Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears



Sandalwood and Ginger

A Christmas Story

He looked at me intently, two rings of cool blue glowing through the black band of his mask. The effect was quite mesmerising. He leaned forward, as if he was about to share something of the utmost importance.

“What’s the naughtiest thing you’ve ever done at Christmas?”

At first I was flummoxed by his challenge. I tried to think what I did last Christmas, and then the one before that. Some good parties, a bit of dressing up, some rolicking sex, a bit of festive over-indulgence. Did any of that count? None of it was what I’d consider naughty, in that I wasn’t remotely ashamed of any of it. Was I really that boring that I didn’t have any sordid secrets?

I closed my eyes, searching deeper and deeper into my memories. Christmases spent abroad, at university, at school and at home. When I tried to remember the details I was surprised to find they existed as stills rather than movies, a vague recollections of being somewhere, of being with certain people. Each successive memory became fuzzier the deeper I reached.

Then I stumbled across a memory whose vividness shocked me, an experience from my childhood that still seemed vibrant and real. I was young. An impetuous little girl. And I was doing something I most definitely shouldn’t have been doing.

Was this what he meant? This was something I was ashamed of, perhaps my guilt had preserved the memory in such detail, revisiting it, unable to let it go. In retrospect it wasn’t a big deal, just a childish misdemeanour, but at the time it had felt like a very naughty crime indeed.

I opened my eyes, and began to tell him everything. Every footstep and every quivering sensation, a Christmas confession I’d suppressed for decades. He listened in silence, just an occasional nod of encouragement when my courage faltered. At the end he didn’t offer me absolution, just an brusque observation.

“Yes, that is very naughty.”

Perhaps he was somewhat disappointed. Perhaps he was hoping for something more rousing, a thrilling tale of shattered rules and broken taboos. But what I’d told him was all I had. For the first time this evening I felt the lurching queasiness of self-doubt. From the way he looked at me I knew he found me attractive, but I wanted to be more, I wanted him to find me interesting. No, it was more than that, I wanted to be fascinating.

He looked down at our empty glasses.

“Another drink?”

Continue Reading…

Coming of Age: Part 2

This is the second part of three part story, part one is here.




“I’m thirsty.”

I’ve lost track of time, how long have I been talking now? It feels as if each salacious recollection has scorched my tongue, as if I’d been uttering words that sizzled with their own inherent heat.

Now in the darkness beyond my blindfold I feel you moving, your knees nestling into my armpits as you straddle my chest. I can feel the warmth of my own breath blowing across my face, reflected back by something right in front of me.

My parched lips venture forward, immediately encountering your slick wet cunt.

That makes me smile. Most would respond to a partner’s thirst with a glass of water. But you do things differently, that’s why I love you.

I let my dry mouth linger against your delectably damp slit, until I can feel your wetness seeping onto my wrinkled lips. My swollen tongue is still parched, so when I push it forward, I feel it rasp across your hot moist folds. You mew your approval, and I begin to feel my cock stir, a primal part of me already planning how to satisfy itself, wanting me to bury myself in your tight wet hole.

I contemplate surrendering to this urge, this libidinous impulse, and abandoning the story I’ve been telling. Just a few words would do it. Fetch a condom, I’d say. You’d do the rest, sucking me until I’m achingly stiff, rolling the rubber down my shaft. Then the glorious feeling of envelopment as you mounted me, slipping slowly down sighing one long girlish moan, until your beautiful soft arse is sitting on my thighs. And then, you’d ride me.

But should that really be how the story ends? The two of us fucking wantonly, until we both empty our lungs yelling into the hot summer night. Maybe that will be how our evening concludes. But not yet.

No, not yet.

For if what I’ve told you so far is the story of my naivety, what I still have to tell concerns coming of age, of mastering my energies and emotions, of becoming a man. Somewhere within is the tale of how I mastered my lust, and made it my might.

So I move my head back from your crotch, and make my counteroffer.


You might imagine that as a command. You might even hear it as a plea. But that’s the beauty of playing with power. What is top and what is bottom? Nothing in nature is ever permanent, ever settled, and we are creatures of glorious subtlety. Tides turn and even the mighty oceans flow.

I feel you move, a rustling in the distance, and then the cool rim of a glass touches my lips. I lap at its contents instinctively, the water is icy cold, deliciously fresh. I let it swill around my arid throat before leaning forward for another sip.

“Thank you.”

It’s your turn to speak.

“Now, tell me more!”

Are you commanding me, or pleading with me? It can be so difficult to tell, sometimes I think they sound exactly the same.



* * 4 * *


So where was I?

Ah yes, my first encounter with the condom and the scales. I’d just climaxed over the lap of my headmistress, and she’d told me in no uncertain terms that she expected “more of me” when I returned to visit her the following week.

I replayed her words in my mind as I walked home, rubbing my stinging bottom, feeling the heat from my spanking still radiating through my trousers.

“No masturbation without my permission” had been her words, which were sufficiently ambiguous to leave me wondering about the practicalities of her instructions.

Did that mean permission was available? How did I get it? Did I just need to pop into her office and ask? Would that be a one-off indulgence or would I be rationed, and given several opportunities to play spread throughout the week?

I didn’t need to obey her, of course. Just as I didn’t need to visit her next Friday afternoon ever again. She had said if I stopped going, nothing more would be said, but the truth was by now I couldn’t resist her. My memories of the time I spent in her company dominated my idle thoughts whenever I happened to be alone. Her voice, her sweet spicy scent, the spankings, the dressing up, and the thrilling shame of ejaculating in front of her. Somehow I’d already become a moth to her flame.

So I tried to live up to her expectations. Instead of wanking myself dry every night, I tried to control myself, massaging my cock until just before the messy Point of No Return, and then stopping to go and do something else. A video game perhaps, before the lure of playing with another kind of joystick became too strong. My early attempts weren’t, in truth, completely successful, but I felt I was at least trying to abide by the spirit of her instructions.

Then before I knew it, it was Friday afternoon again.

Only a few weeks ago I remember dawdling towards the office of my Headmistress in an indignant slouch. Now I strolled forward purposefully and expectantly, aware I was going to get my bottom smacked, but at the same time, keen to add to my meagre set of sexual experiences. I think she must have heard my eagerness in how I knocked on her door, as she welcomed me with a warm, knowing smile.

She invited me to sit down, and I accepted her offer of a cup of tea. A British social grace intended as much to allow strangers to adjust to each others’ company as it is to provide a means of caffeinated refreshment. I cradled my little porcelain cup protectively as she sat down opposite me, and began to field her inquisitive questions.

This time our encounter was much less of an interrogation, and she occasionally responded to my trivial tribulations with some useful titbits of advice. As I became more comfortable in her presence, I felt the mood lightening, it became more conversational, I even managed to ask some bland questions of my own.

We probably talked for half an hour, and then she simply said:

“It’s time.”

I didn’t need to be told what she meant. It was time to get undressed, and time to be spanked. To be honest, I’d spent most of the last week thinking about this moment. Soon I was siting naked on the armchair as before, I frigged myself hard and, much to my personal satisfaction, put on the condom she passed me at my first attempt.

“Have you masturbated this week, young man?”

She skewered me with a stern gaze I found impossible to keep, and I found myself looking down at her lap by the time I ultimately answered.

“I’ve been trying to control myself better, Miss.”

“Show me.”

I grasped my erection with my right hand and began tugging and squeezing myself, feeling the thin skin of condom ripple beneath my sweaty palm. I pumped myself conspicuously, showing off, as if trying to demonstrate some barely-existent masculine sexual confidence. But, most importantly, I ensured I stopped before I got anywhere close to coming.

She didn’t need to say anything further, just a single elegant beckoning finger. Her right stocking was already rolled down, and I bent over her lap and slipped my erection into her tight nylon grasp.

Then she began to spank me. I controlled myself better this time, not thrusting between her thighs like a rutting animal. My bum was hot and stinging by the time I did eventually succumb and climax, but my spanking didn’t continue for long afterwards.

The final act was to take off my condom and have it weighed. My clumsy attempts at self-control during the previous week seemed to pay dividends, and the scales recorded a creditable score of 2.5 grams, for which I received praise from my headmistress as she meticulously scribbled my particulars into her notebook.

And then I got dressed, wished her a good weekend, and began thinking about my next visit almost as soon as I’d closed her door behind me.





By now my visits had become a regular event, the undisputed highlight of my week. We talked, and she guided me. I told her about my petty teenage problems and she listened to me, sometimes that was enough, sometimes she offered some solutions. The relationship between us had now changed, I no longer thought of her as intimidating authority figure, but as a confidente. I stopped referring to her as Miss, and started using the more respectful Ma’am.

She told me what food I should be eating, and insisted I took more exercise. I started running, and joined a football team. She instructed me on my grooming, I got a more stylish, more adult haircut, something I’d thought a waste of time and money. Yet afterwards, people seemed to behave differently around me, as if they began to finally notice me.

I bought an electric shaver and started grooming my body, shaving myself bare, everywhere. Keeping my pubis and scrotum bare served to remind me I was subject to her discipline every time I pulled down my pants, and every time I fondled my cock in bed. A reminder to maintain control of myself, and to live up to her high expectations.

My visits to her office followed a familiar pattern, we’d talk for most of our time together, then I’d get undressed, put on a condom and bend over her lap for a spanking. It wasn’t long before I’d become accustomed to her hand, so she began to introduce me to some of her more impactful implements, which she kept locked in a little cabinet at the side of her room. I had no idea there was such a range of canes and whips and paddles and floggers, and then there were all the items you might find lying around at home: rulers, hairbrushes, wooden spoons, spatulas and bath-brushes.

So you won’t be surprised to hear my fascination with spanking grew with every subsequent visit. I came to experience their different sensations, from the thuddy thump of a paddle to the sizzling sting of a riding crop. I was always spanked in the same position of course, over her lap, my stiff cock gripped between her thighs. She even caned me in that position, laying the cane flat across my bum, holding one end still and lifting up the other, before letting go, so the rod sprang back to whack me.

Occasionally she’d make me change into the schoolgirl skirt and knickers I’d worn that during that early formative visit. This was intended as a lesson in humility, a reminder that whilst women might be the focus of my romantic affections, underneath their skirts they were people, with feelings, hopes and dreams, no different from me. She made sure I understood that seduction was only ever to be a dance, never a conquest.

She knew, of course, that my submissiveness in her presence was born of deference. In our more candid conversations I’d made it clear I yearned to turn the tables and be the one giving the instructions, to be the one spanking her bottom. She’d listened politely to what I’d had to say, not dismissing or belittling my aspirations, but had made it perfectly clear afterwards I still had many lessons to learn before I’d be able to contemplate putting her over my knee. The way I stared at the floor as she skewered my dreams only emphasised how much more maturity and self-confidence I still needed to develop.

Yet I wasn’t just here to have my bottom smacked, my headmistress was more than happy to try and teach me what I lacked. Sometimes we roleplayed, and she taught me how to talk to a lady. You might call it the art of seduction, but that sounds so sordid. It was much more than that, learning how to talk to a stranger, to avoid empty compliments, how to genuinely communicate. And if I ever behaved like a nervous little boy, breaking eye contact or losing my nerve, she would stop our conversation right there and then, and I’d find myself over her lap once more, being spanked like one.

My teacher taught me the mating dance of human desire, although we never practiced it. She explained how lovers would first touch hands, then arms. Then would come the hugs, the embraces, the touching of hair and the caresses of the face. And if I ever reached that level of intimacy, then I was told, the object of my affection would expect to be kissed.

She explained how kissing would naturally turn to nibbling of the lips, nuzzles of the neck and throat. Then hands would stray to my lover’s breast, and it would feel like the most natural thing in the world. Once you get that far, she told me, the rest is instinctive, you already know it, no one needs to read a book before they can make love.

To my lingering regret, I never got to practice any of this with her. I longed to hug her, to kiss her, to undress her. But she never offered me any encouragement. I am your teacher, she would tell me, not your lover.

But what I really wanted was to spank someone myself. I told her that.

And she simply replied, “I know.”

But occasionally she did indulge me, instructing me to place a pillow on my lap, and then to smack it with my hand, to practice getting the force and the rhythm right.

Back home I had to amuse myself with spanking games, I scavenged a cane from a dying pot-plant, and practiced whacking two small round pillows I’d placed on the seat of a straight-back chair. Denied the opportunity to act them out, I began to channel my erotic energies into words, writing stories describing my spanking fantasies that I’d present as gifts to my mistress. She seemed to enjoy them, and encouraged me to express myself in words.

By now I was taking my enforced chastity seriously, and very rarely ejaculated between my visits across her knee. As my self-control improved, I inevitably spent longer and longer over her lap, stoically resisting the urge to spill, as she spanked my bare bottom to an ever deeper shade of pink.

She solved this potential dilemma by introducing what became known as “my treat”. If I hadn’t climaxed by the time she’d finished spanking, she’d make me get up from her lap and kneel on the sofa, my hands over the side resting on the floor. She’d then fetch my “treat” from her desk, a strange bulbous-headed stem of smooth white plastic with a long curved base. She referred to it as a prostate stimulator, but at the time, I had no idea what that meant.

Once she’d slathered the little device in lube, she’d tell me to hold my buttocks apart, and then slowly push it deep into my bottom, which was a shocking but unexpectedly pleasurable intrusion.

Then she’d reach underneath me to grasp my still sheathed cock with her left hand, whilst her right resumed spanking my already stinging buttocks. That never failed to finish me, I would clench the muscles in my groin trying to hold back, but now I’d feel an intense burst of pleasure at the base of my cock. It felt like a dam was cracking inside me, first a trickle of pleasure, then a rush, a sudden unstoppable surge as I convulsively emptied myself into my sheath.

The aftermath of my “treat” left me slumped over the armrest of the sofa, gasping, dizzy and delirious. I made have made an incongruous sight, a half-naked young man bent over with my bare bottom spanked to a bright pink, a condom heavy with my hot cum dangling between my legs beneath me.

And she then she would record me, and measure me, just to see how far I’d grown.



* * 5 * *


One hot summer afternoon I laid against a tree in the garden, sheltering under its canopy from the sizzling sun. I can still remember watching a fleet of long white clouds, drifting across the sapphire sky. You can see things in the sky if stare long enough, if you clear your mind empty enough. I saw an armada of triremes, a succession of immense sailing ships ploughing through the azure blue of Mediterranean seas.

As the sun baked the stones around me, I daydreamed, imagining myself in ancient Athens. Standing in an dappled olive grove on a hill above Piraeus, watching the little fishing boats come and go, their little white sails billowing in the arid wind. And beyond them a trireme leaving port, its huge square sail now hoisted up its tree-trunk mast, three rows of oarsmen working in rhythm, propelling the massive hulk out to sea. I could almost hear its sailors, muttering oaths to Poseidon as they ventured into waters of unknowable depth, towards a faraway port that must have seemed like the other side of the world.

As ever, my portal here had been a book.

Increasingly, as my background knowledge swelled, and my ability to debate improved, my weekly meetings with my tutor shifted from conversations to discussions. She challenged me to read widely, to judge what I read critically, to have the courage to form and defend my own opinions.

Books about growing up, and the acquisition of wisdom featured regularly, and she’d recently lent me a copy of Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces. This had introduced me to the idea of the Hero’s Journey, the universal coming of age story that seemed to feature in every culture’s mythologies and fairy-tales, in every era, in every corner of the globe.

That had kickstarted discussions about politics and culture, the origins of ethics, and where our values came from. Which was naturally followed by a crash course in ancient Greek philosophy.

You see, my visits weren’t all just about spanking and wanking, my dear.

Politics mattered, she taught me, because societies were more like games than machines, a web of beliefs and influence than connected every citizen, all governed by rules. She made sure I understood that I could distinguish principles from dogma, and taught me that no matter how passionately I believed in something, there would be others who disagreed.

She called it her first rule of Politics: that just because you felt strongly about something didn’t make you right.

True to her philosophy of free enquiry, she set me a challenge: to do my own research on the erastes and eromenos of ancient Greece, and come to my own conclusions.

Initially I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about, I even had to get her to write the words down. To me, they just sounded vaguely botanical, like some obscure parts of a plant.

My research began through the internet in the library, I discovered that in ancient Greek times, it was customary for young men (the eromenos) to be mentored by aristocratic older men (erastes). These relationships were only expected to last a few years, until the youths became citizens themselves. And during their time together the mentor would teach their charge religious and social customs, arts and literature and military and athletic skills.

But what really caused controversy was these relationships also seemed to have a sexual side. Paintings on vases from the time often showed mentors with erections between their students’ thighs. That did make me smile.

There was little consensus amongst historians as to whether this practice was a positive or negative arrangement. Some seemed to find it a natural extension of Greek social customs of the time, whilst others condemned it as exploitative and abusive.

“Do you think the mentors behaved improperly?” she challenged, when we came to discuss it.

I was able to answer her immediately. I’d already asked myself the same question, and arrived at my own opinion. It was all very patriarchal in those days, of course, men did the teaching and boys did the learning. But I doubted there could ever be a better tutor for a young man than an experienced woman. Speaking from experience, our relationship had never been abusive, after my initial punishment, which I fully deserved, she had never coerced me. I could have stopped visiting her at any time, but I returned because I wanted to – and later, because I felt I needed to.

“No, I don’t, M’am.”

She asked me why. I argued that it’s inevitable we view ancient cultures through our modern day eyes, but this was a world before printed books, before universities, a world of oral teaching and personal tutors. As for the sexual bit, it seemed odd to make such a fuss. But perhaps that’s the influence of our Christian culture, one that had spent two thousand years branding sexuality as shameful and dirty. I didn’t see a problem meeting her secretly, not because I was ashamed of our relationship, but because it was nobody else’s business but ours.

I certainly didn’t think I was being exploited either. What a sad and dismal view of sex that would be – that any expression of sexuality was as an act of gratification. Who knows what her motivations were for teaching and disciplining me? And if she was motivated by love, what did it matter if the spankings she gave me made her panties wet?

Moreover, as much as I’d fantasised about it, I’d never seen her naked. In fact, aside from the time I spent across her lap there had been very little physical contact between us.

So I told her. That from the bottom of my heart I appreciated the discipline and instruction she’d given me, the values she’d taught me and the love and compassion she’d shown me.

Her face shone when she heard that from me.


Now, through the prism of experience, I can offer a more considered analysis: power makes most people uneasy.

Even something as tame as erotic powerplay between consenting adults is considered by many to be somehow “edgy”, even downright deviant.

Disparities make us uncomfortable.

