Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears


May 2019

Share the joy of the written word


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

Or there’s this list categorised by theme for those seeking a particular style of story. 

Do share your favourites!

With a brand new story just published, it’s a good time to update the list of all the tales I’ve written so far.

What’s been your favourite?



And then she announced:

“… the next item on the menu… will be bare licked cunt…”

She let her words hang in the air, where they seemed to charge the atmosphere between us like a tiny erotic thunderstorm.

In the vast treasure trove of my memories, that one moment blazes with an exceptional clarity. Somehow perfectly preserved, infinitely replayable.

Yet behind every memory is a story, a winding path of strange happenstance and improbable events that stretch back into the hazy mist of every experience. Stories lie submerged like icebergs, their brilliant summits glowing as vivid snapshots, their intricate genesis hidden, lost deep beneath our minds’ turbulent waves.

What could be more human than forgetting? We are not machines or paintings or books. We are biochemical repositories of circumstance, whose subtle complexities of existence are readily outshone by visceral moments of dazzling pleasure.

Yet, it is our stories that define us. Not those seductive, emotion-charged glimpses that we can summon on demand to burst like gratifying fireworks in our minds. Our stories are always there, lurking unbidden, the true substrate of our being.

Perhaps we were never meant to probe too deep, to pull on the loose threads of our memories, to let them unravel. Who knows what unexplored paths exist in the Minotaur’s maze? Perhaps they really are best left alone, unvisited and forgotten. Who knows where those passages might have led…

To those that enjoy dining well, there is one establishment whose reputation exceeds all others. One whose name is spoken with hushed reverence.

It is La Oubliette.

The Forgotten Place.

It holds no official awards, and appears in no guidebooks. No one can even say for certain where it really is, let alone how to make a booking. It is as if the outside world had indeed forgotten its existence, to become a closely guarded secret known only to an elite cognoscenti.

Some mock it as an in-joke, some dismiss it as a preposterous myth. Yet if it exists, it is a destination of intimidating exclusivity. No bribe, no level of celebrity will secure you a table there. Some say all guests must be personally invited. I know prominent individuals who had lived and died waiting for a coveted invitation, which never came.

Life had been kind to me, but I am neither rich or famous. Yet one morning last year, completely out of the blue, I received a powder-blue envelope in the mail. It looked expensive and classy, crisp artisanal paper, my address elegantly handwritten. And when I opened it, I was staggered to realise it was a message purporting to be from the famed Chez Oubliette. Somehow, for some inexplicable reason, they had sent me an invitation.

The single page missive stated that a table had been booked for me, and me alone, on the 28th of December. This date was not negotiable, if I wanted to accept, I would be met somewhere in Geneva by a member of La Oubliette’s staff. If I declined, the message politely assured me, I would never hear from them again. There was also an ominous warning: not to tell anyone else I’d received an invitation, or it would be immediately withdrawn.

The date they’d offered was intriguingly bizarre, just after Christmas. A time when most folk were still on holiday. Perhaps it was a quiet period, between two festivities. But I had no say in the matter, my only choice being to accept or decline. At stake was only a dinner, but something told me if I said no, I’d regret it for the rest of my days. Within the hour I emailed the one-time RSVP address, confirming my acceptance.

My rendezvous instructions arrived the following week. Soon after, I booked my plane ticket with quivering hands. But what exactly was I getting into?

The restaurant’s name suggested a place that wanted to be forgotten, but there was also another, more sinister and disturbing meaning. An oubliette is the term for hidden dungeon cell. Typically one with a concealed entrance, like a trapdoor in the ceiling. One difficult to find, and impossible to escape from. A place where people could be made to disappear, somewhere they could be permanently forgotten…

On a chilly day just after Christmas, I boarded an early morning flight from London to Geneva, anxiously hoping that the icy weather would not delay me. But we landed in good time, and it was easy enough to get a taxi to the Quai de Versoix on the shores of the lake. According to my instructions, someone would meet me here at 1pm, assuming the whole thing wasn’t an elaborate prank. In which case, I consoled myself, I would go chocolate shopping.

The unremarkable little pier was deserted and bleak, the trees lining the promenade now just a row of bare spindles against the grey lake and grey skies that seemed to merge together so seamlessly. There was a cafe nearby, its twinkling Christmas decorations providing welcome splashes of colour to a cold leaden afternoon. It also gave me a place to wait, somewhere I could sup a hot coffee and have a bite to eat, and watch perfect strangers come and go.

Until, someone happened to recognise me. Although I did not recognise him.

He addressed me by my name, and extended his hand for me to shake. His English was perfect, but spoken with an obviously French accent. He suggested we leave the cafe, to which I nodded, and followed him out onto the promenade. We walked down the short pier, out of earshot of any passers-by, to where a small boat was now moored.

“If we are to go any further Sir,“ he told me, “we shall have to establish some rules. If you agree, we may proceed. If not, we shall go no further, and I shall call a taxi to go back to the airport.”

As he listed his rules, I felt a strange apprehension. No restaurant had ever made such extraordinary demands of me. Yet given the circumstances, I felt I was powerless to refuse them. My predicament felt almost erotic, here I was being tantalised by a desire I’d cherished for so long, and was now being told its price was my absolute obedience.

I listened in shocked silence as the emissary detailed what was expected of me, before he concluded: “I do hope you’ll trust us, Sir.”

