Collectors call them Verso and
Recto, rather than front and back – because sometimes it’s hard to say
which side deserves the honour of being displayed, and which side should
be hidden…”

I watch in quiet fascination as you reverently turn
over the portrait, surprised that it reveals another complete picture,
painted on the reverse of the canvas. It is a scene of startling
candour, its explicitness making my clit throb even before my mind has
fully deciphered what I’m seeing.

[Image filtered by Tumblr – you can see it here]

She
must be the same subject, but this time depicted from behind. Perhaps
her innocence was just a front. Perhaps all innocence is just a front.
This angle reveals a different side of her, naked flesh in place of her
religious habit. This is a woman depicted as a sexual being. Curvaceous
and alluring. The glory of the Creator’s vision manifested, no long
hidden, but celebrated.

“Now, what do you think of your chaste and innocent nun?”

I’m
speechless. Not because I’m embarrassed by seeing nakedness, but
because I so crave the sensuality of what the image represents.

And
it seems our desires are aligned, because you reach down and lift the
hem of my own tunic, dragging it upwards until it gathers on the small
of my back, until my own buttocks are as bare as those in the painting
above me.

“What do you see in this painting? Voyeurism? Shame? Humiliation? Punishment?”

I find myself nodding, all of those, and more.

“Did you know Sisters were flogged in the position you now find yourself?”

I shook my head. I did not.

And now I see you’re dangling something in front of my face.

“This
little whip is called a Discipline. Notice how there’s seven leather
fronds, one for each of the deadly sins. Every nun here would carry one,
hanging from the belt of her habit, a continuing reminder of her oath
of obedience. And every one of them would be expected to spank her own
bottom every night, after confessing her sins in her bedtime prayers.”

You place it in my hand, and guide my right arm backwards until I can feel the whip’s cool thin straps sway against my bottom.

“But…! For what sins am I to be punished?” I ask indignantly.

By
way of response, you reach down, dragging your fingers between my legs,
before smearing my lips with the salty goo of my own excitement.

“The Almighty sees everything, Child.”

A flush of heat sears my face, I feel my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

“Forgive me.”

I begin whipping myself.

“Harder.”

Despite
the short backswing, I can hear the tails of the whip whistle through
the air before they strike. The seven thick flanges at the end of each
frond landing in a simultaneous, stinging eruption.

“Harder.”

I
reach back as far as I can, swinging the whip with all my strength. I
know this is how a nun would feel, knowing she was being overseen at all
times, watched by the Almighty.

I grimace as each whack lands,
knowing you’re not interested in my pitiful whimpering. This is my
penitence. My spanking, my absolution.

I look up at the painting,
and her beautiful buttocks. Is that a hint of pink I see? Or is she
whispering her confession prayer, the moment of righteous retribution
just moments away.  

Please, forgive my obscene excitement.

Let me atone for the sins of my flesh…


You put me to bed with a sore bottom, in one of the old convent’s austere intimidating cells. Where the fiery glow beneath me contrived to conjure such extraordinary dreams.

Somehow I saw those who’d inhabited these very rooms and corridors long ago, with such vivid lucidity I could have sworn they were my own memories. As I walked amongst the convent’s ghosts, every detail felt so real.

“I saw behind your portrait,” I told her.

“I know,” she replied.

I dreamt I was one of the novice nuns. An experience so vicarious I could feel my knees ache from kneeling on the cold hard floor, as I offered my thanks for the gift of a brand new day. A act of gratitude not only for the dawn, but also the daily morning ritual that was about to occur. Outside our dormitory, someone rang a hand-bell, a signal for my fellow novices and I to conclude our prayers and file out of our shared sleeping quarters to the bathroom.

After queuing for the toilet, we would undress, and enter the tiled corner where the showers steamed and spluttered. The water is warm, but never luxuriously hot. We ablute as best we can with the mediocre soap, and then – still dripping – cloak ourselves with a scrawny towel and take our place in line.

There are three girls in front of me, then two, then it’s my turn. I drop my towel, and I’m standing naked in front of one of the senior sisters. I clasp my hands in prayer across my chest as the sister dabs a foamy cream into my mound. Then she places a crucifix over my crotch, and with a fearsome-looking straight-edge razor, shaves the stubble in the four corners, leaving a cross-shaped tuft of pubic hair behind.

In this institution, it was easy to tell who were the well-behaved girls. As any who misbehaved would be sent to see a senior nun, and immediately shaved completely bare, before being severely spanked. Her candid bareness would serve as a lingering reminder of her sinful immaturity. The slow regrowth of her hair would represent the incremental progress towards her eventual forgiveness.

Somehow I knew all of the convent’s petty rules, and all the consequences. How the most serious infractions, such as the illicit touching of ourselves – or even worse, the touching of others – would result in being sent to the Mother Superior to be shaved and caned, and then being put in the dreaded chastity pants for several weeks, until the miscreant’s crucifix patch had fully regrown.

Chastity Pants were long-johns made of a thick uncomfortable calico fabric, with tough leather panels sewn into the gusset to guard against any external rubbing. Whilst their long ankle length leggings would prevent any fingers from straying inside. They were secured around the waist with cord that was narrower than the wearer’s hips, the two ends being secured with a lockable clasp that prevented them from being lowered once they were pulled up and fixed.

As a consequence, every morning, afternoon and evening any unfortunate girl wearing such underwear would have to report to a sister to be unlocked before she could visit the toilet – with the door left open, of course. And when time in chastity coincided with a girl’s period, it was also a chance to change to the cloth rags used for hygiene.

Whilst her bottom was bare, she’d demonstrate her own contrition by bending over and giving herself a brief spanking with her own discipline whip in front of the watching sister, who would often add some smacks of her own. Then the chastity garment would pulled up again and locked shut above her hips, leaving the poor girl’s bottom to throb inconsolably beneath her habit.

But, eventually, at the end of the offender’s sentence, she would be granted her redemption. She would have the cross once again shaved into her mound. and all her sins would be considered forgiven. After all, wasn’t that the Christian message?

In my dream, I hadn’t done anything naughty enough to be put in chastity. But I had been given demerit slip for whispering silliness to a friend in Latin class, and so had been sent to my house mistress Sister Juliet to have my bottom smacked.

Each nun in the convent had their own preferred means of spanking. Mother Superior believed in the corrective effect of naked canings, so any unfortunates sent to her would expect to find themselves completely undressed before being bent over the trestle for a whacking from her terrible cane. The dour Sister Anna made girls touch their toes, before administering their punishment with her favoured long thick wooden ruler.

Strict Sister Maria, on the other hand, preferred to use the strap on kneeling girls whose heads were pressed to the floor, with their bare bums raised high into the air. Whilst pretty Sister Constance had naughty novices lift their gowns and lie on their backs, before raising their legs and whacking with her paddle.