Imagine a rich man ignoring a beggar. Can you picture it? A powerful entrepreneur, immaculately dressed, purposely striding toward a destiny of making things happen. Beneath him, a tatty beggar cowers on the pavement, his palm outwards in supplication, fearful of what the future holds.

Already you’re formulating moral judgements. Perhaps you consider the rich man heartless, or a greedy personification of wealth and privilege – or maybe you admire his success, perhaps you even envy him. As for the beggar, you might imagine him as unfortunate, a victim of injustices beyond his control, or perhaps you have less sympathy, considering him the feckless author of his own dismal situation.

Most of us are egalitarians at heart, our view of an ideal society is one where everyone has pretty much the same. Power makes us uneasy. Because the reasons behind why some are powerful, and some are powerless, are complex and uncomfortable.

So we invent a backstory for every individual we encounter, moralising, colouring in strangers with our own beliefs and prejudices. Perhaps that view of the ancient Greeks as fey sexual predators was a reflection of the inequality of our modern world. We were so used to seeing the strong exploit the weak. It was as if we couldn’t believe, in our unfeeling, indifferent times, that a society was ever possible where the strong would nurture the weak and expect nothing in return.

Because power disturbs us.

What if you saw an old man passionately kissing a beautiful young woman?

Would your heart leap at witnessing such a delightful act of romantic love, or would you recoil from its icky seediness?

What if it was an older lady and a young man of my age? Who is taking advantage of whom? Why do some see an act of love, and others see an act of exploitation? Do you really know their stories?

Adolescence had been a tumultuous time. My old familiar world of childish simplicity had suddenly disintegrated, replaced by an increasing number of grown-up issues and responsibilities. I had good relationships with my parents, but there were some things too intimate to discuss with them. I couldn’t ask my Dad how to talk to girls, or ask my Mum for advice on my demeanour and appearance. Perhaps I’m doing them a disservice, but I wouldn’t have felt comfortable attempting those kind of conversations.

Maybe that’s why in all the ancient fables, myths and fairy-tales told by cultures around the world, the hero’s mentors were often wizards and gurus, strangers fortuitously encountered from outside his family.

I was just glad that I’d stumbled across a warmhearted sage who’d been kind enough to teach me. But there was another revelation waiting for me in Campbell’s book, one that profoundly shocked me when I first read it. The seventh stage of the Hero’s Journey was The Meeting with the Goddess, something that could only occur after the hero had left his mentor behind, after he’d begun to walk alone along the Road of Trials.

My beautiful teacher was right, she was not destined to be my lover. I would have to embark on the most difficult voyages of my life by myself. But now I knew that sometime, somewhere I would eventually meet a goddess. And when that happened, I would encounter her with a wholesome heart.





Don’t worry, my dear, it wasn’t all philosophy and moralising, my sexual education continued too.

One week, for instance, she fixed me with her icy gaze and provocatively asked me:

“What do you fantasise about?”

Once upon a time a question like that would have left me blushing and stuttering. She enjoyed asking provocative questions, she always told me I’d never discover anything worthwhile about a stranger through smalltalk.

But I was different now. Over the time I’d been visiting her, I’d felt my confidence grow in every aspect of myself, physically, mentally and emotionally. The quality of my school work had soared and my social interactions with my peers were enjoyable when once they’d been anxious. I felt different, my chest bigger, my chin higher, my voice deeper, my mind bolder, as if I’d been bestowed a super-power.

She still put me over her knee on each visit, of course. Sometimes she’d critique my essays and assignments as she slapped my bottom, reminding me of the rewards of diligence and the prizes that lay in store if I excelled in my studies.

Initially, I ummed and erred evasively to her intimate question, searching my memories for something that seemed appropriate for her ears, something not too sordid or seedy, yet not too boring or tame.

“Don’t censor yourself!” she scolded, “Just tell me the very last fantasy you had.”

She was right, keeping secrets from her was being dishonest to us both, and defeated the whole object of the exercise. So I thought back to what I’d been fantasising about the night before, as I laid in bed stroking myself. I had been imagining what might happen during my next visit if could somehow control the levers of fate. I began to speak candidly, describing my most intimate thoughts with a vividness that took me by surprise.

I hoped she wouldn’t be offended by what I was about to say.

“I imagined arriving here, Ma’am, to find my schoolgirl uniform on your desk. You told me to undress, and fold my own clothes away in the cupboard. And then you pulled my penis back between my legs as I tugged up my knickers.”

I could feel my cheeks blushing, but my headmistress just nodded.

“When I was dressed up, you took a shiny badge from your desk and pinned it to my blazer, and appointed me Head Girl.”

That made her smile.

“You explained to me that a girl had been caught masturbating in the toilets, and that she had been told to visit your office after school. And then there was a knock on your door, and Amanda walked in.”

“Who is Amanda?”

“Oh, she’s one of my classmates.”

“Ah, you have a crush on her” she observed perceptively.

“Yes, Ma’am.” I conceded bashfully.

“Go on.”

“You told Amanda that she’d been very naughty, and that whilst there was nothing wrong with self-pleasuring, it was not the kind of behaviour that could be tolerated on school grounds. You explained school rules were very clear on the matter, and the only punishment was a good hard spanking on her bare bottom. And I, the Head Girl, would be here to witness it.”

“And did Amanda recognise you dressed as a schoolgirl?”

“No Ma’am. She looked right through me…” I replied.

“I see. Carry on.”

“Amanda readily admitted that she’d been very naughty, and that she deserved to be spanked. Then she mentioned whenever she’s naughty at home she gets spanked with a slipper, and reached into her satchel, taking out a soft rubber-soled bedroom slipper, which she handed to you reverently.”

“Interesting. Why do you think she brought a slipper to school?” she asked.

I thought about that for a moment, then concluded:  “I think I didn’t want to imagine her being caned.”

Actually, there was another reason. I paused for a moment, debating whether I should reveal it, before deciding my mentor had earned the right to hear all my secrets.

“It’s also a reference to another fantasy of mine, Ma’am. I like to imagine she fantasises about being summoned to your office for a good hard spanking. So sometimes she spanks herself with one of her slippers when she plays with herself. And so I imagine she likes to carry her slipper around, in the hope that one day you’ll apply it to her bare bottom.”

I leave unsaid that I’ve a whole canon of fantasies involving Amanda – brilliant, pretty, aloof Amanda – ones where she kneels on her bed, reaching backwards, rubbing, tapping her slipper against her gorgeous bottom, whispering to herself about what a naughty girl she’s been.

My headmistress pondered my additional explanation, nodding thoughtfully, before indicating I should continue.

“You sit down on the sofa, and ask Amanda to take off her blazer, and then her skirt. She pulls her panties right down without being told, placing them neatly along with the rest of her clothes.”

“Then you put her over your knee, with her left leg on the sofa, and her right foot on the floor, that leg clamped between your own.”

“That must give you a fine view of her vagina as I spank her…” she observed uncritically.

“Yes M’am. And I can see right away she’s very aroused. But after whacking her for a while your wrist begins to get sore, so you ask Amanda to stand up. Then you get up and direct me to sit in your place. You pass me the slipper and ask me to give her 20 more smacks.”

“Oh, do I now?” she remarked sardonically.

“Indeed Ma’am. So I take your place, and Amanda bends over my lap, and I resume her spanking. Underneath me, I can feel my erection stiff between my buttocks, aching to be released as she squirms across my lap.”

“Finally, I deliver her twentieth smack. Her bare bottom has been painted a pretty shade of pink by our efforts, and I can see her little slit glistening between her thighs. Then she rises from my lap and apologises profusely for being such a naughty girl, and thanks us both for her spanking.”

“And do you climax when you fantasise about righteously spanking naughty schoolgirls?”

“No Ma’am!” I protested, “I always try my best not to – I want to be good for you.”

“Then I think it’s time we checked, don’t you?”

“Yes, Ma’am!”

That was my cue to undress whilst she fetched a slipper from her wonderful cabinet of spanking implements, and given what I’d just told her, her selection seemed an entirely appropriate choice. Recounting my fantasy had already made me remarkably hard, and I obediently rolled down my condom as my disciplinarian took her usual seat.

I bent over her lap, nestling my erection between her thighs. She began to spank me hard, the slipper’s soft rubber sole stinging painfully with every thwack. And as was her custom, she punctuated my spanking with some words of wisdom; during a whacking she always had my complete attention.

“I’m afraid the situation you’ve described will have to remain a fantasy. I can not, and should not, ever deliver your desires to your lap.”

As she said that, she gave me a few harder whacks, as if to emphasise the point she’d been making.

“I quite understand, M’am.”

“One day you will get to spank the one you love, but you must work hard for that privilege. You must accumulate your authority, and earn her respect. And then, she’ll gladly hand her slipper to you.”

I knew she was right, even if I was desperately impatient for that day to finally arrive.

My own whacking continued, I tried to retain control of myself, but visions of spanking Amanda’s pretty little bum had already filled my mind. It wasn’t long before I came, gasping aloud as I finally spurted between her vice-like thighs. Each whack of her slipper seemed to induce another powerful spasm, and another blissful spurt – she spanked me until she was sure my balls were empty, and until my poor bum was stinging hot and sore.

Afterwards, I rolled off my condom, tying the end and placing it respectfully on her delicate little scales. The digits said 5.9 grams, a new record, which proved perfectly my earlier assertion that I hadn’t ejaculated at all this week.

“What a good boy!” she commended.

Then it was time to get dressed and wish each other a wonderful weekend. And I bounced home with a skip in my step, feeling on top the world.



* * 6 * *


When my final exams arrived, I threw myself into my studies and exceeded even her high expectations, winning grades that would gain me admission into one of the country’s most prestigious universities. And just like that, my schooldays were over.

On the day I got my results I went to her house to tell her the good news, and to thank her.

I’d never visited her house before, it was a cute little red-brick cottage in the corner of the school grounds, half-swallowed by blooms of violet wisteria. I strode purposefully up the gravel drive, knowing this time I’d be visiting not as her pupil, but as a grown man.

Perhaps you’re already picturing what happened next, about what transpired when I finally crossed the threshold of her home.

Are you imagining me smothering her in a deep embrace? Me, placing my finger underneath her chin so I could look deeply into her eyes, then taking her by her hand, leading her upstairs to her own bedroom. The moment the student finally became the master.

Maybe in your mind’s eye you’re already watching her undress, her elegant lingerie falling to the floor. Vicariously experiencing the thrill I experienced in seeing my beautiful teacher naked for the first time, before I knelt between her legs and paid my respects with an eager tongue.

But you would be wrong.

Yes, we hugged, and she invited me to come inside. But we got no further than her living room. I told her the great news about my exams, and she bounced on her feet, eyes shining, genuinely delighted. Tea was then offered and accepted, and we faced each other across her coffee table, excitedly talking about what the future held.

It wasn’t just my course I had to look forward to, I had a summer of daring exploits planned before I started at my new university. I intended to spend a month exploring Europe, it was a roll-call of exciting, urban adventures that slid off the tongue in a variety of exotic accents. Paris. Amsterdam. Copenhagen. Berlin. Munich. Vienna. Florence.

She was so excited to hear of the adventure I had in store, she’d always encouraged me to travel, to unfurl my sails and catch the wind. To open my eyes and broaden my mind. I wished she’d impetuously announce she wanted to come with me, to be my travelling companion. But I knew I was embarking on the Road of Trials, an adventure I had to undertake alone.

All too soon, our tea was supped, and all our news was told. There was a tension, a solemn realisation about what was about to happen next, something inevitable, something neither of us wanted.

My teacher stood, excused herself for a moment, and left the room. I looked down at the little canvas bag I’d brought, wishing it didn’t have to be like this.

When she returned she had something in her hand. This time she sat down on the sofa beside me, close enough for me to feel her body heat, and extended her palm.

“A memento, of our time together…” she explained, her voice affectionate, but unmistakably wistful.

I took her gift, thanking her before I’d even properly examined it. It was a little black leather slipcase, just slightly longer than my middle finger. It had been embossed with a short message in tiny gold capital letters:


I spluttered with laughter as I read it, and continued laughing until both of us were dabbing our eyes. The sentiment behind her message was so typical of her: insightful and perfectly judged. She knew me too well, better than anyone else in the world. Superficially I might now appear to be the perfect young gentlemen, well-spoken and impeccably dressed – but she knew that deep inside, there still lurked the naughty little boy who’d once tried to peek up skirts.

There was something inside the leather case, and I slipped it out into my palm. It was my “treat” – that bulbous little device she’d often pushed deep into my bottom to massage my prostate.

“Something to remember me by…” she said.

“I’ll always wear it when I think of you!” I pledged, gently nudging her ribs in a way I’d never dared do before.

I tucked the slipcase into my jacket pocket, and reached down to retrieve my own gift. I could feel my fingers trembling as I lifted it, I was terrified it wouldn’t be good enough for her, that she’d thank me graciously now and then consign it to a cupboard when I’d gone. I’d bought a piece of parchment from an art store, written something on it, and then put it in a frame. They say it’s the thought that counts, but in a crisis of confidence I was desperately worried she’d see my creation as an embarrassingly amateurish piece of tat.

She had introduced me to one of Dante’s poems, La Vita Nuova, during one of our many long rambling conversations. I think we’d been discussing the nature of love, but I hadn’t really appreciated it at the time. To me love had been something mushy, idealistic and fantastic, I think I’d still been too immature to understand the power and mysteries of love.

But I could still remember the words, and it was only now that I was finally beginning to comprehend their meaning. I wished I could tell my mentor, my confidante, my guiding star, how much I owed her. How much the words I was about to speak encapsulated the depth of my gratitude. That she was the true author of my Bildungsroman. That in every sense, she had made me.

I held the parchment out in front of me, reading aloud what I’d inscribed to her, before I placed it in her hands.

“In that book that is my memory,

On the first page

That is the chapter when I first met you

Appear the words:

Here begins a new life.”

I never thought I’d do anything that would make my headmistress cry.

“I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me, Jenny. I owe you everything. Without you, I’d still be a lonely and confused little boy.”

And then we hugged.

And just hugged.

The time had come to part, and for a moment she felt so fragile in my arms, like a sudden gust of wind might shatter her into a thousand brittle autumn leaves.

I never did get to see her naked, caress her mound, or spank her bottom. I never got to taste her excitement, or hear the giggling song of delight she sang when she came. But she was always more than a lover to me.

We embraced one last time and kissed goodbye.

And I walked out of her home with a lump in my throat, heading for wherever life’s capricious currents might sweep me next…




[To be continued…]




@spankingtheatre 2015

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

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Coming Of Age: Part 1

“Tell me about her…”

There’s curiosity in your voice. I can hear it.

You remind me of her. Not your accent, of course, but your natural inquisitiveness. The way you probe and question hints at a voracious intelligence, that hunger to explore and examine, to strip away my facades and see what lies underneath. Just like she always did.

More than once I can remember her telling me: the deeper you delve, the more interesting a story becomes. Causes and effects are suddenly revealed, how sometimes the fickle finger of fate nudges a pebble, and we are the avalanche.

Isn’t it funny, I almost never got to know her at all.

We like to believe we’re the masters of our destiny, proud tall ships unfurling our sails, as we turn the wheel and boldly follow our compass. But that’s just a comforting delusion, in reality we’re little more than rowing boats, buffeted by the capricious currents of circumstance.

What are the forces and factors that come to shape us? What are the petty chances and coincidences? What were the influences that truly fashioned me? What formed my personality and my sexuality? And where did my fascination with spanking come from?

And at the centre of every answer, is her.

You’re already intrigued, I can tell. Even though I can not see you. My naked body is already exposed to you, bound by my wrists to the top of the bed. Now I know you want me to expose my deepest secrets as well.

But dare I reveal myself? Dare I drop my mask and tell my story?

Perhaps I shall.

* * 1 * *


The story of who am I really begins during my school-days, though I doubt you’d recognise my younger self. I was reticent and introverted, doing what I could to avoid drawing attention to myself, preferring the anonymity of crowds and the solitude of quiet spaces. By then, I’d been at my grammar school for several years, and like many of my peers I was a typical jumble of teenage ambitions, misconceptions and impulsive hormones. Although it must be said, some of my schoolmates concealed their inner insecurities much better than most.

There are some locations that come to define us, someplace where something remarkable happens. Yet I’ve no idea what lead me to lurk there, perhaps I’d just been swept along as several unknowable forces converged, a quirk of the school timetable, an eccentricity of the my grammar school’s layout, a relic from the building’s lengthy history. All coming together like ripples meeting in the middle of a pond; sweeping me along like a leaf.

As I recall, I’d wanted to be close to my next class during break time, and I’d stumbled upon a little alcove just a few minute’s walk away. It provided a quiet place to sit, a somewhere I could relax and clear my head. This particular corner of the school must have been one of the very oldest parts of the building, as above the alcove I found was an ancient wrought-iron staircase, which lead to the classrooms on the first floor. But being at the corner of the building, few people ever came this way, preferring the more direct route between the school buildings across the diagonal paths of the rose-lined quad. This accident of architecture created my little secret spot, providing me a sanctuary where I could retreat and doze undisturbed.

I’m not even sure how it first happened, but one day I remember idly gazing upwards through the stairs’ black painted latticework, and being amazed to catch a glimpse up one of my teacher’s skirts. She had stopped to chat to one of the older girls, and was standing with feet on different steps, balancing her weight with her legs slightly apart. From where I was sitting the view up her skirt was like peering into a dark tunnel, only there was light at the end, a light patch that I realised was her underwear. Yet instead of being shocked, I was transfixed.

The moment passed quickly, the teacher resuming her passage overhead and down the stairs, whilst I blushed unseen in the alcove, pointedly staring at my feet. My peeping had been quite out of character for me, normally I’d never have considered spying on others. And yet, when the opportunity had occurred, that’s exactly what I did. I had looked up a woman’s skirt, and stared at her knickers. More than that, I was secretly disappointed I didn’t catch sight of more.

After that, I began to spend more and more time lurking beneath those stairs, like some spider in a web, waiting for someone else to halt above me. I found the clunk of footsteps meditative; girls and boys had their own distinctive cadence. The wide heels of the girls’ shoes clip-clopping in time with their elegant gait, whilst the boys flat soles slapped and thudded as their owners slouched upwards or skittered downwards. Sometimes I saw it, a flash of white through the black ironwork above me, a momentary glimpse of what I knew to be underwear. And behind that thin strip of material, I knew, lay magical, feminine secrets.

I don’t know when my Headmistress first noticed my interest in those passing up and down the staircase. To be honest I was rather oblivious of everything around me, my attention fixed on those passing by, through the little gaps above my head.