Something deep inside told me it was safer to decline, but if I did, I’d always regret it. Besides, the right to be bold to the point of recklessness had always felt like the epitome of male privilege. I agreed to his conditions.

The emissary extended his hand, waiting for me to hand over my mobile phone. I fished it from my pocket reluctantly, shutting it down before handing it over. It felt like I was relinquishing one of my limbs. Then I stepped down onto the deck of the gently bobbing boat, its tiny cabin was only large enough to shelter its pilot and a pair of passengers. The stranger stepped down after me, inviting me to take one of the vacant seats beside the wheel.

Then he took a wide black padded blindfold from his pocket. He’d warned me about this, no-one could be trusted to see the route to La Oubliette, so I didn’t protest as he pulled it over my head and covered my eyes. I felt a click too, as he fastened my seat harness, pinning me back in my seat, which only served to amplify the eroticism of my predicament. But I knew that my desire would require my obedience.

I heard the boat’s engine roar into life, acrid smell diesel fumes wafted past my nose. Then I felt movement, and a sway as the little boat lurched away from the pier and sped out into the lake’s choppy waters. My pilot didn’t talk as we sailed, leaving me alone with my thoughts. What had I got myself into? Where was he taking me? As I’d been faithful to my instructions, no one knew I was here.

I can’t say how long we spent on the water, because I must have dozed off, lulled into a nap by a combination of the rocking boat and my early morning start. It was only when I felt my guide’s hand on my shoulder that I realised we had stopped. I had no way of even knowing if we were even still on the Swiss side of the lake, or had crossed to the French side. He unbuckled my harness and helped me step out onto what sounded like the planks of another pier, before guiding me into the backseat of a waiting car.

I felt myself buckled into my seat again, and his hands by my face checking my blindfold was still snug enough to prevent the leakage of any secrets. He entered the car on the driver’s side and we were in motion again. With nothing to see, and soporific sway of winding roads, I was soon dozing off again.

I was woken by the jostling of a bumpy gravel surface. Soon, we had stopped completely, and I was being escorted out of the car into the icy evening air, to be shocked by my incoming breaths burning in my lungs. My guide walked me a couple of dozen paces before I could feel warmer air on my cheeks. I could feel the ambience around me change, we were indoors again.

And I heard a heavy wooden door slam shut behind me.

My eyes blinked painfully as light flooded into them once more. Someone had removed my blindfold. But even after my vision had become less blurry, my surroundings still offered few clues to where I’d been taken. Was this the fabled Chez Oubliette, or would I be taken elsewhere from here? From where I stood it was difficult to tell whether this was indeed a restaurant, or merely the entrance to someone’s home. It could equally well have been the lobby of a mountain resort, or the entrance hall to some remote Alpine chateau.

It wasn’t the man who’d driven me here who took off my blindfold, but a slim middle-aged woman in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo. She introduced herself as the Maitre D’, with the kind of stern sensual authority that immediately made me think the D stood for Domme. At that moment, I couldn’t tell if she had a warm meal planned for me – or a frigid dungeon cell.

She encouraged me to follow her, ushering me into a small bathroom to freshen up, before I was escorted down a plushly carpeted hallway into a private room.

The room was not elaborately furnished, and its decor was distinctly minimalist. It contained a small dining table, made of chunky exposed beams and a velvet-covered armless dining chair. In the corner was a rather contemporary looking wooden clothes stand, its elegant curved struts linked by short shelves. The table was draped by a pristine linen dining cloth, but was bare and unset. There wasn’t even a menu. Mercifully for my still sensitive eyes, it was only dimly illuminated by a several wall-mounted candelabras.

The Maitre D’omme spoke with a brusque confidence that made it clear she was used to people obeying her instructions, no matter how outrageous they might seem.

“We ask that our guests dine naked. Please undress.”

This was not spoken as a request, but as an instruction. I had already been warned. The price of this meal was my obedience. And the currency of obedience was trust.

I undressed as I was told, hanging my coat and jacket on the clothes stand, before self-consciously unbuttoning my shirt. The Maitre D’omme watched on impassively, as I removed my shoes and socks, even when I hesitated before unbuckling and pulling down my own trousers. Eventually I stood before her in just my underwear, but I knew that had to come down too. Moments later, my clothes were hung up or folded away, and I was completely naked in front of her.

“Thank you, Sir.” she said graciously, before walking over to the single chair and lifting it backwards, and inviting me to sit.

I took my seat.

“Would Sir care to place his hands behind him?” she requested.

I did as I was asked. What happened next might have surprised me, but I was rapidly becoming accustomed to how this peculiar place operated. She knelt down behind me, and I felt my wrists being gripped as she cuffed my hands behind my back. The cuffs were padded, with a long chord between so I could still sit with my shoulders in a natural position. Once she had restrained me, the world went dark again as she pulled the blindfold back over my eyes.

“I’m sure Sir understands, the palette is more sensitive when not confused by seeing.”

I nodded, not really being in a position to argue an alternative.

“Sir need not worry about his hands, we shall do the feeding tonight.”

The Maitre D’omme was standing beside me now, so I assume it was her fingers I felt sliding beneath my flaccid penis, lifting it from where it lay between my thighs as she squeezed, tugged and inspected it.

What kind of restaurant was this? It certainly felt more like an exclusive brothel than a gourmet brasserie. I was beginning to suspect why this establishment might be rated so highly by those lucky enough to be invited here.

