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Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

Month

August 2019

I love your writing so much, and always look forward to your posts! It’s so hard nowadays to find someone who writes real discipline stories and is actually a strong writer, but you do both with grace. Do you have a master-list to all the stories you’ve written?

Thank you, that’s very kind.

And yes, I do have a master list of stories, which readers might like to share with those who appreciate both erotic escapades and heartfelt writing.

Do ❤️ your favourites…

I’m the one who said I’ve never gotten a real spanking. I’m really craving punishment now… Help! I don’t like spanking myself.

If you’re craving a spanking, but are without anyone to administer it, the ideal solution is to be bold, and begin a quest for a disciplinarian of your own.

But that might take a while to build the necessary trust. In the meantime, you’ll have to be creative.

Try immersing yourself in a fantasy of your own construction, perhaps this will involve reading a spanking story, or writing down a fantasy of your own. Make it as detailed as possible, dress up if you can, sit on your bare bottom and imagine what’s in store for you.

You don’t need to spank yourself, of course, not unless you absolutely need to feel your bottom sting. Play as far as you want to play.

And who knows, maybe there’s a strict spanker out there for you, just waiting for a knock on their office door.

I’ve never gotten a real spanking. Over his lap, kicking my legs, trying to get up and being held down. Maybe some crying too…

There are two kinds of people in this world.

Those who would read what you’ve just written and wonder why on earth anyone would ever want to be suffer such pain, such indignity. To be physically restrained, and then humiliated, as your panties are tugged down.

They would be horrified at the thought of kicking and squealing as a merciless volley of smacks rained down on your bare flesh. The stinging heat rising with every slap. Until your eyes water, until the tears burst, until your cries and sobs begin to steal your breath, until your gasping and panting makes you light-headed. Spanked to tears, deliriously squirming as your bottom burns.

And there are those who’d read all this, and feel an urgent ache throbbing between their legs…

They, keep me busy.

I have never been able to achieve orgasm and i have tried many different methods including penetration and different types of stimulation. Is there any way you could help or give advice?

My advice would be focus on what brings you pleasure, and don’t worry if that ultimately results in an orgasm.

After all, there are many people, both men and women, who prefer not to climax. Those who equate pleasure with orgasms might find this strange, but such individuals prefer to edge themselves, to enjoy the slow gradual build-up of pleasure, rather than the climactic surge at the end.

Edging allows pleasure to be prolonged, sometimes all day. Without any of the neurochemical crashes that sometimes follow orgasms.

If the concept of edging and denial is news to you, read up on the following links, and then start doing some googling:

A good rule for life is: what you can’t fix, you should feature. If you find orgasms are difficult to accomplish, concentrate on what does bring you pleasure. You could master the activity of erotic edging. You could chase ever greater intensities of arousal, without ever having to back off to stop yourself from coming. Those who enjoy edging and erotic denial would envy your ability.

And if you’re reading this blog, I assume you have some interest in spanking, an activity that involves very different physical sensations to genital orgasms. Explore the self-spanking games listed in this post, and perhaps you’ll discover a new type of masturbation, where a climax is not the ultimate objective.

I wish you tremendous satisfaction in your quest.

This is an absolutely wonderful piece on creative writing and cultural freedom by Laurie Penny.

It touches on several themes I strongly believe in, the importance of exercising one’s own imagination, and conjuring up your own worlds. That the aim of an author should not be to pontificate, but to inspire, and create a magic garden for their readers’ minds to play in.

Like many Tumblr writers, Laurie also started by writing fan-fiction. Unfairly maligned by those who seek to privatise culture, fanfic is the on-ramp for the novelists and screenwriters of tomorrow. A medium that provides opportunities to weave new stories in with familiar characters and ready-made settings.

I loved her observation that the “history of communications technology [has] always been a history of
bloody squabbles over who was allowed to write and read the official
story of human destiny and human desire.”

Do not cede your right to tell your own stories. Resist those who say culture should be a set menu from which you have to choose, however bland and unappetising the choices may be.

I strongly believe that creativity should be inclusive. Art needs its fans, its audience, its remixers and believers. And now, as we move from the era of two hour movies to episodic story-telling, there will be ever greater potential to create new worlds, and opportunities to populate with them with myriad new tales. Tales that can appeal to every minority…

… tales you don’t have to ask for permission to tell.

We Can Be Heroes: How the Nerds Are Reinventing Pop Culture

Waiting

spankingtheatre:

I’d never been good at waiting.

But his instructions were quite clear.

“Stand still, be quiet — and don’t turn around.”

So I just stare at the wall and listen to footsteps walking away. He stops after 10 steps. Behind me, a hinge creaks. There’s some clattering and some rustling. What is he doing?

There’s a hulking wooden cupboard at the back of the classroom. It’s always kept locked, like some ancient reliquary. What exactly lies within has been the subject of many speculative conversations among my peers, but no student has ever looked inside. He must be looking for a suitable implement to punish me with. What will it be, I wonder?