But one day she approached me as I sat there, staring upwards. She didn’t make a fuss, simply addressing me by my first name to secure my attention. I remember the shock that coursed through me when I saw her, standing just in front of me, and how immediately guilty I felt inside. Without saying any more than my name it felt like she’d reached inside me and squeezed my stomach.

Any lingering hope I had that my crime had not been noticed was dispelled by the only other words she spoke to me:

“Please visit me in my office after classes today.”

And just like that, she turned and walked away, leaving me slumped against the sides of my sordid little alcove, dizzy with shame, my heart thumping in trepidation.

Shall I continue?


* * *


Later that day, when the school bell rang, the school seemed to empty usually quickly, as if some latent crisis was unfolding, and the premises needed to be urgently evacuated. But then again, it was a Friday. Usually I’d be part of this rapid exodus, hurrying to the bus stop outside the school gates, eager to beat the queue and get home to start the weekend as soon as I could.

When I stashed my books and bag in my locker, my hands were trembling. I’d never needed to stay behind before, now just a handful of stragglers wandered amongst the empty corridors, there were hardly any after-school clubs on a Friday. Every now and then I’d encounter a teacher locking up a classroom, or strolling to the carpark, burdened by tall piles of jotters and folders, like some particularly well-educated sherpa.

Her office, the Headmistress’s Study, was in the school’s oldest building, a miniature cathedral of Victorian redbrick, a latter-day temple of learning. I approached via her secretary’s office, itself at the end of a long corridor of glossy emerald green tiles. The very fact a visitor had to enter one intimidating room in order to reach another of even great importance made me feel like I was approaching an antechamber to a Pharaoh’s tomb.

I was tremendously relieved to discover the secretary’s room empty, her desk already cleared and no sign of her possessions. Ahead, a honey-coloured wooden door loomed, seeming to grow in size with every successive glance. A brass plaque glowed in the late afternoon sunlight.

Jennifer Snow

I tried to knock as discreetly as possible, but I clearly remember my rapping somehow reverberating thunderously. I half expected to hear the cries of a dozen startled ravens squawking outside. There was a moment of silence as I held my breath, wondering – earnestly hoping in fact – that she’d forgotten all about me. But then her voice called out from the other side of the door, proud and clear.

“Come in!”

Reluctantly, I pushed the door handle and shuffled into her room, tugging the door closed behind me, lest someone behind me glimpse my walk of shame.

My eyes instinctively surveyed her study, my caveman brain scanning for the thicket ahead for snarling sabre-toothed predators. Her room was comfortably furnished, a cream-coloured soft pile carpet underfoot, a brown velvety sofa, and a matching armchair. The walls were painted a warm white rather than wallpapered, and three enormous wooden rafters loomed high overhead. And by the large bay window was a timeworn oak desk, behind which she sat silently and imperiously, a single elegant finger beckoning me closer.

I’d only been in her office once before, when I’d first visited the school for the entrance interview. Come to think of it, that had been the last time I’d spoken to her. I distinctly remember entering her room so timidly, feeling like a tiny mouse crawling towards a sleeping cat. But on that occasion she’d been so kind to me, greeting me warmly and inviting me to take the sofa whilst she sat nearby on the armchair. She had quickly put me at ease with her easy smile, and then teased from my stuttering mouth my interests and ambitions.

This time, however, she didn’t even say hello. Her captivating smile had been replaced by a disquieting glower. I dared not meet her disapproving gaze, and ended up staring down at my shuffling feet, which only earned me a swift rebuke.

“Stand up straight!”

I did my best to comply, straightening my guilty slouch, raising my chin, forcing myself to look at her.

Miss Snow was eye-catchingly attractive, one of those individuals who seemed to radiate a presence that made those around her eager to please. She wore her sandy blonde hair in cheek length bangs that framed unblinking cool blue eyes, with just a discreet touch of matte red lipstick. She dressed conservatively, a white blouse, three buttons undone, and a navy knee-length skirt, over which she wore her black academic gown. She was probably old enough to be my mother, but I was at that impressionable age when I considered all women to be fascinating and beautiful. Even now, years on, I still believe that.

There was one of those awkward pauses as we seemed to be evaluating each other, and then she broke the silence.

“You…” she said accusingly, “have been a very naughty boy.”

“Yes Miss” I admitted readily.

“I’ve been watching you underneath the Old Building stairs for weeks. I know exactly what you’ve been doing there.”

I was mortified. I thought I’d been so discreet, so unobtrusive. But it was also true that I‘d been in a world of my own, staring upwards and between the passing feet, quite oblivious to what was going on around me.

“I am very disappointed.” she tells me, “The mission of this school is to turn boys into young gentlemen, and I consider peeping to be the most unmasculine of behaviour.”

“Yes Miss. I’m so sorry, Miss” was all I could manage in reply, in a weedy timid voice that just confirmed her criticism.

There was another excruciating pause, as my judge pondered my sentence.

“The only fair punishment is to dress you in a skirt for a day, so you can appreciate what it’s like to be gawped at.”

“No Miss! Please!”

I pleaded for mercy, my face burning red hot with shame, my eyes almost watering with tears.

If I was made to wear a dress around school I’d be a laughing stock. Even worse, I knew I wouldn’t be able to justify it, not without admitting I’d been a dreadful pervert.

“Please, Miss…” I implored, “anything but that.”

No longer able to hold her gaze, I looked behind her. That was when I noticed the cane resting on two hooks on the wall.

“I see no alternative” she stated bluntly.

I remained silent, lacking the words to argue for an alternative punishment, just staring at the cane, my eyes traversing its long straight edge and its curved crook handle. Even on the wall, it looked intimidating. And painful.

A long awkward silence developed. She must have noticed my attention had wandered, and she turned her head, following my gaze to look behind her.

“Oh…” she exclaimed. “We don’t use that anymore.”

Guilt, shame and desperation overwhelmed me. I could hear myself whimpering.

“Please Miss…”

I can still remember forcing myself to look at her with imploring eyes, and how she looked into me, deeper than anybody ever had, as if she was scrutinising my very soul.

“Have you ever been spanked?”

“No Miss.”

She pondered my reply silently, pressing her fingers together in front of her face, until she slowly rose to her feet, and walked around her desk and past me. I heard a subtle click as she locked her office door. Then she approached me, placing a finger underneath my chin, and raising my face so she could look down at me.

“Very well, young man. You may be punished the old-fashioned way.”

I felt the pressure of her finger under my chin increase for added emphasis.

“I expect complete obedience, boy. If you disobey any of my instructions I shall stop, and you can spend a day in a skirt instead.”

“Yes Miss! Thank you Miss.”

“Then we’ll begin. Do you know how naughty boys are punished?”

“Er… no… Miss” I admitted hesitantly.

At the time I didn’t have much experience of corporal punishment, but I must admit it had intrigued me whenever I’d stumbled upon it – which had chiefly been in comics and books. There’d been a particularly memorable episode of discipline in Tom Sawyer, where he’d been caned in front of his class to protect the girl he adored, an act I’d always considered incredibly noble. I’d even seen a few spankings in films, which usually involved a miscreant bending over, and then a few off-camera smacks and squeals. My headmistress was about to shatter my tame preconceptions.

“Naughty boys get six of the best on their bare bottoms.”

She withdrew the finger that was holding up my chin, and I felt myself gulp, but I didn’t dare contradict her, and merely compliantly nodded my agreement. My eyes followed her finger as she pointed to some vacant hooks on the wall.

“You may hang up your blazer.”

I did as she instructed, and then walked back to stand where she indicated in the middle of the room.

“Now take down your trousers.”

My shaking hands fumbled with the button and then the fly at my waist, before I was able to slip a couple of fingers in at each side and slid my trousers off my hips. They bunched around my thighs, so I needed to tug them further down to my knees. But a stern look from my headmistress indicated she expected my trousers all the way down, so I bent over and pulled them down to my ankles.

“Now pull down your underpanties.”

It was a shock to hear my underwear being referred to in such childish language. But I could recognise her intention well enough, to ensure I really did get to feel like a naughty little boy.

From my crouching position I reached upwards to my waist and hooked my fingers into the elastic of my underwear, tugging it down in one swift movement, so quickly I didn’t allow myself to dwell on what was actually happening. I consoled myself with the thought that at least being bent over like this, Miss would not be able to see my privates. Looking back now across all these years, I find it ridiculous I ever thought that mattered.

I kept my head down, and could hear her footsteps moving away – and then a little rattle as she must have plucked the cane from the wall. I heard her footsteps returning, accompanied by several ominous swishes as she experimented, probably loosening her wrist, getting a feel for the rod in her hand.

“Now, the first lesson naughty boys learn is proper posture.” she stated primly as if channeling the spirit of a Victorian governess.

The tip of her cane tapped my calves and then my thighs until I straightened my legs. I got taps on the backs of my hands too as she encouraged me to straighten my arms and grasp my hands together behind my ankles. And a few taps on my bare bum too to ensure I stuck it out at the right angle.

“The next lesson naughty boys learn is gratitude.” she said cryptically.

I was still ruminating over what she meant when her palm slapped one of my buttocks, leaving a fiery sensation that lingered long after the impact had faded. Then there was a moment of calm, as if she’d given me time to appreciate the tingling in my bottom – the very first spank I’d ever received.

Then a second smack landed, then another, and another. A burning sensation was rapidly spreading across my whole bottom, confusingly I could feel the impact of her palm each time, although I’d been steeling myself for the swoosh of her cane. Another flurry of spanks heated up my bottom further, amplifying the tingling into a lingering sting.

“It seems the second lesson is more difficult to learn.” she observed.

It took me a moment to recognise I was the target of her comment, and to refocus my attention away from the fiery pain in my behind, and engage my faculties instead. As soon as I repeated back her words inside my head, I realised immediately what she’d meant, and what I had been expected to do.

“Thank you Miss!” I exclaimed.

“That’s better,” she commended in a rather patronising tone, “a good boy should always be grateful for his discipline.”

A chilling swish cut the air just behind me, making my legs stiffen apprehensively.

“Now, the final lesson naughty boys learn is acceptance.”

She didn’t elaborate any further, and just ran her cane across my bare bottom, still tingling from her earlier assault. I could feel the length of the rod as she rested it against me, as she moved it laterally, like a cellist working their bow. A cruel tease to add to my trepidation.

Suddenly there was a rapid swish, a crack, and a hot line of pain seared across my bum.


I yelped, instinctively, as if I’d just sat down on a fire, wiggling my bottom childishly, as if I’d caught alight and was trying to waft out the flames. Seconds later I realised how silly I must have looked, and immediately berated myself for my unmanly lack of fortitude.

The initial whack was a flash of lightning, shockingly sudden but gone in an instant. It was followed by an enduring rumble of thunder, a throbbing burn that glowed and lingered. I could feel the aftermath tingling in my balls.

I heard my disciplinarian give a little sigh, as if she was expecting something that had never came, and then after a brief lull, a second swooping swish heralded another excruciating whack. Again my knees wobbled, but this time I managed to muffle my discomfort. I had no cause to plead for leniency, I knew this was, after all, no less than I deserved.

“Thank you Miss” I whimpered, guessing that was the show of acceptance she expected. I didn’t cry out or make a scene this time, which didn’t go unnoticed.

“Good boy. Five more.”

It took an age to receive my remaining whacks. After each stroke she would pause, and run her fingertips along the stripe she’d just inflicted. I couldn’t be sure if this was a courtesy to me, a few extra moments to allow the sting to fade, or a genuine  fascination with what her cruel cane had done.

I took the remainder of my caning as stoically as I could, holding my breath until each initial flash of pain had ebbed away, then thanking her for punishing me. I felt so childish bending over in such a submissive position, my bare bum on display. But I knew without being lectured that discipline wasn’t just a few smacks on the arse, it was acknowledging I deserved to be punished, to admit to myself I’d been a disgracefully naughty boy.

Something else was happening too. Between my legs I could feel my penis dangling heavily, and my scrotum seemed to feel tighter after each successive whack. After the third stroke I began to feel my swollen member resting against my inner thighs. After the fifth, I was no longing dangling but conspicuously erect. By the end, my face was as hot and pink as my arse, my cheeks burning with shame; my headmistress had just spanked me and given me a hard-on.

“Thank you, Miss!”

I gasped moments after the final whack had scorched across my bum. I was keen to make my deference quite clear, lest she think I needed more.

“I was a very naughty boy, Miss. I’ve deserved a sore bottom.”

She walked around me and set the cane on her desk.

“Now, stand up straight. Let’s have a look at you.”

My hands left my ankles and fled to cover my crotch, as I naively tried to hold my erection against my body.

“Hands on your head, boy.”

I knew then it was hopeless, I was powerless to preserve my modesty. I raised my hands to the top of my head and my erection sprang forward, pointing towards my headmistress like an accusing finger. I was terrified she’d shout at me, that she’d accuse me of being a horrible little pervert – but her expression didn’t change, as if there was nothing special to see, nothing she hadn’t seen countless times before.

Despite her dismissive lack of interest in my nudity, I stood mortified in the middle of the room as she turned her back on me and walked over to her desk. I watched as she opened a drawer, and was surprised to see her take out a tape measure, a pencil and a little notebook. When she returned she knelt in front of me, examining my foreskin, pulling it back slightly to inspect the bright pink knob of my glans, and then cupped my scrotum in her palm, as if gently evaluating my balls.

You can imagine my shock when she unspooled the tape and began to take measurements. She used it around my cock first, establishing my girth, and then she determined my length from the tip of my cock to its base. Next she measured me like a tailor might, around my waist, my chest and my shoulders, even my inside leg and inside arm too, halting every time to record each vital statistic in her little book.

Finally she made me shuffle to the side of the room, my trousers still around my ankles. I had to stand up straight against the wall as she took my height. That was an immensely embarrassing experience, I hadn’t been measured like that since I was a little boy. Although it did have a compensation, the cool wall felt so good, so soothing against my poor burning bottom. I’d have loved to have stayed in that position, but Miss insisted I put my hands on my head again and turn around to face the wall for a period of silent contemplation.

There was much to meditate on. So many life firsts, the first time I’d been exposed in front of a woman, my first ever spanking, the first time I’d become hard without touching myself. Meanwhile my headmistress returned to her desk, and from behind me, I heard scribbling.

I’ve no idea how long she left me standing there, but it was long enough for my erection to soften, and the stinging in my bum to subside. I was instructed to turn around, look my headmistress in the eyes, and given one last lecture about what happens to naughty boys. Finally I was allowed to pull up my underwear and trousers.

“I expect to see you here again same time next Friday afternoon, after classes.”

I groaned inside, but tried not to show it. I had hoped my punishment had concluded and my slate was now wiped clean. Clearly though, my misdemeanor required some further intervention.

“Yes Miss.”

Sometimes you decide to say something, forming the words in your mind before delivering them to your tongue. But sometimes words just emerge almost automatically, bursting forth unthought and unvetted, with a natural sincerity that can’t be faked. So what I found myself saying next came as a complete surprise.

“Thank you, Miss.”

My words seemed incongruous. What was I thanking her for? Thank you for robbing me of my modesty, for beating me, for inflicting shame and pain on me with a Victorian-era corrective relic. Thank you for humiliating me, and for your intention to do it all again next week. My logical mind baulked at what I’d said, but there must have been a part of me that that was genuinely grateful. And to that part of me, my headmistress smiled.

I walked away from her office in a daze, my footsteps echoing through the empty school corridors. When I got home I hurried to my room, locking my door, throwing off my school uniform and pulling down my pants to examine my marks in the mirror. There were several thin pink lines on the lower half of my buttocks, faint stripes rather than the vivid red weals I’d expected. It didn’t hurt, just a lingering tingle and a dull ache when I ran my finger across the little raised lines.

I also had a remarkably hard erection. If this was the effect of a caning, it was no wonder Tom Sawyer had volunteered to take one on behalf of Becky Thatcher.

Naked, I lay back on my bed, massaging my stiff cock as I pictured Tom examining his marks, just as I’d just done. And in her own elegant bedroom I imagined beautiful Becky slipping her hand into her bloomers as she replayed Tom’s caning in her mind, secretly wishing she too would get the discipline she so earnestly craved. To be told to bend over, to feel her dress being lifted, and her bloomers parted. And then – as she delicately stroked her most intimate folds – imagining authority’s cruel rod mercilessly whacking her bare little bottom.



* * 2 * *


My return visit to my headmistress dominated my thoughts for subsequent week. Alternating tides of dread and excitement washed over me as I tried to picture the horrific humiliations that might lie in store, scenes that were assuaged by an unexpectedly intense erotic buzz. Since my last visit my fantasies had never been so vivid, so varied, or so enjoyable. It was as if what I’d experienced in the short time I’d spent with her had massively expanded my erotic vocabulary.

That week seemed to pass in a blur, until finally the Friday afternoon bell rang and the school emptied rapidly, and I found myself trembling nervously in front of the headmistress’s door once more. This time when I knocked, and answered her summons to shuffle nervously inside, she greeted me with a sly knowing smile.

Being in her commanding presence made me feel like a small boat, bobbing on stormy seas, approaching a lighthouse. She loomed over me, occasionally sweeping me with her gaze that made me flinch and avert my eyes, as if I was being dazzled. I knew the jeopardy of getting too close, yet invisible inexorable forces seemed to draw me towards her.

When I lowered my eyes I could see several garments lying neatly folded on the desk in front of her. And disturbingly, one of these garments was clearly a skirt.

“Yes. I’ve got you a little present!” she beamed, clearly noticing what I was staring at.

“I used your measurements to get a schoolgirl uniform from our stores, it should fit you perfectly!”

Meekly, I thanked her as best I could, trying not to sound too disrespectful, but inside my heart had sunk.

And then she offered me a choice: either I could wear my new uniform to classes on Monday, or I could put it on now, and go for a walk around the almost empty school with her. But if I chose the latter, on our return to her office I would be caned like a naughty girl.

This choice really wasn’t a choice at all. Dressing as a girl for a day in a crowded school, and being teased for the rest of my schooldays, or a few minutes of embarrassment followed by a sore bottom. I told her I’d get changed now.

She nodded, seemingly unsurprised by my decision, and watched me as I began to undress and fold my own clothes neatly on the sofa. Funnily enough, having already exposed myself in front of her last week I felt much less self-conscious when the time came to pull down my underpants again.

Eager to regain my modesty, I reached for the pair of white knickers on her desk first, but she beat me to them, and to my considerable surprise, instructed me to hold my foreskin and pull my penis back between my legs. I did as I was told, flattening my scrotum against my body between my legs, so it was reduced to a fold of flesh either side of my penis, like a crude parody of a girl’s cleft.