“We have a planned menu here, each item especially selected to appeal to your personal tastes. You must be hungry?”

I nodded.

“Then let me introduce you to your server for the evening…”

There was a pause, and what sounded like the door opening, then closing.

Then a second voice spoke.

“Good evening Sir…”

It was another female voice, with what sounded like a southern English accent – but one that sounded tentative, almost nervous, possessing nowhere near the same gruff authority as the Maitre D’omme. I wondered if my own nakedness had taken her by surprise, I found my mind suddenly racing: trying to determine whether I’d been singled out for special treatment – or a special kind of humiliation. I did my best to play it cool, to assume I was here for the former, not the latter.

“Good evening” I replied. I was unaware of the time, but my grumbling stomach suggested it was definitely dinnertime.

“I’m leave you in the care of your server, Sir. Rest assured, you’ll be attended to by the most capable hands. Bon appétit.”

I thanked the departing Maitre D’, whose departure was accompanied by the waft of the most delicious aromas. There was also a faint thud, and clink of dishes, which suggested things were being put down on the table in front of me.

The English voice of my hostess spoke again, this time louder and more confidently.

“Our menu begins with a selection of appetisers, Sir. We’ll begin with marinated crayfish in a brassica puree.”

I could sense something moving towards me, just before the scent of the incoming morsel drifted into my nostrils. I opened my mouth reflexively, and she placed it onto my tongue, before gently tapping the underside of my jaw to close my mouth. The taste was exquisite, the subtly spiced plump flesh of the crayfish dissolving into the mustardy tang of its puree as I chewed slowly in the most dignified manner I could manage.

My hostess must have been feeding me from a platter, as there were just two of each type of morsel, before she moved onto the next one. The tastes I experienced spanned the globe: I recognised latino tamales, Indian curries and several types of Mediterranean meze. And interestingly, there was no red meat. How did they know I ate fish but not meat? They seemed to know so much about me.

Occasionally she’d pause to offer me a drink, raising a glass of sumptuous wine to my lips and tilting it until it dribbled between my eager lips.

I could feel my dick swelling as she fed me. I tried to concentrate on the flavours on my tongue and those wafting onto my palette, rather than the eroticism of being cuffed naked to a chair and fed gourmet food by an unseen woman. I hoped she wouldn’t be offended by my growing erection, but she seemed too professional to mention its looming presence.

How strange to be so aroused by someone I’d never even seen. In my blindfolded darkness my imagination could run free. Right now I could be being fed by a supermodel, or a world-famous celebrity. She might possess a face of such beauty or familiarity that I’d spend my time staring at my hostess, rather than truly enjoying my meal.

All the subterfuge I’d experienced began to make more sense now. Denying my eyes would preserve the secret peccadillos of this establishment’s most famous patrons: that they liked to feed naked diners by hand in a covert mountain-top restaurant.

Was that the reason behind its strange name? Somewhere celebrities could visit incognito, where they could act as if they’d been forgotten. Because what would you crave if you’d spent your entire life in front of cameras, perpetually in the public eye? Any chance to be anonymous would be so precious.

I found myself wondering if the lady serving me had once worked as a waitress, perhaps as she’d struggled to break into the world that would ultimately make her a household name. And maybe here she was, waitressing again, but this time, she was the one in control, this time the white middle-aged male diner was not leering at her, but naked and helpless, unable to even feed himself, opening his mouth when he was told, and then chewing obediently.

I was fully erect now, my cock stiffening to the extent where it could support its own weight, I felt it rise from between my legs and point crudely at my unseen host. But suddenly, I felt my lust tainted by a queasy embarrassment. I imagined what she’d be seeing right now, just another stiff cock pointing at her, just like all the other ones. The cocks of all the bullies, oligarchs, sexpests and supplicants that had sought to claim her body over the years.

I wondered if I should apologise. Or complement her. Or make a joke of it. Or even ask her if I was on the menu too. But I was too intimidated by her invisible power to open my mouth. I remained silent, and obedient to her promptings.

“What a naughty boy!” she said mockingly, gently twanging my erection with a finger.

I could feel my heart pounding, suddenly terrified I’d offended her. That the next thing I’d hear was the door slamming shut behind her, that my lack of self-control had grouped me in with every other dismal male she’d ever encountered, causing her to walk away in sneering disgust. I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears as I waited impotently for her response.

After what seemed like an age, she spoke again.

“Do you know who I am?”

Weirdly, her voice did sound somewhat familiar, but I couldn’t really identify it. I might have heard her on TV, or in a film? A politician, even? It was so difficult to say.

An equivocal, almost apologetic, “I don’t think so…” was the best I could manage.

“There are some delicious sauces accompanying these dishes. It would be a travesty to waste them.”

She dabbed my lips with her finger, smearing them with a sweet spicy puree. I licked my lips eagerly, she was right: its flavour tingled intensely on the tip of my tongue.


I nodded, and then felt movement just in front of me. It seemed as if my hostess had sat down on the table, and placed her feet on the seat of my chair, either side of my hips.

I felt her fingers cup the back of my head, tugging my hair, and pulling my head forwards. Suddenly something warm and fleshy was pressing into my mouth. At first I thought I’d bumped into her forearm, until my lips registered the unmistakable contours of a nipple. I realised my host was topless, and had smeared some of the sweet spicy sauce on one of her breasts. I suckled her slowly and respectfully, circling her nipple, exploring the little dome beneath until I’d cleaned all the stickiness from her skin. In response, she cooed her appreciation.