Lovely Sister Juliet had a more intimate spanking style, those sent to see her would be made to stand beside the spanking chair and lift their skirts. When the good sister took her seat, she’d put the naughty girl across her knee, and spank her bare bottom with the sole of her leather slipper. Soles saving souls, so to speak.

I had reached the door of Sister Juliet’s room, and was taking a moment to compose myself before I knocked, when I heard some giggling behind the door. This outbreak of jollity was so unexpected I found myself consumed by curiosity, like when you’re desperate to be let in on the secret joke. Something made me kneel and peep through the waist-high spyhole. None of the doors in the convent had locks or latches, whyever would they need them? Certainly only sin would flourish behind a locked door. Just as the Good Lord could see all, every door in the convent had a spyhole, so there were few secrets in this establishment. Or so I thought.

I held my breath, and peeked…

Instinctively, my hand flew my mouth to suppress a gasp. I could see lovely Sister Juliet lying naked on her bed, whilst above, a naked Sister Constance was straddling her. Their heads were between each other’s legs, in what my modern self would readily recognise as the classic 69 position, but somehow I also knew the mind I was inhabiting would find this revelation profoundly shocking.

I could see the sisters’ habits and underclothes strewn across the floor, as if they’d both undressed hurriedly. I watched in silent fascination as the two women pleasured each other. They were trying to be quiet, but every now and they’d let a slip a moan or a giggle, each only serving to stoke my own desire to join them.

“This is so naughty!” I heard Juliet whisper. “You know what would happen if we were caught…”

With that, she lightly smacked the bum of her partner several times by way of illustration. In reality, the sanctions would be far more painful than a light spanking on the bare bottom. They’d both be shaved bare and caned naked by Mother Superior. How I’d love to witness that.

As I spied, I could feel my own arousal growing, but I knew I mustn’t touch myself, not out here in the corridor especially. I did consider sneaking off to the toilets to take care of myself, if this place had taught me anything, it was it was easier to pray to forgiveness than ask for permission.

Beautiful Sister Constance had responded to Juliet’s tease by raising her head from between her legs, straightening herself before grasping her partner’s ankles and lifting her legs upright.

“This is how I spank, young lady! Constance hissed, with as much threat as her hushed voice could convey. “Next time you can report to my room and I’ll paddle your bare bottom like a naughty little girl!”

Oh goodness. How I would love to witness that, the sister who’d put me over her knee so many times getting a sore bottom of her own. I found myself staring at Juliet’s pretty pink slit, now exposed as her legs were held in the air. A cross of ginger hair clearly visible on her own mound.

Absent-mindedly, my hand had drifted inside the hem of my tunic, and upwards until it reached the tingling region between my own legs. I brushed the cross on my own mound, following it down to the throbbing bead just below it. I was not surprised to find my slit hot and sticky to the touch.

I began to wonder, was this a divine test? Had the Lord put me in this situation? Was this a temptation to resist? Or a reward for my virtue?

I stroked as watched the two Sisters licking each other, imagining the sensation I was giving myself was administered by Juliet’s cute little tongue, or Constance’s long nimble fingers. I was soon approaching climax, lurching beyond the point it was possible to stop. The squelching of my own impaling fingers mingling with the stifled moans from the other side of the door.

And then, a hand painfully pinched my shoulder.

“Wicked child!”

I had been discovered by Sister Anna, with my hand still up my gown.

She tugged my earlobe, raising me painfully to my feet and intercepting my sticky hand before I could wipe away the evidence of my shame. She lifted my fingers to her nose, inhaling like a connoisseur might assess a fine wine, an expertise that suggested that in her time she had caught a great deal of young ladies masturbating.

“You disgraceful, filthy urchin!”

The commotion outside the door must have alerted the occupants, as by the time Sister Anna had knocked on the door, Juliet’s voice calmly replied, “One moment sister, I’m just getting dressed…”

This response only seemed to darken Sister Anna’s countenance, to her it was perfectly obvious what she had interrupted: I had been caught wanking whilst watching pretty Sister Juliet getting dressed.So Sister Anna didn’t wait for the door to open, she intensified her pinch of my ear and dragged me down the corridor to Mother Superior’s office.

The mistress of our realm was a formidable woman; a stern, middle-aged lady, a domineering presence born from an absolute conviction in what was right and what was wrong. My cheeks burned with embarrassment as Sister Anna explained her version of events, what she had caught me doing.

I was intimidated into silence, and decided not to contradict Sister Anna’s interpretation, part of me didn’t want to get the two Sisters into trouble, and part of me felt guilty for what I’d done. I had been caught spying and masturbating, and what had inspired it made little difference to my sins. My crime was unequivocal, and my sentence never in any doubt. Our Mother decreed that I would be put into chastity pants until the end of my next period, which was about 2 or 3 weeks away.

I was told to undress immediately, which I did without complaint, lifting my garments over my head and folding them up respectfully. Sister Anna then gripped my ear and dragged me into our Mother’s private bathroom, where she ran a bath of tepid water, and ordered me into it. There, the sin – the sticky mess between my legs, and the sweat that clung to my body – was roughly scrubbed away from me.

Once cleansed, Sister Anna applied a frothy shaving cream to my mound, spread my legs and shaved me bare. The cross I wore so intimately was scraped and swept away, as if my sins made me undeserving of it.

Once shaved, I was told to stand and step out of the bath, and given a towel to dry myself. I noticed those used by the senior nuns were far softer than the coarse flannels we novices were given. I was then instructed to use the loo, Sister Anna was to afford me no privacy, watching me dispassionately as I sat down naked to pee, then insisting I bend over to be wiped and inspected once I’d finished.

When I was finally led back to Mother Superior’s office, the caning trestle was already waiting for me. A waist high beam, with two A-shaped stanchions on either side, with little loops of leather at each corner.

I was told to spread my legs to the nearest corners and bend over, whereupon our Mother knelt beside me and fixed the belts firmly around my wrists and ankles. Once I was immobilised, she inspected me thoroughly, tugging my buttocks open to check I was clean, then running her fingers across my mound to check I was smooth.

Then she left me to wait, helpless and exposed for what seemed like an eternity, until at last I felt her cane tapping against my bottom.

A dread swish accompanied the first eruption of pain across my cheeks. I had received too many canings to remember, but abruptly realised for the mind I inhabited, this was her first. I could feel her fear, the thundering of her heartbeat, the sweat dripping from her armpits. The tears dripping down her face. And to be honest, that just excited me even more.