Then she knelt and examined me, then held the knickers open by my feet, and invited me to step into them. I continued to hold my willy in place until she’d pulled my knickers up snugly to my waist. How weird it was to then look down at my own body and see a girlish curve in place of my familiar bulge.

She passed me the uniform skirt next, I’d never worn one before, but it seemed logical to step into it as if it was a pair of trousers, and then reach down to pull it up to my waist and button it closed. It was a dark charcoal grey, pleated all around so it flared slightly outwards, ending just above my knees.

The next garment she handed me was a padded bra. I needed some assistance to put that on, my headmistress showing me how to put my arms through it and then helpfully fastening it behind me. Its cups were small, but fitted snugly against my downy haired chest, the foam interiors providing me with visible mounds. I put the white blouse on next, then tied my tie, before pulling up my white calf length socks and the modestly heeled shiny black shoes she’d provided. Finally I donned my own blazer, and stood upright for her inspection, my transformation complete.

“How lovely,” she said admiringly, “now come with me, young lady.”

My headmistress strode purposefully out of her study, and I followed obediently in her footsteps. I felt like I was wearing a disguise, with a sense of not belonging that made me feel like a burglar on the prowl. I desperately hoped no one would spy me as we trod the deserted corridors. The school was not completely empty, occasionally I could hear the distant thud of a door closing or the scuff of running faraway feet. But I knew my awful secret would be safe as long as we avoided anyone who might recognise me, which made me begin to wish my new outfit had also included some makeup and a wig.

Suddenly Miss Snow abruptly turned to our left, pushing through a door into a forbidden realm I’d never dared enter before: the Girls’ Lavatories. I followed hesitantly, partly intrigued, but mostly terrified of who I might encounter.

As it happened, the white-tiled room was empty. I think what surprised me most was that it wasn’t a gleaming temple of hygiene. Tissues and paper towels lay on the floor, discarded and forgotten. The shelf by the sinks had accumulated several tampon wrappers and disposable contact lens foils, and beneath lay the puddles of a day’s worth of drips, splashes and hurriedly washed hands.

Most of all I expected it to smell different, perfumed somehow, like some luxurious cosmetic emporium. But it didn’t, it smelt like any other toilet, the acrid scent of disinfectant mostly masking the whiff of bodily functions. Up until this epiphany I‘d always idealised girls as beautiful fragrant angels, but now I was beginning to realise that they really were just as messy and pongy as the rest of us.

However, I think my headmistress’s real intention in bringing me here was so I could look into its full length mirror. There was something dizzily unnerving about gazing at the reflection, it mimicked my movements, but I felt weirdly disconnected. It was as if I was looking at a chimera, my head on a schoolgirl’s body. My gaze lingered on the curves of my faux bust, fascinated to suddenly be inhabiting this feminine form. I even did a little twirl, watching the pleats of my skirt dance around my waist. And behind me, in the mirror, I saw my headmistress smile.

“How the other half live.” she observed.

She let her comment hang in the air for a moment, before turning and pulling the double doors open. I followed her back into the corridor, and soon we were walking past the vacant classrooms of the Old Building, it wasn’t long before we arrived at the foot of the old iron staircase.

“Carry on…” she prompted, “you may stop halfway up.”

I did as I was told, looking down through the lattice steps as she watched me. I knew what was expected of me, why she’d brought me here, so widened my stance so she could look up my skirt.

It was undeniably erotic. Not just the thrill of being dressed like this, but the pulse-quickening apprehension that someone I knew might appear at any moment at the top of the stairs. Then there was the soft hugging sensation of my knickers, and the cool draught whispering underneath my skirt, tickling my inner thighs. I could already feel my cock swelling painfully between my bottom cheeks, aching to spring free but being held in place by my tight white underwear. And beneath me, my headmistress silently watching me.

I don’t know how long I stood there on the stairs, but it was long enough for a realisation to begin to grow in my mind, one that I didn’t properly come to understand for several months afterward. It was the difference between the seedy and the erotic. The realisation that spying on others was just rude, a one-sided indulgence of gratification, an immature act of exploitation. Eroticism, on the other hand, was a far more fulfilling activity, it engaged the senses and aroused the mind, it involved willing participants. It was what grown-ups did.

Eventually she beckoned me down again with her finger.

“Now young lady, for your spanking.”

My blood ran cold hearing her announce my sentence so publicly. I could feel my palms growing clammy as we walked back in silence to her office. Towards my next appointment with her cane.


* * *


We’d only barely entered her office, but my headmistress didn’t stand on ceremony, sliding the lock on the door behind us, then striding determinedly to the wall to pluck the cane from its resting hooks.

“Well, young lady… it’s time to learn what happens to naughty girls.”

Her custom of addressing me as a schoolgirl made me squirm inside, but I did not demur. I hung up my blazer, and obediently took my place in the middle of the room.

“Bend over.”

I reached over, clasping my fingers behind my calves, feeling the hem of the skirt rise and drift up the back of my thighs. Moments later I felt her lift my skirt to the small of my back, tucking the hem into the waistband. I was expecting to feel her fingers in the elastic of my knickers next, the prelude to having them pulled down, but instead she tugged my underwear upwards, pulling the stretchy fabric up into my bum crack so the skin of my bottom cheeks was fully exposed.

“Naughty girls always get spanked on their bare bums.” she explained.

I took that to mean she’d usually tug their panties down, but in my case pulling my knickers tight helped confine my penis tight between my cheeks.

By now my mind was racing, hang on… I remember thinking, there wasn’t actually supposed to be any corporal punishment at this school. So who had my headmistress actually been spanking? Have a procession of naughty schoolgirls been paying secret visits to her office? Or were they being invited to visit her at home, to have their panties pulled down in the privacy of her living room?

Her cane began to tap against my bare cheeks, as if ascertaining my readiness. My ears registered the swoosh moments before the first whack seared across my bottom. I thanked her through clenched teeth and steeled myself for the next one.

Five more hard whacks followed, each carefully aimed so my bare cheeks took the force of each strike – yet close enough that I could feel each stroke graze the shaft of my swollen penis, trapped as it was between my bottom cheeks. The now familiar itchy sting burned hotter with every successive smack. Nevertheless, I thanked my headmistress earnestly and sincerely after my final whack.

Afterwards, I was sent to stand in the corner like naughty girls do, with my skirt tucked up, and my pink lines on display. Real girls however would surely have their knickers around their ankles, not pulled up tight, cruelly confining their excitement. By now my erection was making my position painful as well as humiliating; but also at the same time, intensely arousing.

Eventually I was recalled to stand in front of her, and she knelt by my waist to unbutton my skirt. She let the garment slip down to my ankles, and made me step out of it, before she folded it neatly and put it back on her desk.

“Let’s have a look at you…”

She ran her finger down the flat front of my underwear as if to emphasise my demasculation, then slowly tugged my knickers down to my ankles. Once released my erection sprang free dramatically, only just missing her face. I can’t remember ever being so hard. Her response was typically blaisé.

“Naughty boy.”

Her finger pointing the way, I was sent back to the corner immediately. I must have stood there for 10 minutes, my face burning as hot as my sore bum cheeks as I willed my cock to wilt. But that only seemed to make me harder. When she called me back, my priapism was obvious.

“Dear me…” she observed, “we can’t very well send you away like that. You’d better get undressed.”

I complied quickly, undoing my remaining garments and returning them reverentially to her desk until I stood naked in front of her again, my erection pointing at her accusingly and quite obscenely. Then, to my considerable surprise, she handed me two tissues.

“Back to the corner, young man, and relieve yourself…”

I was shocked by the bluntness of her instruction. Part of me wanted to object, to protest my innocence, to naively ask her what she meant. But attempt would have been preposterous; a teenage boy claiming he’d never masturbated. It was absurd, I knew I’d never be able to tell that lie to her.

So I returned to face the corner of the room, wrapping the tissues around the end of my cock with my right hand, my fingers grasping around the bulge of my helmet. With my other hand I reached behind me, trying to soothe the itchy, burning sting in my bottom.

“No rubbing!” called a voice behind me.

“Legs apart too, please. I always make my girls stand with their legs apart. It’s not just boys who get excited by a good hard spanking, you know. I bet you’d like to see that, wouldn’t you? A naughty girl’s vagina, her pink lips wet and swollen…”

Her words were like a magic spell, conjuring an image immediately into my febrile mind, one so vivid it quickly pushed me over the edge. I grasped my cock with both hands as I climaxed, feeling several hot spurts collect in my hand. I continued to pump myself, imagining a girl standing in the same spot as me, stroking her wet slit at her headmistress’s command. It was the best orgasm I could ever remember, and left me struggling to preserve some decorum, I had to stifle my gasps, I almost wobbled to my knees. And behind me I knew that Miss was watching everything.

After my glow subsided, I shuffled back to her desk, sheepishly placing my messy tissues in her wastepaper bin.

“Well. That didn’t take very long.” she observed, with what I suspected was a tone of disappointment in her voice.

“I think you might benefit from some lessons in self-control, young man. Lessons on a wide variety of subjects in fact.”

She passed me another couple of tissues to clean myself up, and then allowed me to get dressed in my own clothes again. Only then did she fix me with her eyes, speaking slowly and seriously.

“Your punishment is over. You may go home.”

Sometimes tiny decisions change the course of your life. Right then, I could easily have turned and scurried away, but something made me stand my ground, sensing she had more to say. And it was her who ultimately broke the tense silence.

“Hmm…” she said to herself, and then nodded, as if she’d just mentally answered her own question. Then she addressed me directly.

“I think you’d benefit from additional instruction. Something outside the normal curriculum. Lessons on becoming a real man. If you’re ready to learn, I have much I can teach.”

I held her gaze, but didn’t reply. I was too busy trying to understand what her words had meant. Did she mean sex? Losing my virginity? What else could becoming a man involve?

“If you’d like to become my student, visit my office at the same time next week, and we’ll begin your lessons. Or, if you’re happy to remain a boy, you may ignore what I’ve just said, go home when the bell rings and play with your toys.”

I didn’t know how to respond. But the automatic part of my mind answered for me, and I heard myself saying: “Thank you, Miss.”

And then, in a daze, I left without saying another word.



* * 3 * *


Over the week that followed I ruminated obsessively on the events of our last encounter, and especially her final cryptic offer. I replayed every word I could remember, looking for clues in what she’d said and how she’d punished me. Was it her intention to truly build me up or just to humiliate and demolish me completely?

Yes, our encounters had been excruciatingly embarrassing, but I’d experienced things I’d never have imagined. The night before, as I lay in bed in the dark, I finally realised I couldn’t prevaricate. I had to take up her offer, otherwise I was sure I’d spend the rest of my life trying to guess what might have been.

So when the Friday afternoon school bell rang, I let my classmates drift home and then crept furtively down the emerald corridor to her office. I knocked as loud as I dared, not even sure if I’d arrived too late. When I began to fear that she might already have gone home, I knew I was doing the right thing.

But then I heard her voice, calling me in. I gulped and turned the handle.

She smiled when she saw me. It wasn’t a sinister smile, or a mocking grin, I could see her face light up in friendly greeting, as if she was genuinely pleased to see me. I accepted her invitation and sat down on the sofa, and her offer of tea, and she sat in the armchair opposite, just like she had all those years ago.

We sipped our tea and started chatting, she asked me about my week, how my studies were progressing, what I was enjoying and what I hated. Our conversation was one-sided, I didn’t have the courage to cross-examine her, so she continued to ask the questions and I answered as best I could. Over time, the interrogation became more personal, she asked me the last time I cried, what upset me, my hopes and my fears. I knew she’d already seen a side of me no-one else had come close to seeing. She’d seen me naked, she’d seen me ejaculate, it felt pointless to try to conceal any more of my secrets. And with every additional question I could feel my mask falling further.

As time wore on, her questions became more intimate, and we began to talk about my sexuality. I apologised again for my silly intrusive transgression, hoping she’d understand it was motivated by immature curiosity rather than maliciousness. She did not absolve me, but merely nodded knowingly.

“How often do you masturabate?” she asked abruptly.

“Most… days” I croaked uncertainly, cloaking my answer in as much ambiguity as I thought I could get away with.

“And what do you imagine when playing?”

I had to think about that. It was unexpectedly difficult to explain. Just sexy things, really. An erotic montage of all the things that had ever turned me on. Glimpses of naked women, from holidays and movies. Scenes I’d read in books. Pictures of sunkissed naked models that might have been torn from porn mags, and were now secretly passed around amongst my friends like fragments of sacred scripture.

If that sounds archaic, I should explain. Whilst I did have a computer in my room, at the time my family home wasn’t connected to the internet. Few were back then. So I grew up without online porn. My head spins at the thought of how I would have turned out had I been given access to endless filth on demand.

“Er… naked women?” I replied uncertainly.

She didn’t challenge my answer, and rose from her chair, motioning to me to do the same, before strolling to the door, and locking it.

“Get undressed, please.” she told me.

I did as I was told without complaint, placing my shoes together and folding my uniform neatly beside where I was sitting. Then we swapped places, she took my place on the sofa and directed me to sit on the armchair, whose soft velvety velour felt wonderful against my bare bottom.

“Now, young man, show me how you masturbate.”

I almost blurted out a “What?!”, but her command was clear and unambiguous, it would have been rude to feign ignorance. So I reached down with my right hand and began to massage my cock, the act of undressing had meant I was swelling already, and it didn’t take much manipulation before I was fully erect in front of her. She watched in silence, like a naturalist observing sexual behaviour in the field, intrigued but dispassionate.

She never asked me what I was thinking of whilst I played, which was fortunate, as I might not have been able to tell her the truth. I was thinking of her, naked under her brilliant white blouse and elegant black skirt suit. I was imagining her suddenly standing, and undressing in front of me. I could feel myself getting close to coming, so I began to restrain my tugging, fearful of shooting my cream all over her.

“Good. Thank you. That’s enough I think.” she said at last.

I took my hand off myself, letting it rest beside my other hand on my lap. Meanwhile my headmistress had risen and gone to fetch something from her desk. She returned with a small sliver foil square.

My. Heart. Stopped.

Everything seemed to slow down for a moment. Around me the edges of the room blurred, as the tiny silvery package suddenly dominated my vision. I can remember feeling myself quivering, actually physically trembling. She immediately noticed my reaction.

“No, young man. We shall not be doing That.” she said firmly.

“I assume you’ve never worn one of these.” she added, clearly aware of my nervousness.

“No Miss.”

“Then you may consider this part of your sexual education.”

She passed me the featherlight foil packet and told me to open it. I remembered what I’d seen long ago in the sex ed films and tore from the serrated side, grateful to avoid struggling with the packaging like a total idiot. I teased the little rubber hat out with my fingers, it felt weird, surprisingly clammy and slimey.

I plonked it on the tip of my erection and padded the sides ineffectually with my fingertips as I tried to push it downwards. My teacher quickly intervened, telling me to pinch the top and roll down the rim. Of course. So obvious now, but back then I was a jumble of nerves with fumbling fingers. I rolled it down at my next attempt, which helped me feel just a little bit more grown-up.

As I was fiddling she retook her seat on the sofa, and then to my surprise pulled up the hem of her skirt to reveal the tops of her flesh-tone stockings. She unclipped the one on her right leg from her suspender belt, rolling the it down until it was a dark beige band just below her knee. Her beckoning finger indicated I should approach her, and then she pointed down towards her lap.

“Bend over.”

I did as I was told. She parted her legs slightly as I lunged over her lap, so my stiff penis ended up pointing down between her legs. Then she reached underneath me with her left hand, tugging the rolled-up band of her stocking away from her right leg so there was just enough room for my erection to slip inside. Then she squeezed her legs together so they held my shaft tightly in their soft nylon grip. I could feel the heat of her body against my erection. The sensation made my head spin.

“Well young man. You’ve already experienced the cane, but that’s for bad boys and girls. I’m going to show you how I discipline good boys and girls, to ensure they continue to live up to the high standards I expect.”

Whilst I was still pondering what she meant, she delivered a stinging spank with her palm to my bare bottom. I recoiled into her lap, pushing my erection deeper into the crevice between her thighs. It felt unexpectedly amazing, like wanking without using my hands, and it made me almost completely oblivious to the sting in my backside. I remember being surprised by loud I gasped.

“Ah. You like that?”

“Yes Miss! Thank you, Miss. May I have another?”

She obliged me, and I pumped between her thighs again.

“Now, I want you to be a good boy for me, and keep control of yourself whilst I give you a good long spanking.”

She continued to smack my bottom, slowly and steadily. Although I didn’t really understand what she meant about keeping control. To me, each spank just seemed like another perfect excuse to plunge between her thighs again. This must be what it’s like to have sex I realised, sliding your stiff cock in and out of a hot tight crevice.

It wasn’t long before I felt the familiar tingling surge of pleasure building at the base of my penis. Now I tried to restrain myself, to hold myself back each time she spanked me and not push down between her legs, but I’d already gone too far. I could feel the hot sting in my bottom seeping between my legs, the echoes of each smack lingering as tingles my balls, and the soft heat of her thighs eroding the last of my self-control.

“Oh Miss!” I pleaded, hoping for some respite.

But she just continued spanking me. I felt the tip of my cock throb, and moments later I knew I’d gone past the point of no return. Her next smack seemed to trigger my ejaculation, and I plunged myself between her thighs as I came, raising my hips and driving up and down repeatedly, milking myself, panting as I attempted to ride the wave of pleasure for as long as I possibly could.

“Naughty boy!“ she scolded, yet continuing to spank at her same steady pace.

I could feel my penis throbbing underneath me now, little spasms gradually ebbing away, and beneath me it felt wet, like I’d peed on her lap. I dearly hoped the condom hadn’t split, and I hadn’t spilled my stickiness down her leg. She seemed quite unconcerned though, and just continued spanking me.

It was an unwelcome surprise to discover that the aftermath of my climax had somehow made my bum acutely sensitive. Each strike of her palm now left a hot uncomfortable patch on my behind, despite her not seeming to smack any harder. Now I found each slap actually hurt, no longer the pleasurably warm tingle of before, but a succession of painfully sore stings. I felt like I’d suddenly regressed, going from virile lover to naughty little boy in a matter of minutes. I was squirming on her lap now, and had to clench my jaw to stop myself from whining like a silly little brat.

After what seemed an age, my spanking finally ceased, and she tugged at the band of her stocking to release my now floppy penis from her legs’ embrace. I rose awkwardly from her lap and stood utterly exposed in front of her, the sheath still intact and dangling, now heavy with the milky fluid it had collected. I reckon my bottom stung as fiercely as after my caning, but dignity demanded I control myself, and not reach back and rub myself childishly.