She smelt intoxicating, a faint floral perfume, with an odour of intense femininity that reminded me of the scent when you pull down a lover’s panties to discover she’s already wet. I pressed my nose against the smooth soft skin of her breast and inhaled deeply, she smelt of contentment, of a picnic in a meadow of wildflowers, of sunshine and warm blue skies.

As I rested against her, it seemed like this was the slowest time had ever passed.

And then she announced:

“… the next item on the menu… will be bare licked cunt…”

She let her words hang in the air, where they seemed to charge the atmosphere between us like a tiny erotic thunderstorm.

I lowered my head, slowly tracing the contours of her chest with my tongue. I could feel the bump of each rib, rising and falling as she breathed. These were not slow steady breaths, I noticed, but the quick shallow panting of someone excited. I had to arch my back to go lick lower, but my cuffed hands weren’t secured to the back of my chair, providing enough freedom of movement for me to leave a wet trail down her torso.

I reached her tummy, ticking her firm flat flesh with the tip of my tongue, eliciting little giggles. Her coy playful laugh made my heart swell and my balls ache.

My tongue explored further, moving cautiously downwards. My chin encountered her thighs, spread just widely enough to act as guide-rails, as if she was keen to prevent me from veering off course. Keen to ensure the only direction I could proceed was downward.

As I encountered the curve of her mound, the musky scent of her arousal filled my nostrils, making me almost light-headed. Her mound must have been just waxed, it felt so exquisitely smooth. Her giggles had become appreciative murmurs now, like a small bird cooing. Then my tongue found the little dip of her cleft.

I pursed my lips together, suckling her hood for a few moments before descending to explore the folds of her slit. I was exploring by touch, my mental picture of her most intimate places solely constructed from sensations from the tip of my tongue. Her clitoris was a firm little bump, hiding under a tight arch of flesh. Her labia were small and elusive, easy to lick but difficult to capture and suck. Her vagina was already creamy when I found it, gaping permissively. My tongue intruded inside easily.

She was, quite simply, the most delicious single thing I’d tasted all night. An intoxicating blend of salty, tangy stickiness. In retrospect, erotica most often describes a licked slit as sweet – but that’s the emotion it engenders, not its true taste. Sweet pussy suggests it’s like candy, a treat for immature little boys. But pussy is not an indulgent dessert, it is a main course for adults, intended to be savoured by connoisseurs.  

I licked her long and hard, up and down every inch of her slit, until my tongue began to ache. I suckled her clit until she purred, until she seemed to be teetering on the very edge itself. And then, I stopped.

I heard her emit a long moan of frustration, then her hand gripping my erection tight, as if trying to squeeze the cum out of me.

“Did you enjoy your bare licked cunt, Sir?”

I told her it was absolutely delicious. But didn’t tell her what I was really thinking: how it might be even better skewered on my own fleshy spit.

“Might I interest you in dessert, Sir?”

Of course, I replied. I was eager for more.

Her feet moved from where they’d been resting on my chair, and I felt her get up from the edge of the table where she’d been sitting. There was a pause, accompanied by the clinking of steel and porcelain that suggested the table was being cleared. Things were happening in front of me, then she announced:

“Your sticky chocolate fudge pudding is served, Sir.”

I waited, sitting upright, waiting for a finger to dab on my lips, or for a silver spoon to hover beneath my nose. But nothing appeared. I could hear her heavy breathing, and sense she was still in front of me, so I lowered my head towards the table inquisitively, until the aroma of warm chocolate filled my nostrils.

I followed the smell to its source, and bumped into soft bare buttocks of my hostess, now obligingly bent over the dining table. My tongue soon located a large dollop of sticky chocolate fudge between her bottom cheeks, provocatively smeared around her bottom hole. I chuckled in appreciation of her deviously naughty imagination.

My tongue began to excavate the euphorically sweet mush between her cheeks, with my hostess helpfully spreading apart her buttocks so I could push ever deeper, the tip of my tongue circling around the wrinkled hollow of her bottom hole, until I’d licked her completely clean. It felt and tasted unbelievably decadent, like something from an orgy during the last days of Rome.

I could feel my head buzzing, and not just from the exceptionally rich fudge I’d consumed. My cock was still almost painfully stiff, and even though I couldn’t see it, I knew it was pointing at my hostess’ bare wet cunt, still bent across the table with her legs spread. If I stood, I’d probably be able to slip into her tight little slit in seconds. But that seemed exceedingly poor table manners. Very rude, in fact. Quite ungentlemanly.

Eventually she broke the tense silence.

“Your self-control is admirable.”

“I don’t even know who you are, Madam.”

“I had wondered if you’d be able to guess by now.”

That comment only served to fire my curiosity. I might have heard of her? I wracked my memory, replaying what I could remember of her voice, searching desperately for some kind of match. As I pondered, I heard something rustling, then a tearing noise, then something cool on the tip of my cock. It seemed my hostess had taken the initiative, and was now rolling a condom down my stiff shaft.

“May I mount you, Sir?”

I swallowed reflexively, suppressing a cough. I’d never had sex with a complete stranger before. Whatever was the right answer to a question like that? Was this how the bill was settled in this strange establishment? Not with a credit card, but with a climax?

