spankingtheatre:

A story about imagining

image

In the dark castle of your imagination are many rooms

You could spend a lifetime roaming its stark alluring corridors

Peeping through the keyholes

To be aroused and thrilled

By sights unseen


* * 1 * *

The opening door silenced the hubbub of two dozen voices. One of the idiosyncrises of their teacher, Mr Bowman, was he often arrived in class a couple of minutes late. As his new class would soon discover, he had a taste for theatrical flourishes, a penchant for engineering drama and building anticipation. As if the whole class was itself entering a story that had already started.

Even his clothes had the air of a showman. Today he’d dressed in a black thigh-length Edwardian frock coat. A snow white cravat bulging out from his iridescent blue silk waistcoat. He removed his tall top hat as he stepped into the classroom, doffing it respectfully to the young ladies present.

Mr Bowman’s class was incredibly popular. Always oversubscribed, it was one of only two classes in the school to have a waiting list. Preference was given to students with a strong academic record, as this was not a subject for the indolent or immature, but for grown-up minds who wanted to push their boundaries. A class of the school’s best and brightest. He entered the room to a buzz of expectation, to survey a sea of wide and eager eyes.

After all, who wouldn’t want to be able to write? To communicate, to reach out to and inspire and arouse their imaginations of strangers they’d never met. To be able to harness the most powerful creative force in the known universe, the one that covertly lurked between their own two ears.

He paused before the class, his eyes roaming his audience’s faces, nodding, as if in agreement with whatever they were silently thinking. He could sense their curiosity, the murmur of prolific potential straining to be unleashed.

Mr Bowman could feel himself being charged up by their enthusiasm, pulling off his frock coat and melodramatically flinging it over the hook of the nearby coat stand, before striding up to the blackboard. The chalk squeaked and scratched as he wrote two short words in neat block capitals.

“Erotic Writing”, he began, regarding what he’d written for a moment before turning back to face the class.

This was no ordinary creative writing class. His pupils were not silly little girls, but young ladies, each now keenly aware of their own simmering sexuality. The enlightened board of governors believed this course would help them express the powerful feelings that often surged through their febrile minds, and the pyretic urges that now surged through their burgeoning bodies.

Mr Bowman let the class stare at what he’d written for a moment. He wondered how many were fixated on just the first word, and what visions those six little letters had already conjured in their minds. He waited, then broke the silence.

“On our journey through life, each of you will write a veritable library of words. Instructions, memories, descriptions and proposals. Words of joy, expressions of sorrow, words of apology and gratitude. In your years at this school each of you has learnt how to write essays, poems and reports, the art of expressing the ideas within your head. Yet…”

“Hands up. Who’s ever imagined a scene of a sexual nature?”

A murmur of suppressed gasps swept the room. From his vantage point at the front of the class the variation in sexual confidence within his class was obvious, but unsurprising. There were the girls with their jaws open, taken aback by the bluntness of his question. Others were looking around furtively, waiting to see if anyone else had put their hand up…

Keep reading

Next in my retrospective of past stories is The Caning Emporium. This is a meta-story, a story about the process of writing spanking stories. It also features a scene with erotic writing class, which is an activity I’m keen to tutor and encourage in the new role-playing chat group.

If you’ve ever wondered about the process of erotic story-writing, the deep alluring mystery of sexual fantasies, or even just dreamt of buying your own cane, I think you’d enjoy your visit to The Caning Emporium