“Now roll down your condom and tie a knot at the bottom.” she said matter-of-factly, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

I did as I was told, finding that the rubber was amazingly stretchy, and tying a knot in it was much easier than I’d expected. She directed me towards her desk and extended her hand, into which I placed my used condom, and in exchange she gave me a man-size tissue to wipe myself dry. As I cleaned myself up, she took out what looked like a little inkpad from her desk, but which actually turned out to be a small digital weighing scale.

“I think it’s time for some science.” she announced rhetorically.

I just looked back at her, baffled.

“I already know this brand of condom weighs exactly 2 grams… unused.” she added with a smile.

She placed the milky-coloured blob of rubber onto the scales, which changed its display to read 3.8. I realised that must mean I’d just spilled 1.8 grams of myself. Was that good?

“When did you last ejaculate?” she probed.

“Er… this morning, Miss.”

Fortunately she didn’t ask for details, that I’d wanked in bed after waking with an almost painfully stiff hard-on. I’d been thinking about my upcoming visit, of course. Imagining walking into her office to discover that behind her huge old oak desk, she wasn’t wearing anything below the waist. That the real reason she kept a cane on her wall was for guests to use, on her. I could still hear her voice in my head.

Oh please, she’d begged. I’ve been such a very naughty girl.

But she didn’t seem to react at all to my admission. She just nodded, and opened the little notebook on her desk, scribbling down the new data she’d collected in the manner of an eager field researcher.

“From now on, I shall be keeping a record of your visits.” she announced when she’d laid down her pen.

She fixed me with her basilisk stare, petrifying me where I stood.

“I expect you to be a good boy for me, and that means not masturbating without my permission.”

I just nodded, but my startled expression must have revealed I didn’t really understand what was expected of me.

“That means I expect to find more in your sheath next week.” she clarified.

Oh. Goodness. I felt a bit dizzy.

That could only mean two things:

Less wanking.

And another session across her knee next Friday.

Another session of being spanked hard on my bare bottom by my strict, beautiful headmistress, until I climaxed shamelessly into her lap.

I got dressed as quickly as I could, feeling myself beginning to swell once more, hoping I’d be able to make it out the door before I got hard again.


* * *


I can almost see myself hurrying out of her office and down that long empty school corridor, watching myself like I’d been filmed on some secret camera. Isn’t it funny how the seminal moments of one’s life are preserved in such detail.

I realise I’ve stopped talking now. My mouth is dry. I can not see you, but I can still feel the heat of your crotch against my thighs. The tender softness of your labial lips, and the gooey wetness of your excitement.

From beyond my blindfold I hear your mellifluous voice.

“No! No! Don’t stop!”

I do love it when you plead.

And sorry darling, I’m afraid tugging at my cock isn’t going to get you your way, I’m not a vending machine. It seems that naive, callow boy learnt quite a bit about self-control under his strict hand of his Mistress.

“Tell me more! Please!”

I feel my mouth curve into a smile. You might currently hold me captive, but it seems my own story has captivated you. Only I know what you long to know, my dear, and my tale has only just begun.

So perhaps I should stop now, and tease you as you’ve teased me. And leave you aching with frustration, desperately trying to picture the possibilities, wondering just how my story ends.

Wouldn’t that be deliciously cruel…?





Continued in Part 2



@spankingtheatre 2015

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

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Sandalwood and Ginger

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…

He was, without doubt, the most impeccably dressed Highwayman I’d ever encountered. Those sharp edges of his tricorn hat, resting effortlessly above his salt and pepper hair. That elegant black frock coat and the white linen lace-up shirt, half untied, as if he’d recently leapt hurriedly from a boudoir window. Not to mention those tight black riding breeches, with a prominent bulge that ensnared the eye and incited the imagination. The whole ensemble finished by knee-length leather riding boots.

Like everyone else in the room, he was wearing a mask. His blue eyes inset behind a thin band of black leather. The mask stopped before the bridge of his nose, leaving the rest of his face defiantly unconcealed, suggesting his attire was chosen more for an air of roguishness than a serious attempt to disguise his identity. It’s funny how one formulates these first impressions, but my suspicions were that this outlaw’s crimes were more likely to have involved ravishment than larceny.

I might have been gawking now. But he did look familiar. That long face, with the slightly curved aquiline nose, the five o’clock shadow around the modest pink bump of his lips, a visage rounded off with a stout eye-catching jaw.

More than that, he also smelt familiar. It was a musky, spicy, woody smell, like dark earth after summer rain. Like the scent of a fragrant market-stall, hidden deep within the twisting alleyways of a remote desert souk. A virile smell, like he’d just galloped here via an enchanted forest through a tempestuous storm.

Perhaps it had been his fragrance that had led me here. I couldn’t see well through my own nekomini mask. It had been a rather silly choice in retrospect, chosen more for its cutseyness than practicality, with tiny eye holes and little pointy kitten ears, and a cute button nose with short whiskers. Robbed of my peripheral vision, I was finding it increasingly difficult to weave between my fellow partygoers without ricocheting randomly in a series of apologetic bumps.

In the moments before I bumped into him, I had closed my eyes, just letting myself go, to be carried along by the milling of the crowd. I remember smelling him before I saw him, that enticingly familiar aroma of fragrant wood. I must have gravitated towards it, until I abruptly bumped into its source.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” I gasped as my trance-walk came to an embarrassing stop.

The outlaw just looked at me. His mask made his expression difficult to read. But if I had to hazard a guess, I think it would have been surprise.

I wracked my brain for something to say. I’d spent the evening mingling, I didn’t recognise anybody here, of course, but that was the whole point – after all, it was a masqued Christmas Ball. So to help prevent my smalltalk from being too minuscule I’d hit upon the tactic of finding something about my fellow partygoers’ costumes to comment on. Then I’d come up with some cleverly observed quip in the hope of demonstrating my brilliant sparkling wit.

Perhaps it was the bubbly, but I think I’d been getting less circumspect as the evening had progressed. Of course, at the time I was oblivious to my declining subtlety, if anything, I felt that I was becoming funnier and ever more entertaining with every passing encounter. Make way, here comes the life and soul of party! I scanned his body urgently, looking for something to catch my eye.

“So… um…”

My mumbling made me feel like an idiot. And then I saw the leather riding crop nestling in his belt, and my mind grasped it like a float thrown to a drowning man.

“… do you like whipping?”

The words left my mouth before I’d had a chance to vet them. As opening statements to complete strangers went, I have to admit it was astonishingly brazen. I felt my cheeks burning behind my childish polkadot mask, hoping it concealed enough of my face to preserve at least some of my decorum.

Never one to miss the opportunity to dress up, I’d chosen what I considered to be my cutest kawaii costume. It was a Sweet Lolita outfit, consisting of a scandalously short polkadot mini-skirt, a medley of ruffs, frills and ribbons whose hem barely covered my bottom, only a pair of similarly coloured lantern shorts underneath preserved my modesty. My look was suggestive without being titillating, and I’d complemented it with an appropriately adolescent perfume, a saccharine mix of spice and flowers that made me smell like a bouquet of gingerbread.

The Highwayman paused, pondered my question for a moment, and then smiled.

“Yes, I do.”

“Er… oh…” I mumbled, I hadn’t expected such a candid answer.

“So, did you tie your horse up outside or take the Tube?”

He laughed. Phew. The delicious buzz of approval.

“There was no room in the stables. I had to take a taxi.”

“I do hope you paid.”

“Of course not!” he scoffed.

“I commandeered it. Reckon I’ve got forty-five more minutes here until the Redcoats arrive.”

With a voice like that, I found myself thinking, he could commandeer anything. It was deep, slow and authoritative, as if he always had something serious to say, even when he was joking.

“Then we’d better make the most of it…” I suggested.

“Yes,” he nodded purposefully, “we should.”

That smell. That chin. That voice. There was definitely something familiar about this man. The way he spoke, as if he’d carefully deliberated over every word. Perhaps a lawyer.
Or maybe even… a doctor.

The pieces suddenly fell into place.

There it was, the small V-shaped birthmark on the side of his throat.

It’s the mark I stare at when my gyno talks to me. I stare at it because it gives me something to focus on, so I can look at him and avoid accidentally looking into his eyes. Because when I look into his eyes I quiver, and I feel like the naive schoolgirl who used to blanch at the descriptions in sex ed class.

He was so certain, so commanding. The only man who’d ever seen me naked and not gasped, whistled, slobbered or stuttered. The only man who’d ever looked me straight in the eyes and patiently explained how he was going insert things into my vagina. The only man who’d seen my clitoris, but who’d never touched it.

“My goodness!” I exclaimed at last, “Dr Jasper?”

He nodded modestly, he didn’t seem to be at all bothered that I knew who he was. Which made me suspect he didn’t know who I was.

“You have me at a disadvantage, Madam. Do we know each other?”

I hesitated, contemplating the implications of revealing my own identity. If I said no – how would I explain knowing who he was? Better to come clean, than end up seducing the man under false pretenses.

“I’m Leila Faulks. I visit you every year or so, and you squeeze my tits and put a couple of fingers into my pussy.”

Saying that made me giggle, it sounded so much more salacious spoken out loud than it had when I’d planned it in my head.

“Then let me say you look even better with clothes on, Ms Faulks” he reposted.

I wasn’t quite sure if that was a compliment or he was just teasing me. But I decided two could play at that game.

“It must be very exciting for you, staring at pussies all day.”

“On the contrary. What is between our legs is just anatomy.”

“So what turns you on?”

Goodness, this conversation had escalated quickly.

“Undo your shorts and pull them down to your ankles” he suggested, perfectly seriously.

“What? No! There are people watching!” I hissed in a shocked whisper.

“You have your answer.” he said cryptically.

I stared at him, open mouthed, mentally rewinding our exchange. Deciphering it. Clearly it wasn’t the prospect of nudity that excited him, but something more subtle. Perhaps it was my reaction to being naked in front of others, and the reaction of all those around me. Whatever his secrets, he certainly wasn’t intimidated by my lewd questioning.

“It’s a shame that you’re my doctor.”

“Really? Why?”

“Because I’d love to see where this conservation is going…”

I reached across to his belt, and drew my finger down the stiff shaft of his riding whip.

“… and I quite like whips too.”

I saw him nod his head in understanding. And then there was a pause.

Around us the hubbub of polite conversation mumbled on. But it felt like we were in our own little bubble, the air between us crackling with sexual tension.

“If you want to continue flirting with me, Ms Faulks, I’m afraid you can no longer remain my patient.”

“And how do I change that?”

The Highwayman reached into his frock coat, and somewhat incongruously produced a mobile phone. After holding his fingertip down on the unlocking sensor he tapped on the screen for about a minute. Then he turned the phone towards me so I could see what was displayed on it.

“This is the app we use to review our schedules and manage our patients. Here you can see your name, and here you can see I’ve reassigned you to Dr Marjorie Allam.”

“Marge is a dear, you’ll be in excellent hands. Just press the button marked Update, and you will no longer be my patient.”

I looked up at the Highwayman, his mouth was expressionless, just those cool blue eyes shining behind his mask. I looked back down at the phone, glowing seductively; I had no idea doctors had apps like this, but thinking about it, it made perfect sense.

I extended my finger tentatively, as if wary of an imminent electric shock.
And I pressed the button.
The phone emitted a little chirp of acknowledgement.
And looking back, that was the moment when my whole life changed.

“Shall we get a drink, Doctor?” I suggested.

He nodded, and offered me his arm.

“Do call me Adrian.”

* * 2 * *

The venue of our Masqued Ball was a rather exclusive establishment. Decades ago it would have called itself a Gentlemen’s Club, but that archaic restriction had been recently abandoned. What hadn’t changed was its spectacular interior decor, ornately sculpted stucco plaster ceilings looming high overhead, dark oak wall panels studded with portraits of Georgian lordships, and below, wide plush expanses of blood red velvet carpet.

We had retired to a quiet alcove in one of the building’s many bars. At first, we introduced ourselves – after all, we were still strangers, albeit strangers where one had already seen the other naked, and conducted some rather intimate examinations too. My memory of those occasions was vivid, and there was something I was aching to tell him.

As per the party rules, we kept our masks on, which helped make our conversations simultaneously extremely earnest and remarkably flirtatious. What a strange couple we must have seemed, Lolita and the Highwayman. Cutie and the Rogue.

My doctor was refreshingly easy company, and soon we were messing around, making up lurid backstories of our fellow partygoers. One couple in an alcove opposite us had caught my eye, one had dressed as Snow White, and the other as the Wicked Queen. Their costumes were gorgeous, Snow wore a sparkling blue corset above a chiffon gown of radiant yellow, and the Queen wore a beautiful coal black cloak over a striking violet evening down. Snow had a cherry-red bow in her hair, whilst the Queen wore a small jagged copper crown whose edges glimmered in the half-light. And both wore porcelain white face masks, which made them look like life-sized dolls.

“I bet they they have a Queening Throne at home…” I ventured.

This was my little test. A chance to discover if my dear doctor knew what I meant, to learn if a kinky mind dwelt beneath that calm professional demeanour. His immediate knowing smile told me I needn’t have worried.

“Ah yes, but who sits upon it?” he replied.

I pondered his challenge for a moment, then described what I imagined. The Wicked Queen seated imperiously, the back of her long gown hitched up at the back. I told of how Snow White would approach the dais, bowing submissively, and then kneel before the evil monarch, begging to be granted the privilege of serving her. Then suddenly Snow would be enveloped by a swirl of violet silk, and feel the heat of her Queen’s hungry pink maw against her lips.

He nodded, congratulating me on my creativity. Or perhaps it was the other way round, he suggested. The Queen had been vanquished, and Snow had claimed the throne. Every day the defeated regent would be brought from the dungeons, naked but for her chains and her chastity belt. The prisoner would be made to pay homage to the new sovereign in the most intimate possible way. And despite her innocent monicker, he suggested Snow White would demand her captive thoroughly lick her bottom before she earned the right to service her Mistress’s soaking slit.

Goodness I thought. My new friend did have a filthy imagination. How could I follow that? I felt I could hold in my own secret no longer.

“I have a confession to make, Doctor…” I said in a low voice, leaning in conspiratorially.

He merely raised an eyebrow quizzically. So I continued.

“Last time I visited you, when you put your fingers within me, I was soaking wet, and it wasn’t just the lubricant. I was desperate for you to inspect my lips and massage my clit.”

I had to pause to catch my breath.

“I wanted you to masturbate me, Doctor…” I whispered.

“I wanted you to use your intimate knowledge of my secret spots to bring me to the edge, and then keep me there, squirming desperately in your stirrups until you decided it was time for me to come…”

I have to admit I was rather disappointed by his reaction to my shocking revelation.
He didn’t even blink.

“Becoming aroused during an intimate examination is perfectly normal.” he explained, in that groin-tinglingly serious tone I remembered from my appointments.

“But professional standards need to be maintained. Our duty is to your health, not your libido.”

He looked at me intently, two rings of cool blue glowing through the black band of his mask. The effect was quite mesmerising.

“I think you can do better than that. I think you have even more deeply hidden secrets.”

He leaned forward, as if he was about to share something of the utmost importance.

“What the naughtiest thing you’ve ever done at Christmas?”

At first I was flummoxed by his challenge. I tried to think what I did last Christmas, and then the one before that. Some good parties, a bit of dressing up, some rollicking sex, a bit of festive over-indulgence. Did any of that count? None of it was what I’d consider naughty, in that I wasn’t remotely ashamed of any of it. Was I really that boring that I didn’t have any sordid secrets?

I closed my eyes, searching deeper and deeper into my memories. Christmases spent abroad, at university, at school and at home. When I tried to remember the details I was surprised to find they existed as stills rather than movies, a vague recollections of being somewhere, of being with certain people. Each successive memory became fuzzier the deeper I reached.

Then I stumbled across a memory whose vividness shocked me, an experience from my childhood that still seemed vibrant and real. I was young. An impetuous little girl. And I was doing something I most definitely shouldn’t have been doing.

Was this what he meant? This was something I was ashamed of, perhaps my guilt had preserved the memory in such detail, revisiting it, unable to let it go. In retrospect it wasn’t a big deal, just a childish misdemeanour, but at the time it had felt like a very naughty crime indeed.

I opened my eyes, and began to tell him everything. Every footstep and every quivering sensation, a Christmas confession I’d suppressed for decades. He listened in silence, just an occasional nod of encouragement when my courage faltered. At the end he didn’t offer me absolution, just an brusque observation.

“Yes, that is very naughty.”

Perhaps he was somewhat disappointed. Perhaps he was hoping for something more rousing, a thrilling tale of shattered rules and broken taboos. But what I’d told him was all I had. For the first time this evening I felt the lurching queasiness of self-doubt. From the way he looked at me I knew he found me attractive, but I wanted to be more, I wanted him to find me interesting. No, it was more than that, I wanted to be fascinating.

He looked down at our empty glasses.

“Another drink?”

* * *

Our table had a little leather bound menu, I flipped it open curiously to find a list of the bar’s cocktails. I didn’t usually drink cocktails, but then again I didn’t usually engage in kinky conversations with my physicians. It just felt like a night for trying new things. So I perused it, looking for something to take my fancy.

Underneath the usual favourites like Long Island Iced Tea and Sex on the Beach was a section headed ‘House Specialities’. Here was a list of drinks I’d never heard of before, like The Nightmare Before Christmas, a hangover-inducing concoction of pumpkin juice, spiced rum and brandy.

But it was the one below that really caught my eye. A mix of pink grapefruit juice, ginger beer, sloe gin and cherry brandy. It was called a Hot Pink Bottom.

The phrase stuck in my mind, growing louder and louder until it dominated my thoughts.

“I think I deserve a hot pink bottom…” I whispered with a conspiratorial smirk.

“I think so too. Say it louder”

I hesitated, suddenly self-conscious, then obeyed his instruction.

“I deserve a hot pink bottom.”


“I deserve a… Hot. Pink. Bottom.”


I squirmed uncomfortably, hoping my voice was getting lost in ambient burble of surrounding conversations.

“I deserve a Hot Pink Bottom!”

Now I could hear my own voice booming in my ears. I caught the eyes of the couple at a neighbouring table, I’m sure I saw smirks on their faces.


I’m almost certain I wouldn’t have complied had my face not been concealed by my mask. But something about my anonymity emboldened me. I shouted out my wish as loud as I could manage.


This time, heads turned all over the room, I could see some knowing smiles, but their interest was remarkably transient, and moments later they had all resumed their own conversations. My brazenness did capture the attention of a member of the bar staff though, and he scribbled down our order. A Hot Pink Bottom for me, a Bushmills on the rocks for my companion.