“By all means.” I said, as nonchalantly as I could manage, as if this was the kind of situation I found myself in all the time.

I felt her body heat against my thighs as she straddled my lap, until she was standing just above my stiffness. She grasped me, guiding it to the edge of her entrance, and then sat on me flamboyantly, impaling herself in one swift motion, and making both of us gasp.

I felt her fingers intrude into my open mouth, they still tasted of the rich chocolate I’d licked from her bottom. My tongue lapped at them greedily.

She left her fingers inside my lips as she rode me with increasing salaciousness. Squeezing me with her tight cunt, varying her rhythm – speeding up, then abruptly stopping, alternately mewing with pleasure and giggling provocatively.

I felt like I was going to burst, but somehow every time I seemed on the brink of spurting, she rode even harder, taking me even further. Deliriously, I began to wonder if my wine had been spiked with powdered blue pills to keep me from coming.

My hostess, however, was subject to no such constraints. She tugged my head forward until my face was pressed to her chest, so a stiff little nub poked into my lips. I obediently suckled her nipple again, hearing her demure moans deepen into guttural grunts as she got closer and closer, as she fine-tuned the angle of her hips so I hit just the right spot.

I felt her convulse as she came hard on top of me. She bucked wildly, until she lost the strength in her limbs, and flopped exhausted against me, her arms now folded around my neck in an intimate embrace.

Suddenly, light split my darkness and dazzled my eyes.

She had removed my blindfold. I snapped my eyelids shut, shielding myself from the dim but still painful light, opening them cautiously as they slowly became reaccustomed. Initially, she was merely a blur, like a ghost, or a partially-forgotten memory. Then she came into focus, smiling, wide eyed. Beautiful.

I did know her.

It was Amber.

We had been lovers once. And she was just as cute as I remembered. Her short auburn hair glowing in the candlelight, with that coppery hue that always made her name so appropriate.

“My God…” I sighed.

How funny that divine invocation should be the instinctive reaction on encountering a long-lost lover. As if those glancing up to the heavens were looking in the wrong place. Surely if the greatest power in the universe was love, then God would not be found floating somewhere above our heads, but by staring into a lover’s eyes.

I stared at her open-mouthed. Just like I did the very first time I met her.

“I love your little fragment of neutron star,” I observed.

She giggled, clutching the gold pendant that hung by a delicate chain around her neck.

Those were the first words I’d ever said to her. She was so beautiful, so intimidating, looking into her eyes was like staring into the centre of the sun. So I’d lowered my gaze to her gorgeous slender neck, and her pendant of gleaming gold. In moments, I knew the silence between us would become irretrievably awkward, I was desperate for something interesting to say, some bon mots that would make me seem intriguing and attractive, and not lame and predictable like all the guys.

How strange that our destinies would be intertwined with another moment, a cataclysmic event in the incomprehensible abyss of deep time that is the distant past.

Somewhere in the endless emptiness of space, two scorchingly bright spheres, each as wide as a city, are about to end each other’s existence. Each had been suns once, fiery giants blazing into the lifeless black void for billions of years. Eventually exhausted, their inconceivably dense embers had pirouetted around each other for eons, drawing ever closer with the slow inevitability of a lovers’ kiss.

And then, inevitably, they touch. They do not just explode, they annihilate each other, with such savage violence they tear the very fabric of space and time apart. In that moment, a cascade of impossible atoms are forged. Among them would be gold, in countless trillions.

After drifting for an eternity, the new particles would find themselves within an immense dust cloud, one so big it would ultimately collapse and coalesce under its own enormity. Squeezed by exceptional pressures, a rocky planet would form around those miniscule atoms of gold.

Once the planet’s broiling surface had cooled, a quirk of in the fabric of nature would lead to some of the neighbouring molecules beginning to organise themselves. A runaway biological reaction would begin, from which an awareness of extraordinary sophistication would emerge. It would achieve something the universe had never been able to do before: collect the gold, an interstellar substance older than the planet itself, and craft it into art.

Six billion years after that stellar collision, a being of awesome biological complexity would happen into existence, and wear that lustrous lump of neutron star residue around her pretty little neck.

That first time, Amber had laughed at my dorkiness. And then again at its preposterous impossibility.

It seemed just as improbable that the two of us would ever get together, that in this huge wide world, we’d somehow bump each other, and manage to overcome our mutual suspicions and anxieties. That our minds would recognise kindred spirits in each other, and that against all the odds, we had somehow connected.

After we’d first met, we’d eventually gone to bed together a few times and fooled around. I remember teasing her one night, binding her hands and stroking every part of her increasingly slick and sticky folds. All whilst I whispered details of how her imminent orgasm was only possible because of supernova stardust, ancient atoms embedded in the astonishing marvel of her metabolism. Her eventual climax was biochemical reaction of staggering complexity, an emergent eruption of trillions of molecules. It delighted me enormously.

Now we both were laughing, our eyes damp from the ludicrous improbability of somehow meeting again.  

I pulled further on the threads of my memories, and was shocked to realise the last time I’d seen Amber in person was just after Christmas, ten years ago. Almost certainly ten years to the very day, come to think of it. We’d last seen each other at Heathrow Airport, crossing paths after spending the holidays with our own families, before each flying onto new year parties in separate continents.