I felt like a rider on bucking colt as the body I shared trembled and convulsed with every stinging whack. Our Mother would pause after every couple of strokes, kneeling behind me to examine the lines she’d inflicted, occasionally also cupping my crotch consolingly with her hand. I’m certain she could feel my wetness on her palm. Part of me wanted to shout out, to implore her to just shift her fingertips to the one spot that longed for it most. But my host was sobbing too much to form any recognisable words.

In total, our Mother gave us twenty searing whacks, inflicting lines of welts that would continue to throb and ache for several days. She left us sobbing over the trestle with our red bottom on display for another hour, until there was a little puddle of our dribble beneath our face on the carpet. And just behind, if you looked closely, was the little sticky dot that had seeped from our slit.

That was because whilst my host had spent the hour weeping, I had spent it imagining Mother Superior had penetrated our bum with a prayer candle, before lighting it and letting the hot wax dribble down between our throbbing buttocks, until it solidified as little white rivulets that flowed as far as our inner thighs. I could almost feel the heat growing as the imagined flame got ever closer to our poor bottom hole, the jeopardy only serving to amplify my excitement.

When I was untied, I had to use the support of the trestle to steady my wobbly legs. Sister Anna had my chastity pants ready for me, placing them on the floor for me to step into, then pulling them abruptly to my waist. I could see her smirk cruelly as she secured the cord above my hips.

The only mercy I was shown was being able to eat my dinner standing up. Sister Anna had taken great pleasure in announcing to all assembled that I’d been caught playing with myself, and had suffered the consequences. I could see my friends looking at my pitifully, many had experienced the same punishment themselves, so there was no sneering or teasing.

When we were taken back to our dorm, I had to undress as they watched with rapt fascination, as I revealed my cruel chastity pants before pulling on my nightgown. I was briefly released to pee, before being put to bed. Needless to say, I slept on my front, sobbing quietly into my pillow with my pain and misfortunate.


The next day, my morning ritual was uncomfortably different. It was Stern Sister Maria who unlocked my clasp, and those of the other two girls currently in a similar predicament, and escorted us to the toilet. Then she took us to the shower, watching us closely as we cleaned ourselves, ensuring we the warm flannel didn’t linger too long between our legs. I could see one of the girls had clearly visible stubble now, indicating her time in chastity was almost over. I could feel the swollen welts on my bottom as I gingerly washed.

But my soreness didn’t spare me from Sister Maria’s strap. After showering, we had to kneel with our bottoms up, and were spanked six times as we said our prayers, acknowledging our sins and asking for forgiveness.

By mid-afternoon, I needed to pee again, but this time, I sought out Sister Juliet. She led me to the bathroom in silence and closed the door behind us.

“You saw, didn’t you?” she asked quietly.

“I saw everything, Sister. But I said nothing.”

I looked her in the eye, recognising her expression of surprise.

“That is… very… charitable… of you. Thank you.”

I nodded in acknowledgement.

“I saw behind your portrait.”

Sister Juliet considered my last statement in a long tense silence. Her unblinking eyes surveying me, as if attempting to discern my trustworthiness.

“I know,” she replied at last.

“… but you know you still need to be punished for spying and touching yourself.”

I nodded again.

With that, I lifted my tunic, allowing her to crouch and unlock my belt. She helped the cruel chastity garment fall to my ankles, revealing my bare slit to her gaze. She stayed on her haunches whilst she caressed the smooth skin of my mound, cupping me with her palm, until the warmth of her hand on my full bladder made me begin to fear I’d lose control and pee all over her.

Sensing my discomfort, as I hopped from foot to foot, she eventually permitted me to use the toilet. With my legs open, of course. Juliet watched as I gushed, then insisted I bend over so she could dry my slit herself.

She finished with a firm slap to my bare bottom, which was just a hint of what was yet to come. She edged past me to sit on the toilet seat, and sensing her intention, I bent over her lap without being asked. Mercifully Juliet spanked me with her palm rather than her slipper, but her two dozen smacks still left my poor bottom smarting.

Yet afterwards, once she’d pulled up and relocked my chastity pants, and just as I was about to turn and leave, she reached forward and held my head tenderly, and kissed me.

The next day, I visited pretty Sister Constance, and apologised for spying on her too. She also thanked me for my discretion, before putting me on my back and lifting my legs. She made me put a hand on my bare mound and tug the hood of my clitoris back as she spanked me, so I was exquisitely sensitive to every smack. But frustratingly, she did not allow me to rub myself.

This was my disciplinary regime for the next fortnight, visiting the two sisters alternately, to be spanked and inspected, morning, noon and night. So the only time my bottom wasn’t throbbing were in those delicious few moments when I woke, before we were roused out of bed, before I reported to have my first spanking of the day.

I could feel the heat in my smacked bottom throughout the day, like a perpetual spanking whose sting never faded. I could feel it as I sat on the hard unforgiving chairs in my classes, and when I ate, and whenever I knelt to pray. A continuing hot ache that made my slit tingle, and my little button throb, cruelly locked away, and out of reach.


On the day my period ended, I reported to Sister Juliet for the final time.

After taking me to the toilet and unlocking me, she took me back to her room and told me to undress. Completely.

I knelt on the cold hard floor as she placed her wooden crucifix against my bush, whilst she used the fierce-looking razor to shave away its corners, restoring the cross that cruel Sister Anna had taken away from me several weeks ago.

“All is forgiven, child.”

I nodded, and accepted her hand as she graciously helped me to my feet.

And then, to my considerable surprise, Juliet lifted her own habit above her head. She was not wearing anything underneath. She took my hand again, and led me to her bed. As I lay on my back, Juliet straddled my face, revealing the ginger cross on her own mound, a thin vertical strip with short cross bars. Beneath, the lips of her pretty slit were swollen, pink and wet.

“It is a sin to touch ourselves, but is not the message of the Gospels is that our love should touch others?”

I did not resist as she bent over me, burying her head between my legs, slowly licking the sensitive skin where I’d just been shaved, tracing the cruciform shape with her tongue, brushing my clit on on each visit to the base of the cross. Soon she was using her fingers to open me, tugging back my hood, and folding back my lips.

I had never thought of the Christian message like this before. But it made perfect sense, Jesus wasn’t a bully or an austere tyrant. An ascetic disciplinarian, undoubtedly. But one who preached a message of love.

My host had never licked another woman, but I took the initiative. Exploring Juliet’s folds with an expertise that seemed to take her by surprise. She mewed with delight, redoubling her efforts to pleasure me. Pinching my slit, rubbing and stroking, fingers straying and intruding.

It seems every portrait does have a reverse side. A hidden side. Who would have thought that innocent Sister Juliet was so lustful. So feminine, so sensual.

She took me to the very brink. Until I was mere moments away from the climax I’d been craving ever since I’d spied on her.