My drink, when it arrived, wasn’t quite what I expected. It was served in a tall-stemmed cocktail glass, a cone of vivid pink. In the drink were two objects, the stirrer was an elegant balsa wood rod, curved at the top to resemble a tiny crooked handled cane. But what really dominated the drink was a long stubby root. I picked it up quizzically by its bulbous end, and found the area that had been below the surface of the drink had actually been shaved of its tough fibrous skin. The root was as long and my middle finger and slightly thicker, and it had been carved to resemble a phallus.

“Is that what I think it is?”

We began laughing, and continued giggling until I my eyes began to water behind my mask.

“How very apt!” he said at last. “Do you know where the word cocktail comes from?”

“I’d never thought about it to be honest.” I replied.

“Well, in the 18th century, a cock-tail was a horse that had its tail cut short, which indicated it was a mixed breed.”

Our conversation seemed to be veering into bizarre territory, so I eyed him skeptically. But he ignored my frown and continued his explanation.

“To fetch higher prices for their cock-tails, horse traders would put a thumb of peeled ginger into the anus of their merchandise. And as you might expect, this would put a spring in the horse’s step, so the animal would sell for more. Hence the word cocktail came to mean something that had been tarted up or adulterated. Like the elaborate additions made to a simple drink.”


“How appropriate to have a cocktail with a proper thumb of ginger. How ingenuous!”

The ruffian looked at me intensely.

“Have you ever been figged?”


“I think I should pull down your panties and push it deep into your bottom. Right now, in front of everybody…”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

In retrospect, that was a dangerous challenge to issue.

The rogue held me with his gaze, and spoke slowly and deliberately.

“Unbutton your shorts.”


“You heard me.”

He was right. I sheepishly reached down and obeyed.

“Now pull them down to your ankles.”

“What? Here?”

When he didn’t answer, I realised how foolish I was making myself. This wasn’t the voice of a mature, sexually confident adult answering, it was the voice of a little goody-two-shoes who was afraid of what others might think. But that wasn’t who I believed myself to be. I needed to prove that to myself, more than I needed to please the man opposite.

So I reached underneath the table, lifting my bottom off my seat, and slowly drew my shorts down to my ankles. Nobody around us seemed to notice, but why should they? What was so special about us?

“Good girl. Give me your shorts.”

It wasn’t an unreasonable request. I reached down and drew them over my shoes, and placed them in his outstretched hand. He folded them neatly and put them into his jacket pocket.

“Now give me your panties.”

I felt my eyes widen behind my mask. Was this what I was afraid of? Exposing myself? Surely not, I’d already been naked before him several times. This was different. This was acquiescing, submitting to his rules, becoming a player in a game of his devising. And I had to admit, the prospect felt very exciting.

But there was no harm in letting him wait a bit longer. So I stirred my drink with its little cane and saluted him, and then took a long sip, feeling the tart taste of the grapefruit tingle my tongue moments before the heat of the spirits burned in my mouth. He reciprocated with a toast of his own, raising his whiskey and sipping contentedly. I think we understood each other.

And then I stood up, reaching under my ridiculously short mini-skirt to pull my knickers slowly down my thighs. I had to bend down to get them over my shoes, gasping as air teased between my legs. Then, as daintily as I could manage, I handed my knickers over to the Highwayman. This rogue, this thief of my dignity, he grasped his prize like it was a silk pouch of jewels.

“Hmmm. Soaking wet, m’Lady” he observed.

It was impossible to deny, his presence had seduced me.

“Now I intend to rob you.”

“Of my virtue, Sir?” I asked the ruffian coquettishly.

“Oh no m’Lady. Of your shame.”

I wasn’t expecting that reply, and was still puzzling over what he meant when I received my next instruction.

“Open your mouth.”

I did as I was told, waiting patiently whilst he rolled up my panties up and placed them carefully in my mouth. I got the impression that from now on if I needed to communicate it would be through nodding, and I was definitely not expected to start shaking my head.

“Time for your ginger, don’t you think?”

I nodded reluctantly.

Our alcove had padded leather bench seats that backed onto those of our neighbours, tapering at the top to form a rounded dividing ridge. The Highwayman politely apologised to the couple sitting beside us, and then directed me to kneel on the bench and straddle the top, so my other knee was on the bench on their side.

Then he told me to bend over. Raising my bottom into the air made my miniskirt flip upwards, effectively baring myself. With my head down I couldn’t see the reaction of those sitting beside us to this lewd intrusion, but I could hear the hubbub in the room getting quieter as more and more of the bar’s patrons stopped talking to stare at me, at the extraordinary new spectacle that was developing in front of their eyes.

A crowd of strangers, I realised, were now staring at my bare bottom. What made the experience bearable was nobody here knew me, my pride was safely hidden behind my mask. Yet a part of me was still scared, worried that someone here might recognise me, that this would suddenly turn into a humiliating ordeal. But an even greater part of me felt exhilarated, like this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to do something incredibly transgressive, my little girl dream of misbehaviour without consequences. What a delight it was to be robbed of shame.

Suddenly three loud slaps stung my bottom, it was like he’d called for the room’s full attention by tapping a glass with a spoon. The murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses stopped almost immediately, replaced by a brief murmur of gasps, chuckles and catcalls. I was grateful my eyes were hidden from their gaze, I could almost feel the weight of their stares.

I felt a large warm hand pull one of my bottom cheeks to the side, and then the cool hard ginger root being rubbed between my sticky lips. I moaned quietly into my impromptu gag.

Then I could feel the tip of the root circling my bottom hole, painting it wet with my own arousal. Moments later I felt it enter me, just a fraction, and then leave. It was a process he repeated a dozen times, collecting my arousal and then pushing the plug in a little bit deeper. The root was had been chilled and felt cold, like I was being masturbated with an icicle. Yet wherever the root touched warmed quickly. Soon I could feel a fiery heat developing inside my bottom hole, one that was momentarily quenched when the cold root re-entered, only to feel even hotter each time it withdrew.

Behind me I could hear people oooo and giggle. It was scarcely believable. I was being figged in public. I liked to keep myself hairless, so those watching would have seen every fold and cranny between my parted thighs. Yet no-one raised their voice to complain of any indecency. It seemed our wanton exhibition had captivated our audience, and they were hungry for more.

I began to relish being the centre of attention, I felt the urge to perform, to be more than just flesh to be gawked at. So I lifted my hips, pushing back so the ginger penetrated ever deeper. I could feel my passage burning now, like the root had just been plucked from a pan of boiling water. My impetuousness earned me a few more spanks that resonated amid the eerie hush.

And then I could feel the base of the plug, hard and slightly scratchy against the ring of my bottom hole, and his warm whiskey-scented breath whispering against my ear.

“Good girl.”

The next sensation was the tip of his whip being exploring the exposed regions of my body. My instinct was to resist, to flinch and try to evade the intruding implement – but that, I was quickly learning, made me tense up, so my bum gripped the fiery ginger root even tighter. So I tried to relax as best I could, pushing my arse upward in supplication.

The Highwayman began to whip me, slowly at first, which had the effect of silencing the remaining murmurs. The room was now completely quiet, the silence broken only by the smacks against my skin. To try to reduce the burning inside my passage I kept my bum aloft and my legs splayed apart, even though I knew I was revealing everything to those behind me. But the lewdness of my exposure didn’t seemed to matter any more, as my gentleman thief robbed me of my shame with every stroke of his crop.

I could feel hot stinging patches glowing on my bottom now. As a girl, I’d never been spanked, but I’d often fantasised about being sent to see an authority figure. A favourite was imagining touching my toes in front of a strict headmaster, the thrill of having my skirt flipped up and my white cotton panties pulled right down. Then the patient tap of the cane, before I did a little dance for my disciplinarian, swaying and bobbing as I received each of my sizzling stripes. But afterwards I always said Thank you Sir, just as a good girl should.

Every now and then, my whipping stopped, and my black-masked rapscallion would reach between my cheeks and slowly pull the ginger in and out, like he was stoking the fires within my arse. And I’d find myself gripping the top of the bench, moaning into my impromptu gag.

Then my spanking would resume, bringing me out of my daze, confronting me with reality again. That I was being spanked in public, and I was loving it.

I wonder how those watching me felt. Were the ladies frowning behind their masks, aghast at my subjugation? Or did they envy me? Was my predicament making their panties damp? Were they whispering to their partners: why don’t we do that? I wondered if I was making the men in the room hard, as they stared transfixed at the plug between my cheeks and my glistening slit beneath, each imagining what it would be like to slide inside me.

By now my clit was aching for attention, but still my rascal doctor hadn’t touched it. I longed to feel his fingers slip between my lips, sliding forward until they reached the spot. I wouldn’t have minded if he’d rubbed me to climax there and then, even if I came, bucking, dribbling and shuddering in front of everybody here.

But he never touched me where I wanted it most.

Instead he’d just wiggle the plug and continue my whipping, until my bum was burning inside and out. But every whack just made me want him more. I bet he knew.

And then my spanking stopped.

I can still remember the perfect silence, as the whole room collectively contemplated how best to respond. Perhaps they were waiting for an encore, but when they saw him extend his hand to me and help me down from the bench, spontaneous applause began, as if it was the only way the accumulated tension could be relieved.

From behind our masks we caught each other’s eyes.
We didn’t need to say anything.

* * *

He helped me back to my seat, and I sat down on my sore bum, still light-headed from what had just happened. Then he gestured that I should open my mouth, taking out my sodden panties and stowing them in the pocket of his frock coat. But he left the ginger inside me.

“Look around…” he whispered.

I surveyed the room, grateful for the sanctuary of my mask. A sea of veils and visors stared back expressionlessly, some nodding in acknowledgement as I caught their gaze. Somehow I could tell beneath the faceless masks minds were whirring. And I could see a few couples already leaving, tugging each others’ hands with a “let’s go home” kind of urgency.

“I think we may have inspired a lot of fun when folks get home tonight…” I observed.

“Well, Christmas is a time for giving…” he replied.

“… and what a lovely gift we’ve given them. I wager there are dozens among this crowd tonight who’ve always been fascinated by spankings, but shied away from trying it. Now we’ve shown them how exciting it can be. That a whole room wanted to sit and watch, and no one thought it was perverted enough to want to stop it.”

I felt the same way. I’d come to the ball dressed as Lolita because I enjoyed my outfit’s sexual provocativeness. But as I sat squirming on my hot stinging cheeks, I was earnestly hoping my example would lead to at least half the room sharing the same fate tonight. It made me realise the thrill of truly being a provocateur. It was quite intoxicating.

“Isn’t that the point of life, to make people leave your presence better than when you encountered them?” I asked rhetorically.

He nodded in agreement.

“So, earlier, you asked what turns me on…” he said at last.

“I enjoy the thrill of transgression, breaking unspoken rules. So you might find sharing my company rather embarrassing. Do you still want to get to know me?”

I pondered what he’d just said, and all that had just happened.

“I was never much for rules myself.”

“So what do you think of the party?” he asked.

“A bit bland for my taste.”

“Back to my place?”

“Doctor Sandalwood! I thought you’d never ask.”

He rose, offering his arm.

“Then perhaps I can escort you home, Miss Ginger…” he said with a polite bow.

I rose, as demurely as someone without underwear and a burning ginger root deep in her bottom could manage, and steadied myself on his forearm.

We left the room together, basking in their acknowledging nods and admiring glances.

I had been hoping he’d offer to remove the ginger, or at least give me my knickers back. Without my shorts, my mini-skirt barely covered me at all. So I had to walk out of the building with my hands primly crossed in front of me, holding down the hem of my miniskirt that barely covered my crotch.

He kept my discarded garments in his pocket, meaning I had to sit with my legs clenched together during the taxi ride home, which only served to exacerbate the burning of the ginger in my bottom. It wasn’t that I’d suddenly become prudish, but I could see the driver’s eyes spending more and more time lingering in the rearview mirror, and I was terrified that if I inadvertently flashed myself, I’d cause a crash.

So despite the discomfort, I stoically kept my knees together until we arrived safely at his home, a cute little place in a quiet avenue near the river. He gave me the tour of the house with his palm on my bottom, wiggling the ginger plug between his fingers as if it was a remote control joystick. Eventually I fell to my knees on the plush living room carpet, orally persuading him it was time to take the intrusion out of my bottom. After a while, he came to see the virtue of my argument. I can be very persuasive.

Much later that night, I eventually felt his finger reach my clit.

It was better than I’d ever dreamed.

And that was just the start.

We didn’t get much sleep.

* * *

In the run up to Christmas our respective workloads lessened, and so we began to see each other regularly. By then he’d already spanked me in public again, this time on a cold park bench following an early morning jog. He’d put me over his knee and pulled down my jogging bottoms, in moments the accumulated warmth of my exercise had bled away, replaced by the chill of frosty air nipping at my exposed skin. But he soon warmed me up again.

A few joggers ran past us in the halflight, but intriguingly, nobody stopped. Perhaps they mistook my spanking for a cramp-relieving massage. I was beginning to perceive something quite profound about eroticism in public. People see what they want to see.

Later that night, I found myself rather tied up. With ropes.
And he was holding a little brush between his fingers.

“Perineum” I moaned.

He was a master of teaching me things about my own anatomy I never even knew. Tonight he was gently tickling parts of my body with a tiny makeup-brush, challenging me to identify where I was being touched. It was more difficult than it sounds, especially once my mind clouded with lust and the throbbing in my clit threatened to overwhelm every other sensation. And if I got it wrong, six more strokes would be added to the bend-over dance I’d be performing for him afterwards.

I was already due six whacks for gasping “Clitoris!” when his brush had teased my hood, when obviously I should have said “Prepuce”.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” I asked.

He looked up at me as if this was a rather surprising question, coming as it did from someone currently naked and spread-eagled on a bed.

“I usually fly off for some sunshine. But I haven’t decided yet.”

“Stay here with me,” I implored, “come have dinner with my parents.”

“I might behave outrageously…” he warned.

“I certainly hope so.”

“I might embarrass and humiliate you.”

“Mmmm, sounds wonderful” I admitted.

He smiled.

“Six more strokes of the cane, I think.”

“Whatever for?!” I protested.

“Changing the subject.”

And the little brush danced between my legs again.

* * 3 * *

On Christmas morning, Dr J and I nestled beneath the tree and exchanged colourfully wrapped boxes. I hesitate to call them gifts, lest I devalue the preciousness of what we’d given of ourselves to each other over the past fortnight. The items under the tree were mere trinkets by comparison, playful tokens of our affection.

I had bought him a small carving knife, a finger-long blade of gleaming steel, with a handle of intricately decorated Indian sandalwood. I had to make several phone calls and scour some of London’s most esoteric markets before I found it. It been carefully treated, so even now, it smelt faintly of his signature scent. It was an object that encapsulated how I felt about him, sharp, brilliant, beautiful – and devilishly difficult to find.

It was whilst researching where to buy sandalwood that I’d learned it belonged to the same botanical family as mistletoe. How funny, how unexpected. It felt like a sign, an augury that this Christmas I’d stumbled across something that was always meant to be.

After admiring the craftsmanship of the knife, he’d enveloped me in a huge hug, whispering into my ear a promise that he would make good use of it, and carve fresh ginger plugs for me regularly.

The present he passed over to me was also a small box, which I unwrapped with trembly fingers. Inside was heavy velvet-covered box, which flipped open to reveal a gorgeous crystal-tipped butt plug. I laid it in my palm, feeling its weight, and the changing sensations as the metal was warmed by the heat of my hand. The inlay inside the box revealed the plug was solid brass, coated in pure silver. It looked like a magic artefact, gleaming and sparkling like a fallen star.

I punched his shoulder playfully, then threw my arms around him.

* * *

A few hours later, we drove to visit my parents at my old family home. My siblings now lived abroad and were spending Christmas with their new families, so I’d accepted my parents’ invitation to join them for dinner. They’d been understandably thrilled when I’d announced I might be bringing a male ‘friend’ too.

The drive to their house was unexpectedly enjoyable. I was wearing my new plug, which to my delight vibrated deliciously whenever Adrian accelerated, it was as if I could feel the thrumming of the car’s engine inside my bottom. Alas, my highwayman lover had cruelly robbed me of my panties as soon as we’d stepped out of his house, and my underwear was now deposited in his jacket pocket for ‘safekeeping’. I wondered if the above-knee skirt I’d chosen was long enough to preserve my modesty. But given my companion’s dirty mind, I needn’t have fretted; I was unlikely to remain decent for long.

After the hugs, introductions and welcomes we dandered into the kitchen to help prepare dinner. It seemed every time Mum or Dad’s back was turned, his hand would wander towards the hem of my skirt, reaching upward to tug or rub the base of my plug. On several occasions he ran a finger between my moist lips, before raising it to his mouth and announcing loudly: “That’s tastes like it’s ready!”.

At first I must admit I was embarrassed by his intrusions, but there’s something about the frenzy of new lust, and soon I was enjoying our secretive sexy encounters behind my parents’ backs. There was something exhilarating about being in the house where I’d spent my formative years, and feeling like a teenager again.

If it hadn’t been for his strict instructions not to touch myself, I would have fled to the furthest bathroom and relieved myself. When I did need the loo, he had accompanied me, parting my lips to inspect my wetness before I went, and then wiping me dry afterwards. But this erotic mollycoddling just excited me even more.

By the time we sat down for Christmas dinner I was acutely conscious of the plug in my bottom and the soaking patch between my legs. I was worried my parents might notice me squirming, hear a squelch or comment on a strange smell. But in the end, my lover’s wandering foot and our furtive mischief helped make it the best family dinner I think I’d ever had.

Afterwards we retired to the living room, gathering around the fire to exchange our presents. Unexpectedly, Adrian had another present for me, a large but not especially heavy box. When I opened it, I was surprised to find a pair of rather ordinary pale blue pyjamas, together with a pair of slippers.

“Do please excuse us” he said to my parents, and ushered me out of the room with the box still in my hands.

Once in the hall, Adrian asked me to take him to what was my bedroom when I lived here. So I led him upstairs and a few doors down – there it was, since I’d moved away it had been cleared of my cluttering juvenalia, and been redecorated as a more minimalist guest bedroom. But it was still recognisably my bedroom, the space where I’d slept and played and laughed and cried. It was the room where I’d grown up, and just being there made a shiver run through me.

“Get undressed please” he instructed.