As we’d hugged and said cheerio, the thought didn’t cross my mind that I’d never see her again, but other things had just happened. We’d each embarked on new flings, too busy with the work commitments of our fledgling careers. We were young and impetuous back then, living for the future rather than the present. So over the following years we’d gradually lost touch. We’d shared emails over the years, but then our communications dwindled, we never quite did get round to seeing each other again.

She remained impaled on my stiff aching shaft, rocking up and down more gently now, as she got her breath back.

All the pieces began to fall into place now. This wasn’t a place to be forgotten, it was a place of  Forgotten Lovers. That was why a table here was only ever extended by invitation, and why some were never invited at all. Only a long-lost almost-lover could invite you, and a shared regret had to linger in both your hearts. Perhaps we would both have an evening, alone in the privacy of this little room, to discover if the spark still glowed, and whether we could be lovers once more.

“What would you do if I released you?” she asked.

I opened my mouth to answer, then abruptly stopped. A sudden wave of awareness had surged through my mind. Of all the questions she could have said, why had she say that? Not: how have you been? Or: so good to see you! But what would I do if I was liberated?

I thought back to the version of me that she once knew. The one so eager to be nice to her, to win her attention. She had changed. And, I realised, I had changed too.

I looked deeply into her beautiful pale green eyes, into the dark black pools of her pupils, and held her gaze.

“If you untied my hands, I’d put you over that table and spank your bare bottom.”

“Goodness! Why?”

“Because I’ve wanted to do that ever since the very first night we met.”

“God! Why didn’t you ever say?”

I wasn’t quite sure of the answer to that. I think I was just too naive back then, too eager not to cause offence to my brilliant, elegant, sexy friend. I thought she’d think poorly of me, that I was a thug, a misogynist. I so wanted to earn Amber’s approval, I silenced any desires I thought I might offend her. In doing so, I’d made myself bland, an unappetising dish just as she’d begun dining in a gourmet world.

She rose from my lap, letting my still stiff cock slip from her slick slit, and then stepped backwards, so she was no longer straddling me.

And then she paused, naked in front of me. Her smile replaced by an opaque, thin-lipped expression, as if daring me to stare at her gorgeous naked body, daring me to condemn myself with my own lustful stare. It felt like a challenge, a test to see if the nice little boy deep inside me would surface to apologise for finding her so attractive. Instead, I just smiled. It was the smile of someone who had learned hard lessons on the absurdities of life, who had come to appreciate its unpredictability. It was the smile of someone just looking at a lover.

Moments later, a similar smile broke through on her face too. She stepped behind my chair and released my hands from their cuffs. As I stretched my arms and shoulders in relief, she walked back in front of me, provocatively standing between my seat and the table with her back to me.

I stood, grateful to stretch my legs again, and wrapped my arms around Amber’s chest. I hugged her close, feeling the heat of her back against my chest. My lips reached her right ear, and I whispered the most romantic two words in the English language.

“Bend over.”

She obeyed without comment or complaint. Shifting the sole item remaining on the table, the half-empty bowl of sticky brown dessert, so she could lie fully across it.

I moved behind her, pushing her feet apart with my own until they were on either side of the table legs. This position served to stretch her buttocks into small round globes, and reveal the sticky swollen slit between them.

“You have been a very naughty girl.”

This wasn’t delivered as a question, or an observation. It was a statement.

She responded by wiggling her posterior provocatively, so I dealt with her. Swinging my open palm back and then downwards, spanking her bottom cheek with a resounding smack.

I looked at the tiny patch of pink I’d created, a mark I’d waited a lifetime to deliver, but had never previously been bold enough to try. Amber didn’t attempt to say anything, content to simply emit a low quiet moan. I spanked her again, this time as a flurry of quick stinging whacks. Her submission, her acceptance of the pain I’d inflicted thrilled me.

I spanked her for being a little tease. For the subterfuge that brought me here. For fucking me and leaving my balls to ache. Every now and then I would pause, cupping my hand between her legs, massaging her slit, letting her wetness seep onto my palm. But I was in control now, I would take her to the edge and leave her yearning.

And I would take her as I pleased. My almost painfully hard cock entered her swollen slit easily. As I slid in and out, I used a finger to rub her wrinkled hole, smearing it with the leftover chocolate sauce. Her arse was much tighter, so I told her that would be where my cock would go next. She didn’t protest, merely moaned.

Then I resumed her spanking, alternating flurries of smacks with my finger intruding ever deeper into her tight sticky gap.

When I was ready, I let the tip of my stiff cock rest against her bottom hole, its sheath glistening with her wetness. I began to prod her tight entrance, threatening to enter. But then Amber surprised me again, pushing back on me, impaling herself with a shrill cry of delight.

I fucked her spanked bum slowly, reaching over to feed my chocolate encrusted fingertips into her mouth. She obediently licked my fingers clean as I pushed ever deeper into her bottom.

Her arse was so tight, after a dozen deep thrusts I could already feel myself approaching my limit. I slowed down, smacking what I could reach of her bum and upper thighs when I slid out, feeling the wet kiss of her sticky lips against my shaved sac when I pushed deep. Our breathing matched my rhythm. In and out. Shallow and deep.

As I try to delay the inevitable, I think back over all that’s happened today, and all that’s ever happened between us, and wonder what on earth I’m going to be able to say to her once our fucking ends. Once we’ve both got our breath back, once our waves of ecstasy abate, and the starkness of reality resumes.