And then, suddenly, she stopped.

Sister Juliet rose from straddling me, stepping down from the bed, pulling on my hand and tugging me upright, until I was standing on the floor beside her. She positioned me deliberately so I was facing the wall, a few footsteps away from it, gently smacking the insides of my thighs until I’d opened my legs to her satisfaction.

I could feel the wetness of her saliva on my open slit, slowing dripping, the heat of my arousal cooled by the tickling breeze of the room’s chill air.

Was her intention to let me come, or would denial be my final lesson?

I was surprised when she took her place beside me. Now we were standing side-by-side, and she grasped my hand, holding it tight. It was an encouraging, comforting grip, with all the warmth of a lifelong friend.

I could feel her beginning to lend forwards.

“Bend over.”

I followed her lead, and tipping towards the floor until both our bottoms were high in the air – and facing the door. I wondered if anyone was watching us through the spyhole, whether we were moments away from being caught. Would Sister Juliet share my fate? Would I get to watch her being shaved? And then watch her being caned? Would we go to have our chastity panties lowered together? I delighted in the thought of being spanked together, every day for a whole month.

I felt a powerful emotion surge through me. A feeling of wanting to be close to Juliet. A fierce protectiveness. An intense affection that made me throb and my tummy tumble.

I did not resist as she dragged my hand backwards, between her own legs. She made me close all my fingers except for the middle one, and used it to enter her vagina, which seemed to suck on my finger like the tightest tiniest mouth. I wanted to push it deep, to masturbate her, to thrust it in and out until I made my beautiful new friend climax, to bestow such a gift of pleasure that a smile would beam from her mouth that would never fade.

But her grip on my hand didn’t let me. She used my finger to collect her sticky wetness, and then moved it upwards, rubbing it around the crinkled dimple of her bottom hole. Then, slowly and steadily, she pushed my finger inside. When I was all the way in she clenched, gripping me tighter than a grasping hand. Now I couldn’t move, even if I’d wanted to, my wrist fixed between her legs in the most erotic kind of armlock.

Then I could feel her arm beneath mine, straying between my own legs. Her middle finger stroked my own slick folds, frustratingly avoiding my swollen clitoris, before briefly dipping inside my vagina. How I wanted her to linger there, slowly pumping in and out, until she found the spot that felt just right.

But she didn’t. Instead, her finger moved upward, rubbing my own excitement into my bottom hole, her wet fingertip probing, then pushing, as if testing my resistance. It didn’t take long before I began to admit her, my heart thumping in my chest as I was violated so filthily. And when her finger was all the way in it felt so good when I clenched around her.

After a while I felt Juliet’s warm breath tickle my ear as she whispered conspiratorially.

“I have something to confess…”

I relaxed, then clenched again, gripped her finger even tighter.

“… Sister Constance will be along shortly, to spank our bare bottoms.”

She would open the door to find us giggling and gasping, bent over with our arms trapped between each other’s legs – with our fingers deep within each other’s bums.

We would feel her strap stroke our bare buttocks as she admonished us.

She would make us keep our fingers in each other’s bottoms as we were spanked. Our captured fingers gripped and squeezed tighter with every smack.

Our longings intensifying as she brought us ever closer to the edge.

And then

When I waked

I cried to dream again.

.

.

.

@spankingtheatre 2018

Verso, Recto – part 2

This is the second part of a two-part story, you can read the first part here.


You put me to bed with a sore bottom, in one of the old convent’s austere intimidating cells. Where the fiery glow beneath me contrived to conjure such extraordinary dreams.

Somehow I saw those who’d inhabited these very rooms and corridors long ago, with such vivid lucidity I could have sworn they were my own memories. As I walked amongst the convent’s ghosts, every detail felt so real.

“I saw behind your portrait,” I told her.

“I know,” she replied.

I dreamt I was one of the novice nuns. An experience so vicarious I could feel my knees ache from kneeling on the cold hard floor, as I offered my thanks for the gift of a brand new day. A act of gratitude not only for the dawn, but also the daily morning ritual that was about to occur. Outside our dormitory, someone rang a hand-bell, a signal for my fellow novices and I to conclude our prayers and file out of our shared sleeping quarters to the bathroom.

After queuing for the toilet, we would undress, and enter the tiled corner where the showers steamed and spluttered. The water is warm, but never luxuriously hot. We ablute as best we can with the mediocre soap, and then – still dripping – cloak ourselves with a scrawny towel and take our place in line.

There are three girls in front of me, then two, then it’s my turn. I drop my towel, and I’m standing naked in front of one of the senior sisters. I clasp my hands in prayer across my chest as the sister dabs a foamy cream into my mound. Then she places a crucifix over my crotch, and with a fearsome-looking straight-edge razor, shaves the stubble in the four corners, leaving a cross-shaped tuft of pubic hair behind.

In this institution, it was easy to tell who were the well-behaved girls. As any who misbehaved would be sent to see a senior nun, and immediately shaved completely bare, before being severely spanked. Her candid bareness would serve as a lingering reminder of her sinful immaturity. The slow regrowth of her hair would represent the incremental progress towards her eventual forgiveness.

Somehow I knew all of the convent’s petty rules, and all the consequences. How the most serious infractions, such as the illicit touching of ourselves – or even worse, the touching of others – would result in being sent to the Mother Superior to be shaved and caned, and then being put in the dreaded chastity pants for several weeks, until the miscreant’s crucifix patch had fully regrown.

Chastity Pants were long-johns made of a thick uncomfortable calico fabric, with tough leather panels sewn into the gusset to guard against any external rubbing. Whilst their long ankle length leggings would prevent any fingers from straying inside. They were secured around the waist with cord that was narrower than the wearer’s hips, the two ends being secured with a lockable clasp that prevented them from being lowered once they were pulled up and fixed.

As a consequence, every morning, afternoon and evening any unfortunate girl wearing such underwear would have to report to a sister to be unlocked before she could visit the toilet – with the door left open, of course. And when time in chastity coincided with a girl’s period, it was also a chance to change to the cloth rags used for hygiene.

Whilst her bottom was bare, she’d demonstrate her own contrition by bending over and giving herself a brief spanking with her own discipline whip in front of the watching sister, who would often add some smacks of her own. Then the chastity garment would pulled up again and locked shut above her hips, leaving the poor girl’s bottom to throb inconsolably beneath her habit.

But, eventually, at the end of the offender’s sentence, she would be granted her redemption. She would have the cross once again shaved into her mound. and all her sins would be considered forgiven. After all, wasn’t that the Christian message?

In my dream, I hadn’t done anything naughty enough to be put in chastity. But I had been given demerit slip for whispering silliness to a friend in Latin class, and so had been sent to my house mistress Sister Juliet to have my bottom smacked.