I stared at him, trying to second guess his intentions. Did he plan to fuck me? Right here in my faithful old bed? This bed had already been the venue for some significant sexual milestones. It was where I’d first masturbated, where I’d had my first orgasm, and years later when Mum and Dad were away for the weekend, where I’d lost my virginity in what was a rather disappointing encounter.

There was only one way to find out. I kicked off my shoes and pulled my blouse over my head, then let my skirt fall to the floor. Moments later my bra and necklace joined it, and I was naked.

“Now put on your new pyjamas.”

I hesitated, tongue-tied and trembly. He seemed to have that rare ability: to be able to make me stutter and quiver. To make me feel like a teenager again. Infatuated and wobbly.

“Do I keep my plug in?”

He nodded.

“Do I get my panties back?”

He shook his head like that was the most stupid idea in the world.

I pulled on my pyjamas and the slippers without further comment. They were similar to what I used to wear when I slept in this very room, looking in the mirror was like viewing a reflection of my past self.

“Now, young lady, we’re going to go back downstairs, and you’re going to confess to your past Christmas misdemeanours.”

“What?” I stopped, trying to work out what he actually meant.

Ah, that confession. The one I’d made the night we first met, the one intended to make me seem daringly rebellious and interesting. There was, I was now forced to admit, a strong possibility that tactic may have backfired.

“No!” I protested.

“What did you tell me you deserved that night?”

“A spanking” I mumbled reluctantly.

“I seem to remember you were a bit more specific…” he prompted.

I looked at him pleadingly, but he held my gaze without flinching. Eventually I was forced to admit what I really deserved.

“A good hard slippering on my bare bottom” I said at last, feeling my bum clench in shame around my plug as the words left my mouth.

“May I please have my spanking when we get home, Sir?” I begged obsequiously.

“Certainly not. The crimes were committed in this house. So it’s only proper that your punishment takes place here too.”

“Oh Sir!”

My appeal was half-hearted. Not just because I knew I deserved my comeuppance, but because I’d been fantasising about it for as long as I could remember. The prospect of humiliation had always turned me on, and in Dr J I’d found someone I could trust enough to shame me in front of others, and yet keep me safe whilst doing so. After all, that’s why I’d invited here.

“Now shall we get this over with before that damp patch on your pyjamas gets any bigger?”

My new lover understood me too well.

He took me by the hand and led me back downstairs. I felt like a little girl again, my tummy queasy and churning in apprehension. I could see the surprise on my parents’ faces when I re-entered the living room in my pyjamas. We retook our seats without providing an explanation, sitting on the sofa opposite.

“Sorry to keep you waiting” Adrian said at last, in a matter of fact tone, as if we’d just been away waiting for the kettle to boil.

“Now, I think Leila has something that she’d like to confess…”

I looked nervously across at my parents, who were trying to smile pleasantly, but who mostly were wearing expressions of puzzled bewilderment.

“Mum… Dad…” I began.

“When I was little I used to sneak downstairs on Christmas morning whilst everyone was asleep. I wanted to try to snatch a glimpse of Santa, and maybe even feed the carrots to his reindeer! But no matter how early I got up, I was never able to catch them.”

“So, every Christmas morning I seemed to end up alone downstairs with all the presents under the tree. I think my anticipation of finally seeing Santa fed an uncontrollable impatience. So when I missed Santa I just couldn’t wait to tear open my presents instead. I knew it was wrong, so I got some sellotape and taped them closed to cover my tracks.”

Time softens all crimes. Had I confessed this twenty years ago, I’m sure it would have resulted in severe frowns and a good telling off. But now it was met by nostalgic smiles, as if my parents were picturing that scene from long ago, enchanted by how cute it was.

“But I couldn’t stop there. Next Christmas I needed to know what everyone got first. So, I fetched the letter opener from Dad’s office, and carefully opened everyone else’s too. And then I taped them up again so no-one ever knew.”

“And why did you peek inside everyone’s presents?” he prompted.

“I peeked because it made me feel like I was being extra naughty” I confessed.

What I didn’t say was that my subterfuge was motivated by the kind of hijinks I used to read about in my comics. But being morality tales in disguise, the comic characters always got caught in the end, and were often spanked for their transgressions. So after I concealed the evidence of my intrusion I would go back to my bed and imagine what it would have been like to be caught and spanked. It used to give me a strange tingle between my legs. So I began to rub myself to make the tingling go away, and then I discovered that just made me want to rub it even more.

That night in the bar, I’d told the good doctor that as I’d got older I used to fantasise about Daddy catching me red-handed sitting amongst the pilfered presents. As I rubbed myself I’d picture being led to the sofa, and being put across his knee. My pyjama bottoms would fall to the floor and he’d pluck a slipper from my foot. Then I’d be spanked, just hard enough to make my bottom tingle, but not hard enough to wake those still sleeping upstairs. Not that he ever would have dreamt of hurting me in reality, of course. But perhaps the improbability of it all was what made it so erotic.

“And what do you think should be the consequences for your childish naughtiness?”

I drew in a deep breath, and turned to face my lover.

“I deserve a good hard slippering on my bare bottom.”

I must have practiced that phrase in my mind a thousand times, it felt so good to be able to finally say it out loud. Even though I could feel my cheeks scorching with embarrassment. But my parents were smart, open-minded people, and whilst growing up I’d overheard the sound of spanking coming from their bedroom many times. So I suspected they’d understand what was really going on.

“Yes, I think that would be an apposite punishment” Adrian confirmed.

I felt his fingers brush against my sides, entering the elastic waistband of my pyjamas and helping them over my hips. The garment fell to the floor as silently as snowflakes, revealing my bare mound to my parents’ startled eyes. Without needing to be told, I wilted over his knee.

He plucked a slipper from one of my flailing feet, and held it for a moment across my bare bottom. Mercifully from where they were sitting, my parents wouldn’t have been able to see the sparkling jewel between my cheeks, or how swollen and wet I was.

The first whack echoed around the room, shocking my mother into a stifled gasp. Despite our audience, Adrian did not hold back, he spanked me just as hard as he would have done at home. The soft rubber soles of the slipper delivered a shallow pain, each smack stinging a wide patch of my tender cheeks.

I kept my hands on the floor and took my punishment like a good little girl, never begging or pleading or squirming, just the occasional involuntary ooo! and ah! when the heat in my backside became too hot to ignore.

Occasionally Adrian would pause, and engage my parents in conversation, as if the spanking he was delivering was an unremarkable event.

“I believe Leila was never spanked as a little girl?’

“Oh no” answered my father, “We didn’t believe in that.”

“Very laudable” Adrian replied, “I think this is a far more appropriate age to punish childhood misdemeanours.”

I looked up from the floor, shocked to see my parents nodding in agreement. I had thought they’d be looking on in horrified fascination, but they both seemed remarkably relaxed, lounging back on the sofa, just enjoying the show.

My spanking resumed. I counted them under my breath, another twenty whacks, one every five seconds or so. One cheek, then the other, so the impact of the last spank was still burning by the time the following one landed. As I kept my legs apart, sometimes the slipper landed between my cheeks, and then I could feel my butt plug trembling.

Every part of my bottom felt hot and stingy now. Every spank landed on an area that was already sore. When he eventually stopped and rubbed my bum with the slipper, the smooth sole no longer felt soothingly cool – it felt surprisingly warm.

Adrian let me lie across his lap for a few minutes, whilst the others continued their conversation. From my position staring into the carpet I could only shriek when I heard him reveal that I got regular spankings at home, and that they’d probably already noticed an improvement in my behaviour. He really was an awful tease.

Afterwards he helped me to my feet and pulled up my pyjamas, and I retook my place beside him on the sofa, my sore spanked bottom smouldering underneath. I listened in stunned silence as my parents begin to spill my childhood secrets, revealing all the naughty things they could remember me doing. At this point Adrian took out his phone and, to my horror, started making notes. By the end he was promising that I’d be soundly spanked over the coming months for my past misdemeanours.

Rather than complain about this long-deferred retribution, I decided to hold my tongue and found myself wondering what would happen if parents really did keep a naughty book of each child’s misbehaviours. After all, there would be no need to spank a child if you could warn them that they’d pay the penalty for their misdemeanours when they were all grown up.

When would be the right time to open that naughty book? Perhaps when the son or daughter prevailed in that ultimate rite of passage: meeting someone and falling in love? Perhaps that’s when the naughty book would be finally be opened, handed over like some kind of heirloom, or a dowry. It could be exchanged at weddings, the transgressions of the bride and groom. Young children might not understand, but teenagers certainly would. I pondered how that might change teen behaviour, knowing a future soulmate might eventually discover all their laziness, brattiness and intransigence.

By the sound of it, my own future would be featuring bottom warmings I’d earned by sins committed long ago, and knowing Dr J, many of those spankings would take place in public. I squirmed on my plug and my stinging cheeks, keeping my knees clenched firmly together, lest I reveal the damp patch spreading across my crotch.

When Adrian had finished accumulating details of my past naughtiness, he took me upstairs to change back into my big girl clothes. But not before he had me get onto all fours on my old bed for a thorough inspection of my sore bottom and my wet gaping slit. I begged him to take me there and then, but he just smiled and told me to be a good girl.

So I left my old bedroom achingly wet and desperate for relief. Which might have contributed to my eagerness to say cheerio to my parents and get back to the car. Not that they seemed especially disappointed. If anything, they seemed rather happy to see us go. Although I didn’t quite understand why at the time.

We drove home through a dark frosty night, laughing and giggling about our kinky capers. When we did eventually reach Adrian’s place I rang my parents to announce our safe arrival. Oddly though, no one answered.

“I wonder what they’re doing?” I asked.

“Fucking, probably” he replied nonchalantly.

I squealed in mock disgust, but then realised: if that really was what they were doing, it would undoubtedly be the best gift I’d given them in years. It was kind of weird imagining mummy over daddy’s knee, and what might happen afterward, but why shouldn’t they enjoy that pleasure? I found myself hoping the good doctor was right.

* * *

There’s a gift better than any gadget, better than any shoes, better than any garment or luxurious trinket. A gift that can’t be bought, or wrapped and left under a tree.

It’s the embrace of a lover, of knowing them intimately. The sensation of perfect safety, the freedom of finally revealing yourself. The adventure of a lifetime. It is a gift that can make its recipient delirious with joy.

We fucked under the glow of the Christmas lights, in front of a roaring fire.
We inhaled each other deeply.
He smelt of sandalwood.
I smelt of ginger.

@spankingtheatre 2014

Originally posted at

Give the gift of spanking this Christmas, you’re welcome to reblog and share.

Ups and Downs

A story of appreciation and discipline

I’m standing in disgrace at the front of the class, in a classroom that’s not really a classroom.

I must confess, I didn’t take my assignment seriously. I thought it was all a bit of a giggle. Now here I am, my back to the rest of the class and my dress hitched up above my waist. I can hear my classmates scribbling busily behind me, they’ve been warned that any dawdling and they’ll be dragged up here to join me. Even so, I wonder how many have risked looking up from their pages to sneak a peek at me.

I feel the tremble of approaching footsteps again. I hold my breath, bracing myself for what I know happens next. A single whack from a wooden ruler stings my left bottom cheek. I scrunch my mouth shut, I don’t want to give the class the satisfaction of hearing my discomfort.

Of course, the smack to my bum is more than just chastisement. It’s also my signal. I obediently lift my hands from the top of my head and reach downwards to my sides, my fingers sliding inside my knicker elastic. I bend at my waist, slowly pulling my panties all the way down to my ankles. From bitter experience I know if I attempt to pull down my underwear too quickly, I’ll get a volley of smacks across the backs of my thighs.

So I must pull down my panties slowly… Very… Slowly… And that means lingering in the most shameful position of all. The one where my bare bum juts out towards the class, making my cheeks spread apart, admitting a breeze of cool air that tingles my most intimate parts. For several seconds as I lower my panties down my calves, I can’t help but reveal my bottom hole and the little slit that lies just beneath, and all its secret folds. The moment my panties reach my ankles I leap up, bolt upright, replacing my hands on the top of my head, my face burning, knowing I’ve just exposed my everything.

Behind me, I just know my classmates are surreptitiously looking up from their essays, sneaking sly looks at the pink patches now spreading across my newly exposed flesh. I know this because that’s exactly what I do when others occupy my current position. And then the footsteps recede again, and I’m left alone.




All too soon I hear the footsteps return. The next whack is on my bare bum, applied to the sore patch now developing on my right bottom cheek. This is my cue to bend down and pull up my panties – slowly of course – allowing all those witnessing my disgrace another good long look between my legs.

My skin is now exquisitely sensitive, I can feel the material of my underwear tickling as it passes up my thighs. Then there’s a moment when my gusset nestles between my intimate lips just before I roll the rest over the tender flesh of my newly spanked bottom. My obligation done, my hands fly back to the top my head, and I wait for the dread thud of approaching footsteps again.

On the next stinging whack, I’ll pull my panties down again.

Whack, up, wait.

Whack, down, wait.

Up and Down. Up and Down.

My slow-motion spanking will continue until the ruler-wielder is satisfied I’ve learned my lesson. Though I must confess, when I’ve watched this exquisite bottom-warming show from the classroom seats: I’ve never wanted it to stop.

Does that make a bad girl?

* * 1 * *

To enter the rambling grounds of Wengrave Hall, all visitors must pass under a timeworn red-brick arch. Verdant moss fills every crevice between its russet blocks, giving the impression of passing through a short tunnel of lush green velvet, that those who enter are somehow leaving the outside world behind. It’s not until the end of the tunnel that I finally catch my first glimpse of the grand old Elizabethan edifice beyond.

Wengrave Hall is a grand concerto in brickwork, a composition of rusty reds and sandy whites, a rhythm of faux ramparts rising to thrilling crescendos of elaborate brick chimney-stacks and ornamental domed turrets. It’s like stepping back in time, to a bygone world of carriages, intrigues, ruffs and codpieces.

The path that takes me from under the arch is paved by rounded granite slabs, each deliberately placed so patches of grass can grow between them. The effect is to create a sweep of stepping stones, each becoming progressively smaller to the eye as they ascend the grassy slope to the Hall in a gentle curve.

Not that the grounds are over-managed, the sea of green that dances in the breeze all around me is more meadow than lawn, with splashes of colour from clusters of daisies and buttercups. It takes me several minutes to reach the building’s entrance, a domineering two-storey gatehouse that wouldn’t look out of place at the front of castle, its massive stone archway flanked by two turreted towers.

This is my first visit to the Hall, but Jenny has told me all about it. From what I remember reading, this grand Elizabethan manor was built on the site of an old priory that was ultimately dissolved by the edicts of Henry the Eighth. After that, the monks gave way to aristocrats, whose lavish lifestyles over the next hundred years accumulated debts that ultimately proved their undoing. A century of upheaval and disrepair followed, until a new owner rescued it from decrepitude.

I think I’m right in saying that Jonah Snow, the man who bought and restored the Hall, was a self-made man. Mister Snow was New Money, one of an emerging  generation of traders, investors and entrepreneurs, and one who had little interest in ingratiating himself into the upper classes. He seemed to despise the privilege of inherited wealth, believing instead in the power of education and self-improvement. Perhaps this was what motivated him in his later years, as the shadow of his own mortality began to loom, because he transformed the Hall from a stately home into a college, bequeathing the property and the funds to sustain the school to a trust.

Now, over two centuries later, the venerable institution of Wengrave Hall continues his legacy as a prestigious private girls’ school. But the Hall is not a place for the privileged few. Still funded from Snow’s original bequest, it does not charge fees, and so continues to admit students from every social background. In his will, the founder stipulated only two requirements for prospective students: one was a commitment to academic excellence, an undertaking that each pupil would strive for greatness commensurate with their talents. The other was the understanding that if any ever fell short of these exceedingly high expectations, they would be spanked.

The gatehouse arch opens into a verdant quadrangle, criss-crossed by paved paths and fringed by red rose bushes. Several girls in light grey marl blazers ghost past me, their footsteps barely audible, greeting me with respectful nods and welcoming smiles. Near the central fountain I spot a taller figure in darker clothes surveying the scene. Though I haven’t seen her for years, this woman is unmistakable. Then she recognises me too, her face suddenly illuminated by a huge smile. She begins to stride forward as quickly as decorum allows, until a couple of paces away she throws open her arms in an enthusiastic welcoming embrace.

“Clara Tayborn! Goodness me!” she exclaims breathlessly.

“Jenny White! My old friend!” I wheeze, as the contents of my lungs are squeezed out by her enthusiastic hug.

The joy in her welcome is infectious, so by the time our embrace ends I find myself beaming from ear to ear too. I am genuinely glad to see her again, it’s been much too long. Once we were the best of friends, until our school days ended and circumstances conspired to separate us.

Instinctively, we both take a step back to scrutinise each other, taking in the unspoken stories imparted by our appearances. Jenny’s hair is shorter than I recall, now styled into a coal-black bob. She’s wearing a tailored dark navy jacket cut in to flatter her enviable waist, a matching skirt that extends to her knee, and dark leather flat-soled ballet pumps. She seems less flamboyant and more sensible than I remember her. Then again, that was before she became the Headmistress of Wengrave Hall.

And then I feel a tug on my hand, and she’s leading me somewhere. Just like she always did.

* * *

Our conversation is accompanied by the clink of fine china teacups.

From the quad I took Clara to my study, where we spent the afternoon excitedly chatting, like the teenagers we once were. After all, we had almost a decade of stories to tell, our times at our respective universities, far-flung holidays, the drama of new jobs, the joys and disappointments of relationships – tales of the landmarks we encounter along life’s twisting journey.

Clara plays with her hair as she talks, every now and then running a hand down the back of her neck, sweeping her straight sand-coloured hair from one shoulder to the other. She’s more demure than I remember, with less warpaint on her pretty gamine face.

After graduating, it seemed Clara had begun working in the Middle East as a private tutor to some oil-rich family. But though her job had been financially lucrative, there was only so long one could tolerate life in a desert, no matter how good the air-conditioning and swimming pools. So she had returned to England last year, becoming the governess for a family just outside London. That made us chuckle: that we, the original hellraisers, should now both be in charge of the discipline of others.

“This is a beautiful place,” Clara comments, “and your girls seem incredibly well-behaved. Most schools I’ve visited are a hubbub of shrieks, shouting and running around – like several small fires have just broken out on the premises.”

“We do strive to create an urbane, respectful atmosphere here” I acknowledge.

“So, what’s your secret?” she asks, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

I hesitate, scanning my old friend’s face for a few moments, assessing whether I should really tell her the truth – or just waffle some perfunctory truisms. Yes. I can see the earnestness in her eyes, because we both know discipline is the real reason we’re both sitting here together today.