I shall suggest we dress and go outside, to cocoon ourselves in our sex fug, and stand in wonder beneath the clear night sky. Hand in hand, we’ll look up at the awe-inspiring starscape twinkling infinitely high above our heads, letting our eyes scan the million points of light sparkling on their stark velvet canvas.

I’m thrusting deep again. I am going to come now. Amber’s right hand is gripping the edge of the table, I grasp it, pushing it beneath her, between her legs. Then I lean forward, to growl my final instructions into her ear.

“Put your fingers on your fucking cunt.”

Later, with our bodies still trembling, we’ll venture outside, and snuggle together under the timelessly vast heavens. Our flushed faces slowly numbing in the chill alpine air. We’ll hug and whisper our hopes and our dreams, our joys and our sorrows.

We’ll talk of pasts and futures, of nebulae and neutron stars.






@spankingtheatre 2019

Originally posted at

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Filthy Fairytales



[Thanks to @moan–ing​ for the original artwork!]

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
glass, darkly.

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…

Because you’re never too old for fairytales…

Following on from my last post on erotic fairytales, this is worth reposting.

Throne of Shame


Her throne glimmered with gold. Ornately carved, fashioned by the continent’s finest craftsmen, it sat on a dais of burgundy and jade.

He took the princess’s hand delicately, elegantly holding hers on top of his, and led her.

“Your throne, your highness”

He enjoyed how quickly her expression changed from pride to shame, as she spied the finger-length protrusion of finest ivory just behind the centre of the velvet seat – as she realised just where it would penetrate.

Silken bonds dangled from the armrests. He reached behind her to undo her gown, which dropped around her feet.

“Please, be seated, highness…”

Keep reading

I haven’t quite finished the alphabetical retrospective of past stories, so next up is the deviant fairytale Throne of Shame.

This is one of my earlier stories, written almost seven years ago! But I think it’s aged well, partly because it’s structured as a timeless fairytale. I believe 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
glass, darkly.

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?

What readers have said about this story:

“Your writing is rich with lyrical images that took me in at the start:
ribbon of rivers, dark shadows of forests, a red dots of faraway fires,
small harbors of safety in the inky black night. I was beguiled by your
poetry. This love story, the King who learned how to read the needs of
the princess with his gentle touch, was beautifully drawn, mysterious,
probing, as smooth as velvet, yet as wicked and inevitable as the
passage of time. I am spellbound, dear author.“

“This was quite a trip! Your imagination takes you places that are quite
different from the places my own imagination takes me. That’s why I read
stories here! In the future, I hope we get to travel together often.“

“That story is just amazing! It has one particular line that really resonates with me: ‘She calls herself a Princess, yet wets herself like a slut.’ Wow.“

And don’t forget, if you have the right kind of dildo, you can create your very own Throne of Shame in the privacy of your own bedroom too…

An excellent article by the wise minds of the School of Life, explaining the psychological reasons why pain is not always punishment, and pleasure is not always a reward…

Are You a Masochist?

Eroticism Revisited


A joy of roleplaying is revisiting and eroticising past experiences that we missed the chance to eroticise first time around.

Perhaps we weren’t brave enough, or too wary of getting caught.

That romantic dinner where you were going to tell her to slip off her panties.

Or events that weren’t sexual at the time, but now looking back, and rendered by your sexual imagination, now seem unavoidably erotic.

Like that time you were alone with a teacher in detention that afternoon. Nothing happened of course, but all these years later you’re still imagining what might have happened had your school still believed in spankings.

Or we might think back to our most cherished sexual memories. You might wish you’d been stricter with a former lover, grabbing their wrist and putting them over your knee. Or wish a lover had been stricter with you, and smacked your bottom until it was deliciously sore, before you got the fucking of your life. But it never quite worked out.

Fantasies are an opportunity to play out an alternative reality that never existed. It’s never too late. We don’t need to pine after past lovers, or lament missed opportunities, what we desire we can always recreate, alone – or with a new lover, in the here and now.

We can dress up, and play detention in the privacy of our homes. That salacious dinner date can occur in your own dining room. You can bump into your lover in a bar, pretend you’re meeting for the very first time, and fuck wantonly in a hotel room an hour after saying hello.

I write these stories not just to arouse, but to provide inspirations. Scenes an erotic tourist might enjoy visiting. Settings you might like to incorporate into your own play, be that a strict school, a Christmas Party, a Regency manor or a medieval castle.

Never feel regret for sexual opportunities that escaped you. Preserve your intimate memories, and cherish those personal treasures, because they unique to you, and will fuel your very own fantasies. Do not despair, new characters will step onto your stage – and then, you will be ready to play.

And it will be astonishing.

The Alchemy of Anxiety

An anonymous reader writes:

This may be a bit odd, but I’m writing out of hope to gain some courage.

I’m in the midst of writing my physics dissertation and I’ve never cared so much about any work in my life. Doing the work taught me many things about my own capacity for intellectual heartbreak and triumph in equal measure. I am… proud of the work that I’ve done, yet deeply insecure about it, and perhaps above all, mortified by the thought of submitting it to the red ink of my advisor.

He’s been largely in the background for most of this process, but over all kind and patient, if blunt. Until very recently I didn’t understand that I could be so passionate about my work, and I’ll admit that I at first confused my own newfound perfectionism with a desire to please an intimidating authority figure—or at least avoid another serious talking to like the one he gave me early on in my work.