Each nun in the convent had their own preferred means of spanking. Mother Superior believed in the corrective effect of naked canings, so any unfortunates sent to her would expect to find themselves completely undressed before being bent over the trestle for a whacking from her terrible cane. The dour Sister Anna made girls touch their toes, before administering their punishment with her favoured long thick wooden ruler.

Strict Sister Maria, on the other hand, preferred to use the strap on kneeling girls whose heads were pressed to the floor, with their bare bums raised high into the air. Whilst pretty Sister Constance had naughty novices lift their gowns and lie on their backs, before raising their legs and whacking with her paddle.

Lovely Sister Juliet had a more intimate spanking style, those sent to see her would be made to stand beside the spanking chair and lift their skirts. When the good sister took her seat, she’d put the naughty girl across her knee, and spank her bare bottom with the sole of her leather slipper. Soles saving souls, so to speak.

I had reached the door of Sister Juliet’s room, and was taking a moment to compose myself before I knocked, when I heard some giggling behind the door. This outbreak of jollity was so unexpected I found myself consumed by curiosity, like when you’re desperate to be let in on the secret joke. Something made me kneel and peep through the waist-high spyhole. None of the doors in the convent had locks or latches, whyever would they need them? Certainly only sin would flourish behind a locked door. Just as the Good Lord could see all, every door in the convent had a spyhole, so there were few secrets in this establishment. Or so I thought.

I held my breath, and peeked…

Instinctively, my hand flew my mouth to suppress a gasp. I could see lovely Sister Juliet lying naked on her bed, whilst above, a naked Sister Constance was straddling her. Their heads were between each other’s legs, in what my modern self would readily recognise as the classic 69 position, but somehow I also knew the mind I was inhabiting would find this revelation profoundly shocking.

I could see the sisters’ habits and underclothes strewn across the floor, as if they’d both undressed hurriedly. I watched in silent fascination as the two women pleasured each other. They were trying to be quiet, but every now and they’d let a slip a moan or a giggle, each only serving to stoke my own desire to join them.

“This is so naughty!” I heard Juliet whisper. “You know what would happen if we were caught…”

With that, she lightly smacked the bum of her partner several times by way of illustration. In reality, the sanctions would be far more painful than a light spanking on the bare bottom. They’d both be shaved bare and caned naked by Mother Superior. How I’d love to witness that.

As I spied, I could feel my own arousal growing, but I knew I mustn’t touch myself, not out here in the corridor especially. I did consider sneaking off to the toilets to take care of myself, if this place had taught me anything, it was it was easier to pray to forgiveness than ask for permission.

Beautiful Sister Constance had responded to Juliet’s tease by raising her head from between her legs, straightening herself before grasping her partner’s ankles and lifting her legs upright.

“This is how I spank, young lady! Constance hissed, with as much threat as her hushed voice could convey. “Next time you can report to my room and I’ll paddle your bare bottom like a naughty little girl!”

Oh goodness. How I would love to witness that, the sister who’d put me over her knee so many times getting a sore bottom of her own. I found myself staring at Juliet’s pretty pink slit, now exposed as her legs were held in the air. A cross of ginger hair clearly visible on her own mound.

Absent-mindedly, my hand had drifted inside the hem of my tunic, and upwards until it reached the tingling region between my own legs. I brushed the cross on my own mound, following it down to the throbbing bead just below it. I was not surprised to find my slit hot and sticky to the touch.

I began to wonder, was this a divine test? Had the Lord put me in this situation? Was this a temptation to resist? Or a reward for my virtue?

I stroked as watched the two Sisters licking each other, imagining the sensation I was giving myself was administered by Juliet’s cute little tongue, or Constance’s long nimble fingers. I was soon approaching climax, lurching beyond the point it was possible to stop. The squelching of my own impaling fingers mingling with the stifled moans from the other side of the door.

And then, a hand painfully pinched my shoulder.

“Wicked child!”

I had been discovered by Sister Anna, with my hand still up my gown.

She tugged my earlobe, raising me painfully to my feet and intercepting my sticky hand before I could wipe away the evidence of my shame. She lifted my fingers to her nose, inhaling like a connoisseur might assess a fine wine, an expertise that suggested that in her time she had caught a great deal of young ladies masturbating.

“You disgraceful, filthy urchin!”

The commotion outside the door must have alerted the occupants, as by the time Sister Anna had knocked on the door, Juliet’s voice calmly replied, “One moment sister, I’m just getting dressed…”

This response only seemed to darken Sister Anna’s countenance, to her it was perfectly obvious what she had interrupted: I had been caught wanking whilst watching pretty Sister Juliet getting dressed.So Sister Anna didn’t wait for the door to open, she intensified her pinch of my ear and dragged me down the corridor to Mother Superior’s office.

The mistress of our realm was a formidable woman; a stern, middle-aged lady, a domineering presence born from an absolute conviction in what was right and what was wrong. My cheeks burned with embarrassment as Sister Anna explained her version of events, what she had caught me doing.

I was intimidated into silence, and decided not to contradict Sister Anna’s interpretation, part of me didn’t want to get the two Sisters into trouble, and part of me felt guilty for what I’d done. I had been caught spying and masturbating, and what had inspired it made little difference to my sins. My crime was unequivocal, and my sentence never in any doubt. Our Mother decreed that I would be put into chastity pants until the end of my next period, which was about 2 or 3 weeks away.

I was told to undress immediately, which I did without complaint, lifting my garments over my head and folding them up respectfully. Sister Anna then gripped my ear and dragged me into our Mother’s private bathroom, where she ran a bath of tepid water, and ordered me into it. There, the sin – the sticky mess between my legs, and the sweat that clung to my body – was roughly scrubbed away from me.

Once cleansed, Sister Anna applied a frothy shaving cream to my mound, spread my legs and shaved me bare. The cross I wore so intimately was scraped and swept away, as if my sins made me undeserving of it.

Once shaved, I was told to stand and step out of the bath, and given a towel to dry myself. I noticed those used by the senior nuns were far softer than the coarse flannels we novices were given. I was then instructed to use the loo, Sister Anna was to afford me no privacy, watching me dispassionately as I sat down naked to pee, then insisting I bend over to be wiped and inspected once I’d finished.

When I was finally led back to Mother Superior’s office, the caning trestle was already waiting for me. A waist high beam, with two A-shaped stanchions on either side, with little loops of leather at each corner.

I was told to spread my legs to the nearest corners and bend over, whereupon our Mother knelt beside me and fixed the belts firmly around my wrists and ankles. Once I was immobilised, she inspected me thoroughly, tugging my buttocks open to check I was clean, then running her fingers across my mound to check I was smooth.