The suspense is building, my breathing quickening, but I dare not turn around. That would be asking for trouble. Yet, my curiously is an itch that must be scratched. Restraining my impulsiveness has always been my weakness. Maybe just a peek, I’m sure he won’t even notice me. I can’t even hear him, he must be still rummaging inside the cupboard. I take a chance, quickly turning my head — only to see him looming over me. His voice chastises my disobedience.

“I told you not to turn around”.

Keep reading

Next in the alphabetical retrospective of spanking stories is Waiting.

This school-set story also happens to be the very first post I made on this blog. It wasn’t the first spanking story I’d written, I’d been writing stories privately for a while, but it was the first I considered sufficiently good to risk posting publicly.

I had no idea how it would be received, whether those stumbling across it would think I was weird or perverted, or scoff at its amateurishness. My advice to new writers is not to let such petty concerns silence them before they’ve even started. All creative art has its critics. Write what you always intended to express, and those who imagine things the same way will find you, one by one.

The audience for this blog grew slowly. I posted several stories in the first few months, including Cosmopolitan and Carrot and Stick, to accumulate a body of work that might leave new readers eager for the next one.

I also made a point of talking to early followers via messaging, to discover what they thought of the stories, what worked and what didn’t. After all, the reason why I chose Tumblr for my writing was a community of readers already existed, one where you could share (by reblogging) the stories you liked, and which you thought would interest those you knew.

So, to those who have shared and encouraged these stories over the years, a massive thank you. This blog, and these stories, would not exist without the faith you showed. Your support has not just led to thousands discovering and exploring an interest in spanking, but tens of thousands of bedtime orgasms and well-spanked bottoms.

And this is how it all started

Treasure Hunt is definitely my favorite so far. It makes me feel so good inside and at the same time so sweet. You write so beautifully and I want to give you the highest of praises!! Um. There is something I need to ask though. I’ve never actually pleasured myself and am afraid to do so. I’ve only ever felt aroused through reading. I guess I just feel shy to do so and never really knew the basics. What do you think about it? Have a nice day!!

I think that sounds perfectly reasonable.

According to the most recent studies, 97% of men and 80% of women have masturbated at some point in their lives. That means anyone who hasn’t pleasured themselves is likely to be in the minority, but not freakishly unusual. 

There are many good reasons for not masturbating, some will refrain due to religious or cultural beliefs. A big factor is often privacy, especially those in small, crowded households where bedrooms are shared. Some just haven’t found what they really find arousing yet, and that’s perfectly natural too. Everyone is aroused by different things, some have very particular fetishes and fantasies. That’s what makes human sexuality so varied and fascinating.

So, take your time as you explore not only the full surface area of your own body, but also the fantasy worlds conjured by your own imagination.

You, and your desires, are unique.

And that is something to be cherished.

Hello, new follower here! I discovered you 3 days ago while scrolling for erotica writings to read as I’ve been venturing myself to the world. I must say I am deeply in awe at your beautiful writings and. In the beginning, I felt shy and afraid of reading your pieces and scrutinized the art of spanking because I simply couldn’t understand it. However, now I am deeply fascinated by it and have been reading your pieces non stop. It fufills my inner desires and I just want to give you my gratitude!

I’m delighted to hear you’ve made such a rewarding discovery, dear reader.

I’ve always felt the written word has the unique ability to satisfy the imaginative, whereas visual pornography can only temporarily gratify its viewers.

So I welcome those who’ve happen to chance upon this little realm of words. Like intrepid wanderers amid a cosmopolitan city’s twisty back-alleys, stumbling out of the rain and into a curious little bookshop. How exciting to realise every tome upon the heaving shelves concerns the fine art of spanking. And somehow, you find the subject unexpectedly fascinating.

Because spanking is more than just the act of smacking the buttocks. It is act of erotic theatre, of power and obedience, rules and rebellion. An expression of desires and forces at the very heart of human nature.

Do enjoy your explorations of this brave, exciting new world.

Verso, Recto

spankingtheatre:

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.

Keep reading

Next in my alphabetical retrospective of spanking stories is Verso, Recto. Its setting is a old convent, haunted by the ghosts of the chaste and the pious.

This story has a philosophical observation at its heart. That whilst religions might consider themselves at the opposite end of the moral spectrum to kinky power transfer relationships. But actually, the two have many things in common. Both are rule systems, with a regime of sanctions and punishments. Both are ostensibly motivated by a profound kind of love. And both require disciplinarians to enforce discipline, and show those who submit The True Way.

For those who identify as kinky, dominance and submission are as much acts of faith as any religious practice. Our beliefs shape how we see the world, how we treat others, and what sets our own moral boundaries and expectations.

Perhaps, psychologically, the human mind yearns to submit to a force greater than its own. Or to be that force, and wield that power benevolently, but strictly. For most of human history, this urge has been manifested in sacred rituals and holy books. And some choose to channel this powerful yearning into their own sexuality, in pursuit of Heaven, on Earth.

I invite you to immerse yourself in the world of Verso, Recto, and let me know what you believe…

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