I introspected a lot about my authority issues (many), and tried to consider as objectively as possible that he might have a point, and decided to swallow my pride and keep trying. I am now glad that I did, I think. But I’m also apprehensive. I trust that he has my best interests in mind and doesn’t think badly of me, but I am deeply sensitive to criticism. And I know that criticism is both inevitable and, if given in good faith, vital for growth.

You may be wondering why I’m writing this to a spanking blog, although I wouldn’t be surprised if you understood completely: from reading your stories, I know that you’re deeply aware of the eroticism that may be found in the relationship between teacher and student, as well as in the learning process itself. It’s the lustful part of my brain, disconnected from reality, that wonders breathlessly what submitting to a different sort of humbling experience would be like: one experienced naked, across his lap.

I am eroticising a difficult experience to cope with it; the fantasy of accepting physical discipline from someone I respect and find attractive turns me on, while knowing that I must open myself up to criticism of my work terrifies me. Even so, I have now done a difficult thing by offering you my writing, my obvious kink for authority, and the knowledge that I’m a very naughty girl indeed, to be touching myself to the thought of a sound spanking from my mentor. Perhaps now, it may be easier to do the most difficult thing…

Thank you dear reader, for putting into words something that I expect many other readers of this blog will have felt themselves. It is common to eroticise difficult, awkward and embarrassing situations.

And this reveals a deeper truth:

Anxiety and fear are two separate emotions.

Some might think they’re the same, that anxiety is just a milder form of fear, but they’re not.

Anxiety originates from desire.

Fear originates from danger.

People eroticise situations that might otherwise be socially or physically painful. That’s why the most common sexual fantasies feature authority, punishment, nudity and humiliation. By fantasising about shame, we can take control it, like lightning in a bottle – and channel that powerful psychological energy into our minds’ pleasure centres instead. Safely, in the privacy of the bedroom.

If fear had the same psychological basis, the most common sexual fantasies would involve heights, snakes and creepy-crawlies. But they don’t. Fear is a primal response, a self-protection mechanism that’s billions of years old. It exists to keep us safe, from perils that could be lethal.

But anxieties arise from our wants: our desire to be liked, to be accepted, to be pretty, to be successful. All factors that might lead to us being considered socially and sexually attractive.

Those who consider authority figures erotic often fantasise about impressing them. They crave their attention, they want to be told they’re the cleverest, the most brilliant, or best-behaved.

That’s probably why the schoolgirl scenario is so popular, a chance to replay and eroticise your own memories. To imagine what it would be like if that teacher you had a crush on really was as strict as they were in your dreams. Your aversion to failure demands that even imaginary rule-breaking must have consequences. And for many, that means a good hard spanking on the bare bottom.

Many misinterpret the powerful urges of their own sexuality as
something bad, deviant or filthy. But in reality, your sexuality is a mental resource, as much an asset as your creativity, insight or concentration. The best erotic mentors are not motivated by their own gratification, but by a desire to teach others how to understand their own superpowers.

Your sexual energy is a fire, a means to transmute anxiety into pleasure. In a very personal act of alchemy…

I LOVE a good spanking. It resets me, it gets me excited, it does it all for me. But now I’m afraid to ask for it. My EX… He spanked me so hard that I was bruised and even had a bit of torn skin for -weeks and weeks- my hands were bound, I couldn’t do anything. I got no aftercare, I showered alone and went to bed without a word. It was traumatising. I want to overcome this fear. I just don’t know how.

I am very sorry to hear you suffered such brutal abuse, and that this wretched experience has tainted an aspect of your sexuality that is obviously so important to you.

But your trauma was caused by an abusive partner, not your love of spanking.
All those who suffer sexual assault have a right to regain sexual pleasure.

Mental wounds heal slowly, so it’s fine to take your time. I assume you began reading this blog because of the stories, and I hope these provide a safe space to reconnect with your spanking desires.

Allow yourself to fall in love with your spanking fantasies again, and remind yourself just how good a spanking can feel. The Beginners Guide to Self-spanking might provide a helpful sequence of activities to experiment with the sensations of smacking and the emotional reactions they provoke. Try journaling, and writing down what you experience, it can be a private diary.

Once you re-establish your comfort and confidence, you should be ready to think about spanking play with another partner. You need to be able to trust them, and they need to respect your safe word limits. Just start slowly and build up to the intensity you crave.

Best wishes, and I hope you enjoy your journey back to the wonderful world of spanking…

Do you have any hard limits?

My hardest limit is consent.

I only play with consenting adults. And it’s important to me that the consent of my playmates arises from their own desires, and they should be emotionally mature enough to give it. Consent for submission should be eager and willing, which means I will not take advantage of those who are unhappy, bored or self-hating. I think this is a hard limit every responsible dominant should have.

Those who’ve read the naughty games series will know I’m relaxed about pee play,
which can actually complement spankings quite nicely. Poo is just an
occupational hazard of anal play. And menstrual blood is a just fact of
human biology, I’m very relaxed about that.

But I’m not keen on breaking the skin. I consider it brutish to draw blood – a failure of imagination, when there are so many imaginative non-damaging ways to punish. Marks on the bottom are fine, but the visible effects of a good spanking should be short-lived.

After all, isn’t discipline an opportunity for redemption? I like to think once spanked, the slate is wiped clean. At least, until the next misdemeanour…

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