Then she left me to wait, helpless and exposed for what seemed like an eternity, until at last I felt her cane tapping against my bottom.

A dread swish accompanied the first eruption of pain across my cheeks. I had received too many canings to remember, but abruptly realised for the mind I inhabited, this was her first. I could feel her fear, the thundering of her heartbeat, the sweat dripping from her armpits. The tears dripping down her face. And to be honest, that just excited me even more.

I felt like a rider on bucking colt as the body I shared trembled and convulsed with every stinging whack. Our Mother would pause after every couple of strokes, kneeling behind me to examine the lines she’d inflicted, occasionally also cupping my crotch consolingly with her hand. I’m certain she could feel my wetness on her palm. Part of me wanted to shout out, to implore her to just shift her fingertips to the one spot that longed for it most. But my host was sobbing too much to form any recognisable words.

In total, our Mother gave us twenty searing whacks, inflicting lines of welts that would continue to throb and ache for several days. She left us sobbing over the trestle with our red bottom on display for another hour, until there was a little puddle of our dribble beneath our face on the carpet. And just behind, if you looked closely, was the little sticky dot that had seeped from our slit.

That was because whilst my host had spent the hour weeping, I had spent it imagining Mother Superior had penetrated our bum with a prayer candle, before lighting it and letting the hot wax dribble down between our throbbing buttocks, until it solidified as little white rivulets that flowed as far as our inner thighs. I could almost feel the heat growing as the imagined flame got ever closer to our poor bottom hole, the jeopardy only serving to amplify my excitement.

When I was untied, I had to use the support of the trestle to steady my wobbly legs. Sister Anna had my chastity pants ready for me, placing them on the floor for me to step into, then pulling them abruptly to my waist. I could see her smirk cruelly as she secured the cord above my hips.

The only mercy I was shown was being able to eat my dinner standing up. Sister Anna had taken great pleasure in announcing to all assembled that I’d been caught playing with myself, and had suffered the consequences. I could see my friends looking at my pitifully, many had experienced the same punishment themselves, so there was no sneering or teasing.

When we were taken back to our dorm, I had to undress as they watched with rapt fascination, as I revealed my cruel chastity pants before pulling on my nightgown. I was briefly released to pee, before being put to bed. Needless to say, I slept on my front, sobbing quietly into my pillow with my pain and misfortunate.


The next day, my morning ritual was uncomfortably different. It was Stern Sister Maria who unlocked my clasp, and those of the other two girls currently in a similar predicament, and escorted us to the toilet. Then she took us to the shower, watching us closely as we cleaned ourselves, ensuring we the warm flannel didn’t linger too long between our legs. I could see one of the girls had clearly visible stubble now, indicating her time in chastity was almost over. I could feel the swollen welts on my bottom as I gingerly washed.

But my soreness didn’t spare me from Sister Maria’s strap. After showering, we had to kneel with our bottoms up, and were spanked six times as we said our prayers, acknowledging our sins and asking for forgiveness.

By mid-afternoon, I needed to pee again, but this time, I sought out Sister Juliet. She led me to the bathroom in silence and closed the door behind us.

“You saw, didn’t you?” she asked quietly.

“I saw everything, Sister. But I said nothing.”

I looked her in the eye, recognising her expression of surprise.

“That is… very… charitable… of you. Thank you.”

I nodded in acknowledgement.

“I saw behind your portrait.”

Sister Juliet considered my last statement in a long tense silence. Her unblinking eyes surveying me, as if attempting to discern my trustworthiness.

“I know,” she replied at last.

“… but you know you still need to be punished for spying and touching yourself.”

I nodded again.

With that, I lifted my tunic, allowing her to crouch and unlock my belt. She helped the cruel chastity garment fall to my ankles, revealing my bare slit to her gaze. She stayed on her haunches whilst she caressed the smooth skin of my mound, cupping me with her palm, until the warmth of her hand on my full bladder made me begin to fear I’d lose control and pee all over her.

Sensing my discomfort, as I hopped from foot to foot, she eventually permitted me to use the toilet. With my legs open, of course. Juliet watched as I gushed, then insisted I bend over so she could dry my slit herself.

She finished with a firm slap to my bare bottom, which was just a hint of what was yet to come. She edged past me to sit on the toilet seat, and sensing her intention, I bent over her lap without being asked. Mercifully Juliet spanked me with her palm rather than her slipper, but her two dozen smacks still left my poor bottom smarting.

Yet afterwards, once she’d pulled up and relocked my chastity pants, and just as I was about to turn and leave, she reached forward and held my head tenderly, and kissed me.

The next day, I visited pretty Sister Constance, and apologised for spying on her too. She also thanked me for my discretion, before putting me on my back and lifting my legs. She made me put a hand on my bare mound and tug the hood of my clitoris back as she spanked me, so I was exquisitely sensitive to every smack. But frustratingly, she did not allow me to rub myself.

This was my disciplinary regime for the next fortnight, visiting the two sisters alternately, to be spanked and inspected, morning, noon and night. So the only time my bottom wasn’t throbbing were in those delicious few moments when I woke, before we were roused out of bed, before I reported to have my first spanking of the day.

I could feel the heat in my smacked bottom throughout the day, like a perpetual spanking whose sting never faded. I could feel it as I sat on the hard unforgiving chairs in my classes, and when I ate, and whenever I knelt to pray. A continuing hot ache that made my slit tingle, and my little button throb, cruelly locked away, and out of reach.


On the day my period ended, I reported to Sister Juliet for the final time.

After taking me to the toilet and unlocking me, she took me back to her room and told me to undress. Completely.

I knelt on the cold hard floor as she placed her wooden crucifix against my bush, whilst she used the fierce-looking razor to shave away its corners, restoring the cross that cruel Sister Anna had taken away from me several weeks ago.

“All is forgiven, child.”

I nodded, and accepted her hand as she graciously helped me to my feet.

And then, to my considerable surprise, Juliet lifted her own habit above her head. She was not wearing anything underneath. She took my hand again, and led me to her bed. As I lay on my back, Juliet straddled my face, revealing the ginger cross on her own mound, a thin vertical strip with short cross bars. Beneath, the lips of her pretty slit were swollen, pink and wet.

“It is a sin to touch ourselves, but is not the message of the Gospels is that our love should touch others?”

I did not resist as she bent over me, burying her head between my legs, slowly licking the sensitive skin where I’d just been shaved, tracing the cruciform shape with her tongue, brushing my clit on on each visit to the base of the cross. Soon she was using her fingers to open me, tugging back my hood, and folding back my lips.

I had never thought of the Christian message like this before. But it made perfect sense, Jesus wasn’t a bully or an austere tyrant. An ascetic disciplinarian, undoubtedly. But one who preached a message of love.

My host had never licked another woman, but I took the initiative. Exploring Juliet’s folds with an expertise that seemed to take her by surprise. She mewed with delight, redoubling her efforts to pleasure me. Pinching my slit, rubbing and stroking, fingers straying and intruding.

It seems every portrait does have a reverse side. A hidden side. Who would have thought that innocent Sister Juliet was so lustful. So feminine, so sensual.

She took me to the very brink. Until I was mere moments away from the climax I’d been craving ever since I’d spied on her.

And then, suddenly, she stopped.

Sister Juliet rose from straddling me, stepping down from the bed, pulling on my hand and tugging me upright, until I was standing on the floor beside her. She positioned me deliberately so I was facing the wall, a few footsteps away from it, gently smacking the insides of my thighs until I’d opened my legs to her satisfaction.

I could feel the wetness of her saliva on my open slit, slowing dripping, the heat of my arousal cooled by the tickling breeze of the room’s chill air.

Was her intention to let me come, or would denial be my final lesson?

I was surprised when she took her place beside me. Now we were standing side-by-side, and she grasped my hand, holding it tight. It was an encouraging, comforting grip, with all the warmth of a lifelong friend.

I could feel her beginning to lend forwards.

“Bend over.”

I followed her lead, and tipping towards the floor until both our bottoms were high in the air – and facing the door. I wondered if anyone was watching us through the spyhole, whether we were moments away from being caught. Would Sister Juliet share my fate? Would I get to watch her being shaved? And then watch her being caned? Would we go to have our chastity panties lowered together? I delighted in the thought of being spanked together, every day for a whole month.

I felt a powerful emotion surge through me. A feeling of wanting to be close to Juliet. A fierce protectiveness. An intense affection that made me throb and my tummy tumble.

I did not resist as she dragged my hand backwards, between her own legs. She made me close all my fingers except for the middle one, and used it to enter her vagina, which seemed to suck on my finger like the tightest tiniest mouth. I wanted to push it deep, to masturbate her, to thrust it in and out until I made my beautiful new friend climax, to bestow such a gift of pleasure that a smile would beam from her mouth that would never fade.

But her grip on my hand didn’t let me. She used my finger to collect her sticky wetness, and then moved it upwards, rubbing it around the crinkled dimple of her bottom hole. Then, slowly and steadily, she pushed my finger inside. When I was all the way in she clenched, gripping me tighter than a grasping hand. Now I couldn’t move, even if I’d wanted to, my wrist fixed between her legs in the most erotic kind of armlock.

Then I could feel her arm beneath mine, straying between my own legs. Her middle finger stroked my own slick folds, frustratingly avoiding my swollen clitoris, before briefly dipping inside my vagina. How I wanted her to linger there, slowly pumping in and out, until she found the spot that felt just right.

But she didn’t. Instead, her finger moved upward, rubbing my own excitement into my bottom hole, her wet fingertip probing, then pushing, as if testing my resistance. It didn’t take long before I began to admit her, my heart thumping in my chest as I was violated so filthily. And when her finger was all the way in it felt so good when I clenched around her.

After a while I felt Juliet’s warm breath tickle my ear as she whispered conspiratorially.

“I have something to confess…”

I relaxed, then clenched again, gripped her finger even tighter.

“… Sister Constance will be along shortly, to spank our bare bottoms.”

She would open the door to find us giggling and gasping, bent over with our arms trapped between each other’s legs – with our fingers deep within each other’s bums.

We would feel her strap stroke our bare buttocks as she admonished us.

She would make us keep our fingers in each other’s bottoms as we were spanked. Our captured fingers gripped and squeezed tighter with every smack.

Our longings intensifying as she brought us ever closer to the edge.

And then

When I waked

I cried to dream again.

.

.

.

@spankingtheatre 2018

Story news

The concluding part of my new story Verso, Recto will be posted at the end of the week. I’m very pleased with this one.

If you haven’t already, you can read the first part here

hi, i’m interested in erotic writing and i’ve attempted it a few times before but they never come out as sensual as i want them to be. when i read your work, i never fail to see the story in my mind, and i’d like to be able to do the same with my own writing. do you have any tips for doing so?

As it happens, I do.

I highly recommend erotic writing. It can help the writer articulate
their own tastes. As if the act of erotic writing is actually a
kind of longform journalling exercise. So first and foremost, write what arouses you, not what you think will arouse others.

I’d advise reading the story The Caning Emporium too, as that contains some advice on how to engage your own imagination.

Here’s some advice I wrote on creating characters in erotic stories, a much neglected part of the writing process.

And then there’s my widely shared 10 Tips on Erotic Writing, which I hope will provide some helpful guidance.

But most of all, be mindful and enjoy the very act of writing, and you’ll achieve the sensual results you seek.

Sandalwood and Ginger

spankingtheatre:

A spanking story, for Christmas

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

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

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

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

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

Keep reading

It may have a Christmas setting, but Sandalwood and Ginger is really a story about masks we wear, about the secret desires we keep hidden, and what might happen if someone appeared in your life to make them real.

The Ginger part of the title, as you might expect, refers to figging, the exquisite torment of a burning heat inside a spanked bottom. The Sandalwood is more Proustian, a sweet aromatic scent that invokes memories, a trigger for latent carnal cravings.

So, for those yet to read it, I do hope you’ll enjoy this tale of masked balls, gyno inspections, panty-gags, public spankings, ginger plugging and good old-fashioned slipperings. Whatever the time of year.

Your ticket to the masked ball awaits

Verso, Recto – part 1

A spanking story

We are alone in the grand old convent. Walking among the ghosts of the chaste and the pious. Their home was an edifice of lichen-encrusted granite, nestling in the woods like a miniature gothic castle, a secluded haven that did not wish to be discovered. But years ago you found it, you rescued it and restored it, like you’ve done with so many wayward girls. You made it your own home, and now, you’ve invited me to visit.

You promised me a tour, to show me its secrets. You explain how the spacious open-plan kitchen was once the main dormitory, where dozens of young ladies would bunk together. The biggest classroom has been transformed into your home office, and the cavernous assembly hall is now a magnificent timber-beamed living room.

I trail along gawking admiringly. You escort me upstairs, our ascending footsteps muffled by the opulently plush carpet. The rooms on either side of the long hallway were the nuns’ private quarters it seems. You point to the door furthest away, explaining that it was where Mother Superior dwelt. The ultimate authority in this place, well, secondary to God I suppose.  

We pause at the top of the stairs, and you point to the ominous door at the end of the corridor.

“Go inside. You’ll find your instructions painted on the wall.”

That comment was most unexpected, almost shocking. I found it difficult to imagine anyone would deface such a beautiful old building by scrawling on its walls.

I hesitated, but you sent me on my way with an encouraging smack to my bottom. I began dawdling towards the destination, looking over my shoulder, looking for confirmation of your satisfaction. Reassurance that I was doing as I’d been told.

You remained at the top of the stairs, watching silently and sternly, until I reached the door. Then, to my surprise, you turned and left me, descending out of my sight down the grand old staircase. Leaving me alone to carry out your command. Trusting in my obedience.

I gripped the little brass doorknob, twisting it until I heard the latch click. I pushed the door open, trembling with anticipation, wondering if we were really alone here, or whether I’d be interrupting someone inside. Too late, I realised I hadn’t even knocked.

To my relief, the room I entered seemed unoccupied. It was large, but surprising austere, the plush carpet of the hallway giving way to exposed wooden floorboards, its bare walls coated with an aged, off-white plaster. The only decoration was a painting, seemingly a portrait of a young nun. Contrary to my expectations, there was no writing on any of the walls. If my instructions had been painted, I was clearly looking at it now.

image

The only furniture was an elegantly carved wooden plinth that barely exceeded the height of my knees, nearly identical to the one depicted in the painting. Lying on top of it were what seemed like a pile of folded clothes, predominantly black and white.

I realised this was a test of my initiative. A test of my obedience. The garments looked like a nun’s habit, a coarse black serge tunic, a white linen coif, a white cotton undershirt.

I eased the door shut and began to undress, folding up the outfit I’d chosen with such meticulous care in a vain attempt to impress you. I placed my clothes in a neat little pile in the corner, finishing by removing my panties, I suspected few nuns would wear lingerie under their habits, and I strongly suspected you’d like to check.

I pulled on the cotton undershirt first, realising this was as close as my new outfit would come to underwear. The coif, the tunic and stockings followed. The latter were authentically archaic, without elastic they had to be tied around my calves by bright red ribbons, the sole splash of colour in my monochrome garb.

Once dressed, I knew you’d expect to find me in the same position as the portrait, kneeling by the plinth, fingers arched. I mimicked the position of the young lady in the picture, pondering the nature of her prayers. Was she pleading with her God, imploring Him to forgive her nocturnal transgressions? Those wandering fingers? Or the embraces with her sisters that had escalated into kisses and rubbings?

How strange this religion of love had become a global sexual denial cult. Surely if we are made in the image of God, the Creator would want us to pleasure ourselves, to glorify his creations by elevating each to state of ecstatic bliss.

Despite the thick tunic, I could already feel a faint draught between my legs. A subtle breeze teasing my slit, as my undershirt tempted me further, rubbing across the exquisitely sensitive skin of my newly waxed mound, in a continuous trial of my faith.

I clasped my hands and prayed. My knees and elbows aching against the hard unforgiving wood of the floorboards and the plinth. I found myself praying you’d join me. Wishing you’d lift my robes and help satisfy me.

After a while, I began to appreciate why prayers were made with clasped hands. Had I not been clasping them so tightly, one of both would surely have wandered beneath my thick scratchy gown and into my warm, wet, aching cranny.

And then, suddenly, my prayers were answered.

The door creaked open, and you returned.


“Do you like my painting?”

I nod my head enthusiastically.

“It’s a Martin van Meytens. An 18th century studio copy, admittedly. The original is in the national gallery in Stockholm. Such a lovely place.”

“It’s beautiful,” I reply.

“What do you see?”

“Humility, grace, and piety.”

“And chastity?”

“Yes…” I gulp nervously, earnestly hoping that wasn’t your actual intention.

“Submissiveness?”

“Oh yes.”

“Innocence?”

“Oh, very.”

“And yet, sometimes appearances can be deceptive…”

I stare back, puzzled, not quite sure to what you’re referring. The canvas? Or me?

“Did you know some paintings have two sides? Collectors call them Verso and Recto, rather than front and back – because sometimes it’s hard to say which side deserves the honour of being displayed, and which side should be hidden…”

I watch in quiet fascination as you reverently turn over the portrait, surprised that it reveals another complete picture, painted on the reverse of the canvas. It is a scene of startling candour, its explicitness making my clit throb even before my mind has fully deciphered what I’m seeing.

image

She must be the same subject, but this time depicted from behind. Perhaps her innocence was just a front. Perhaps all innocence is just a front. This angle reveals a different side of her, naked flesh in place of her religious habit. This is a woman depicted as a sexual being. Curvaceous and alluring. The glory of the Creator’s vision manifested, no long hidden, but celebrated.

“Now, what do you think of your chaste and innocent nun?”

I’m speechless. Not because I’m embarrassed by seeing nakedness, but because I so crave the sensuality of what the image represents.

And it seems our desires are aligned, because you reach down and lift the hem of my own tunic, dragging it upwards until it gathers on the small of my back, until my own buttocks are as bare as those in the painting above me.

“What do you see in this painting? Voyeurism? Shame? Humiliation? Punishment?”

I find myself nodding, all of those, and more.

“Did you know Sisters were flogged in the position you now find yourself?”

I shook my head. I did not.

And now I see you’re dangling something in front of my face.

“This little whip is called a Discipline. Notice how there’s seven leather fronds, one for each of the deadly sins. Every nun here would carry one, hanging from the belt of her habit, a continuing reminder of her oath of obedience. And every one of them would be expected to spank her own bottom every night, after confessing her sins in her bedtime prayers.”

You place it in my hand, and guide my right arm backwards until I can feel the whip’s cool thin straps sway against my bottom.

“But…! For what sins am I to be punished?” I ask indignantly.

By way of response, you reach down, dragging your fingers between my legs, before smearing my lips with the salty goo of my own excitement.

“The Almighty sees everything, Child.”

A flush of heat sears my face, I feel my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

“Forgive me.”

I begin whipping myself.

“Harder.”

Despite the short backswing, I can hear the tails of the whip whistle through the air before they strike. The seven thick flanges at the end of each frond landing in a simultaneous, stinging eruption.

“Harder.”

I reach back as far as I can, swinging the whip with all my strength. I know this is how a nun would feel, knowing she was being overseen at all times, watched by the Almighty.

I grimace as each whack lands, knowing you’re not interested in my pitiful whimpering. This is my penitence. My spanking, my absolution.

I look up at the painting, and her beautiful buttocks. Is that a hint of pink I see? Or is she whispering her confession prayer, the moment of righteous retribution just moments away.   

Please, forgive my obscene excitement.

Let me atone for the sins of my flesh…


Continued in part two

Question of the Week: Do you feel less weird about spanking?

Have the stories and posts I’ve written helped you become more comfortable with your interest in spanking?

I’d be interested to hear your thoughts and experiences.

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