It had all begun a couple of weeks ago with a chime that signaled the arrival of a new text message. It had been ages since I’d heard from Clara, I knew from Facebook that she’d recently returned home, but we were several hours travel apart, and hadn’t been in touch. It sounds terrible when put like that, when we used to be such good friends. Were we really too busy to find time for each other?

So we exchanged the usual short-form smalltalk, a few how-are-you, so-lovely-to-hear-from-you messages. And then, to my surprise, Clara called me. We chatted about old times and our latest news. It wasn’t long before the real reason behind her sudden communication transpired. Clara had a problem.

I lower my teacup to the saucer on the little table between us and fix her with my gaze. I want to look into her big blue eyes, to see just how she reacts.

“My secret is good old-fashioned spankings on the bare bottom.”

Clara’s eyes widen. I don’t think she’s shocked, perhaps just a bit taken aback by my bluntness. After all, she knows me, intimate things few others know. I’m sure that’s why she contacted me in the first place.

“But that’s exactly how I discipline the girls, and…”

“Then you must be doing it wrong.” I interrupt, my friendly chatty tone replaced by something more formal, more authoritative.

The two girls are Clara’s new charges, she has previously described them to me as spoilt, rude, impetuous and unruly to the point of delinquency. But they sound just like typical teenagers to me. Clearly there was an absence of respect in their household, so I was rather surprised when Clara admitted to using corporal punishment. Not that there’s anything wrong with correcting the wayward through bottom-smacking. But there’s an art to applying it, a craft that has nothing at all to do with inflicting pink patches on the bum, but creating an impact in a quite different region of the body altogether.

Clara looks rather crestfallen at my implied criticism. She knows she’s losing control, failing those she’s supposed to be looking after. There is a pregnant silence.

“Come visit me, Jenny!” she implores. “Meet the girls, tell me how to put things right.”

“Of course I will” I reply, reaching across the teacups to grasp her hand reassuringly.

And then I changed the subject. It wasn’t long before the smile had returned to my old friend’s face.

* * 2 * *

I’m on my way to witness a spanking. Of course, I’m no stranger to seeing bottoms smacked, but as I get closer I can physically feel my anticipation, my breathing quickening, the dampness of my palm, and the sheen of sweat I’m leaving on the bulbous knob of my gearstick.

I recognised Clara’s voice over the intercom. Through the modern marvel of sat-nav I found her new abode quite easily, despite it being hidden in secluded corner of the Chiltern countryside. Access to their drive was blocked by a security gate of thick black iron railings that looked like they belonged alongside a moat and a drawbridge. Watching them clunk and rattle backwards after Clara had buzzed me in got me thinking: how funny that so many ancient objects still endure in modern-day guises. Two thousand years on, and we still feel the need to secure our domains from outlaws, and we still haven’t invented anything better than iron gates. And we’re still correcting naughty bottoms with slaps from slats of wood and strips of leather.

Beyond the gate there’s a short drive to the mansion, a private tarmac road that winds around two tree-lined bends before the building itself comes into view. Large undecorated columns dominate the facade, with large full-height lantern windows in between. It looks Palladian, or a perhaps a contemporary architect’s imagining of what a Georgian stately home should be.

The front of the house is fringed by a wide sandstone terrace, with steps leading down to the gardens. So the driveway doesn’t go as far as the main porch, but curves off about twenty metres from the house, finishing at a row of garages and a small sunken parking area. Somewhat shyly, I park beside Clara’s electric blue hatchback, rather than beside the blood-red Mercedes roadster or the obsidian black BMW saloon. Clara has told me her employers moved here from Hong Kong, and despite the presence of their vehicles here, they’re apparently on one of their regular trips abroad right now.

I’m here because of a phone call, which I received several days after Clara visited me at the Hall. Clara had sounded angry and exasperated – trouble with one of her girls again it seemed, and she had repeated her earlier invitation. I had told her I’d be happy to visit, and so we’d made arrangements, I’d travel down on Friday evening and stay the night.

There’s a scurry of approaching feet as Clara jogs from the porch to welcome me, almost knocking me backwards with her enthusiastic embrace. After exchanging our so-lovely-to-see-you’s she escorts me into the house and up the grand main staircase to one of the guest bedrooms, where I unpack my overnight bag and refresh myself.

When I rejoin Clara downstairs she takes me on a brief tour of the house. We start in the plushly furnished living room, where two young ladies are sitting side by side on the sofa. Both wear their hair casually, tied back in a single pony-tails, but each is in a startlingly different state of attire. The younger-looking girl is dressed in black skinny jeans and a thin slouchy grey-flecked cardigan, whereas the elder-looking girl is wearing just a pale blue pyjamas.

“Girls. I want you to meet my friend Jenny White, she’ll be staying with us tonight.”

“This is Lei…” says Clara, nodding to the younger girl, who looks up from her iPad to nod back respectfully. I recognise just a trace of a Chinese accent in her hello, now probably anglicised by years of home-counties private schooling.

“And this is Xiu…”

Clara pronounces her name like an abrupt yet dainty sneeze. She doesn’t need to explain why the girl is already dressed for bed in the middle of the evening, and the teenager doesn’t bother to speak or even acknowledge me, she merely keeps her arms folded and stares sullenly at the shaggy carpet between her feet.

Perhaps not surprisingly, given the agenda for evening, the atmosphere in the living room was uncomfortably frosty, so after a cursory glance to its four corners we leave the girls to continue my tour of the house. It is immaculately decorated, an eye-catching fusion of oriental ambience and old English country home. It is also impressively vacuous, room after room all lying empty, as if the house was hibernating, awaiting the arrival of a crowd of guests to give it purpose.

My tour ends in a large conservatory, topped by a sloping roof of wide glass panels through which I can stare into the dark-blue dusky skies beyond. One side overlooks the gardens below, jutting forward like the prow of a ship mastering the waves.

The interior space is arranged as conservatories often are, fringed with rows of large ferns and palms in giant terracotta pots, and several chairs and couches made of bamboo cane, with an open space unoccupied in the centre. It’s not completely empty though, a single waist high piece of furniture stands alone, spot lit by the room’s downlights. It looks suspiciously like a spanking bench. I must not have disguised my fascination well enough, I think I see a smirk on Clara’s face.

Clara says nothing of the eye-catching object, and merely suggests I sit whilst she goes to make some tea. Her absence gives me an opportunity to investigate this tantalising item further. The bench is made of rosy brown wood, but is quite unlike any other I’ve seen. Most benches have right-angled frames, a pair of vertical legs rising to meet the horizontal crossbeams, but the legs of this beauty are two perfect arches, two thick beams expertly bent in the middle. Each end is almost vertical where they touch the floor, curving slowly as they ascend, then bending sharply as they reach their apex. Their peak is reminiscent of a gothic arch, or a lady’s most intimate entrance.

The whole bench is just wider than a shoulder width, with a rounded mound of smooth chamois leather between the tops of each arch, perfectly crafted to be flush with the curves of the frame. The bench has no means of adjusting its height, as if it just is what it is – but there are little hollows carved into the back of each arched beam that I deduce will accommodate the toes of all manner of miscreants, tall and small. To the side of each hole is a discreet rounded wooden peg, onto which fits a short thick leather band, a heel strap to keep its occupant in place.

The legs of each arch are beautifully carved, covered in elaborate filigree arabesques, repeating geometric patterns of dazzling complexity. It seems my old friend brought back an extraordinary memento from Arabia, I can just imagine her exploring the furthest corners of some ancient desert souk. It’s an artefact of such bewildering splendor and uniqueness that I begin to wonder if Clara also brought back a magic carpet too.

I’m still gawking at the bench when Clara returns with a tray of tea and some morsels to eat. She recognises my expression and smiles proudly.

“Lovely, isn’t it?”

* * *

As we drain the last drops of tea from our cups, there’s a moment of tense silence, we both know it’s time.

As we’d sipped, Clara had regaled me with tales of her various trials and tribulations, her attempts to corral her spoilt, rebellious charges. Though to me it seemed both girls just possessed a fierce independence, and I wonder if that was a result of being brought up by a succession of au pairs, childminders and governesses rather than their own jetsetting parents. Without the continuity of discipline from their own mum and dad, I suspect they’d become experts at pushing the boundaries of every new carer, searching for blind-spots and exploiting their weaknesses.

The current bone of contention was a curfew. Xiu was now old enough to drive, and seemed to be enjoying spreading her wings. Clara had mandated Xiu had to be back at home before midnight, like some modern-day Cinderella. The problem was Xiu’s friends ran a very busy social life, and the good parties didn’t really get going until well past midnight. This hedonistic frivolousness had horrified her workaholic parents, and Clara had been instructed to intercede. So an ultimatum had been issued: stay out late – get spanked. I suspect the teenager secretly reckons it’s a pretty reasonable deal.

Clara stands and leaves the room, and I hear her footsteps recede upstairs, a few minutes later I hear her descend, and then there’s the sound of raised voices in the distance. When she returns to the conservatory Xiu is just in front of her. The teenager’s gait is forced and her expression indignant, as if Clara is shooing a reluctant animal to market. It’s not an unreasonable metaphor actually, as I notice Clara is holding some kind of some whip, a light-coloured riding crop.

Xiu harrumphs when she sees me present, muttering sarcastically, “Enjoy the show.”

With her free hand Clara takes hold of Xiu’s wrist and tugs her until she’s standing behind the bench. She does not stand on ceremony, immediately reaching down to the girl’s waist and rapidly untying the drawstring of her pyjama bottoms. They slip to the ground moments later, she is not wearing anything underneath.

There’s a pause as we wait for Xiu to bend over the bench, but she stands her ground defiantly until Clara gives her a smack of encouragement on her bare bottom. That provokes a tetchy yelp. Only then does the girl step forward to the bench, putting her right foot into the second lowest foothole, and then her left foot into the next highest hole on the other side, before moving her right foot to the hole above too. Xiu repeats this motion, like she’s climbing a miniature ladder, until she’s high enough that she can bend over the curved cushion at the top of the bench.

Clara reaches down to attach the straps across the back of Xiu’s heels, I notice they were already attached to the little pegs three holes up. Likewise the straps Clara uses to secure her wrists are in just the right place. From these clues I deduce the bench’s present occupant must be a regular visitor.

Clara positions herself behind the girl and levels her crop across the lower side of Xiu’s bare cheeks, tapping several times to claim her audience’s attention.

“You know you’re not allowed to stay out late, and what the consequences are” sighs Clara, in a manner that suggests that she’s given this pre-disciplinary speech too many times to put any more effort into it.

“Stupid rule…” Xiu mutters into the floor, “You don’t understand.”

Her cheeky riposte earns her a first whack to her bottom. The crop Clara wields is as long as her forearm, a thin stem tipped by a rounded tongue of sand-coloured leather. The stem seems to have Arabic writing inscribed on it, no doubt another souvenir from her Middle Eastern adventure. I have a ringside seat for this performance, close enough to see the think pink line and small round blush the crop leaves each time it smacks across the girl’s bare bum.

Clara moves her arm slightly, positioning the tip of the crop elsewhere on Xiu’s bottom. She spanks with little backswing, accurately placing her blows all across her target’s helpless cheeks. Xiu flinches, yelps and squirms in response to every smack, I can hear the leather of the restraints squeak, but never a creak from the spanking bench, it seems absolutely resolute, perfectly crafted.

The sting in her cheeks seems to have loosened Xiu’s tongue, she begins to talk back, vacillating between pleas that she’s had quite enough now, and florid accusations of unfairness, vindictiveness and cruelty. But despite both her buttocks now being quite pink all over, I sense little evidence that she’s learning anything constructive from the discipline that Clara is providing. She’s still just as tetchy, just as resentful, only now she has a burning backside too.

Clara is raising her crop higher now, spanking ever more vigorously. The bench is expertly designed, its angles stretching the limbs of its occupant so their buttocks splay apart, revealing the intimate triangle in between. In my experience most girls become aroused during a spanking, whether they like it or not, but I can see Xiu isn’t excited in the slightest. The thin line between her legs shut tight in protest.

Perhaps aware her childish protests were fallen on deaf ears, Xiu has now stopped talking. Now she greets each spank with a stifled yowl, as if determined not to reveal how much it hurts. She maintains her composure admirably, refusing to give in and shriek or sob, even as the last volley of hard whacks shudder against her tender skin.

And then there is silence. I notice all three of us are breathing heavily, each for very different reasons.

Clara lowers her whip and lets Xiu lie over the bench for a few minutes. As I survey the girl’s rosy cheeks, I can’t help but notice her little clenched fists.

Eventually Clara unfastens the restraints and helps Xiu down from the bench. The girl says nothing upon dismounting, but merely fixes her governess with a look of seething anger. She snatches her pyjama bottoms off the floor and pulls them rapidly up and over her sore pink cheeks, before storming out of the conservatory and stomping upstairs. Moments later, in the far distance, I hear a door slamming.

At the time I held my peace and said nothing, but I was already thinking that Clara might herself benefit from a bit of private tuition. Not in the Art of Bottom Smacking, in which she seems eminently qualified, but the gentle Art of Persuasion instead.

* * *

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Perhaps it was the unfamiliar bed, or mentally replaying what I’d witnessed earlier. It was as if I had unfinished business downstairs, that something was calling me, luring me. Eventually, I had to give in to my curiosity. I put on a nightshirt and creep like a cat burglar down the stairs, stepping through patches of ambient moonlight.

Inevitably, I find myself in the conservatory again. The glass ceiling is now inky black, sprinkled with a dust of twinkling stars. The night sky has always mesmerised me, the ultimate masterpiece of pointillism, epic on a scale that staggers the mind. Beneath the stellar canopy, the spanking bench dominates the space, glowing in a shaft of silvery moonlight.

Something makes me take off my nightshirt, and I drop it absent-mindedly to the floor. Naked, I approach the bench as a naughty girl might, its looming presence growing until it completely dominates my field of vision. Over the centuries, how many have made this walk? How many for punishment and how many for pleasure?

When I put my toes into the lowest footholes, I’m pleasantly surprised to discover each seems to be lined with soft felt, like I’m slipping on a pair of particularly snug slippers. I linger a while, and then climb a few steps higher until I’m able to bend over the top and reach down to the other side.

Below me the bench is absolutely steadfast, never moving, as if I were bending over a granite boulder. I sense its perfect solidity, how its shape holds me in a tight embrace, stretching my hamstrings, forming my buttocks into perfect mounds, parting my legs to reveal all my secrets.

I find myself longing for someone to discover me, to tighten the straps around my wrists and my heels. To render me helpless – and then as I struggle in vain – to give me what naughty girls get. I can feel the cool night air tickling my moistening slit.

With my head bowed I notice for the first time a hidden panel in one of the arches, it’s positioned so only the one bending over the bench can see it, and even then, only when I hold my head at the right angle. In the dimness, a shiny cursive script glints in the moonlight, like a magic spell or a druid’s incantation. How unexpectedly intriguing.

Bent over, I’m unable to touch myself, so I use the footholes to climb a little higher, until I can swing a leg over and straddle it. The top surface of bench is narrow, only a couple of fingers wide. I lift my feet, pulling them up and back until the tops of my toes rest on the upper leather surface, then adjust my balance, so my kneecaps are pointing at the ground, and all my weight is forced onto my crotch. I gasp as my descent pulls my slick lips apart.

With my feet off the floor I had to shift my weight back and forth to grind myself against the soft leather ridge. Yet despite all my vigorous exertions, not a creak comes from the bench, its craftsmanship is truly exceptional.

Seated in this position I’m unable to put my fingers into my cunt, but that just makes my clit even needier. So I work it with a fingertip, then bite my forearm, moaning my pleasure into my own flesh in an attempt to avoid waking the house. I climax imagining what Xiu might have done just before going to sleep, rubbing her own spanked cheeks until she was soaked, and then impaling herself on her fingers.

Everything after that was a bit of a daze. I remember just about being able to dismount from the bench onto my wobbly legs, and wiping the sticky evidence of my naughty nocturnal adventure from the top of the bench with my nightshirt. When I eventually did sneak back into my bedroom, I fell into a deep and contented sleep.

Later that morning, I made a detour via the conservatory before meeting Clara in the kitchen for breakfast, to surreptitiously snap a few souvenir photos of her marvellous spanking bench on my phone. Naturally, I made sure to capture a close-up of that curious hidden message too.

After breakfast, we went for an amble into the surrounding countryside, through a beautiful bluebell wood and up into the rolling Chiltern Hills. It was a gloriously warm spring day, a pale blue sky filled by cotton-wool clouds. We had a picnic lunch sitting on treestumps, chatting easily as sparrows and finches chirped excitedly in the hedgerows, and the occasional red kite glided lazily overhead.

We continued talking all the way back to the house. With every passing hour I spent in Clara’s company, my regret at not keeping in touch with my old friend deepened. Once we’d been so close, how could we had let something that precious drift away? I felt a lump in my throat when we hugged and said goodbye. But this time, each of us earnestly vowed to meet again soon.

* * 3 * *

So, here I am again, at Wengrave Hall. This peculiar bubble of old-fashioned gentility hidden in the heart of the English countryside. This time though, I’m here at Jenny’s instigation. She rang me a few days ago, earlier that day it seems an ‘incident’ had occurred, and she invited me to return to the school to witness the ‘consequences’. I suspect here Jenny was just being tactful, and that ‘consequences’ are a euphemism for ‘good old-fashioned spankings on the bare bottom’. I’m about to find out.

I’m with Jenny in her study, a large comfortably furnished room of ceiling high bookcases, long-pile carpets and soft furnishings. I’m sitting on one of its two elegant sofas, with Jenny sitting to my left, behind a huge treacle-coloured wooden desk. Behind her, golden late afternoon light streams through two full-length bay windows, making her edges glow, as if she’s an apparition of a goddess in a temple. The same light glints off the clock on the far wall, its thick brass rim gleaming like an oversized wedding ring. The bell heralding the end of the school day rang 7 minutes ago, and now we’re both awaiting a knock on the door.

“So… is this a regular occurrence?”

I ask as casually as I can manage. But inside, my tummy is fluttering.

“Actually, no” Jenny confided, before clarifying.

“Most spankings tend to occur at the beginning of terms, when the girls return, still rather boisterous from their holidays. They can slip back into bad habits, you see. But a smacked bottom and a good talking-to is typically enough to ensure several more months of impeccable behaviour. It’s rare I need to correct a girl this late in the term.”

As if to emphasise her point I see her gaze wander into the middle of the room, to the sturdy black piano stool that wasn’t there during my previous visit. The stool’s matte finish and top cushion of coal-black leather seem to be the only object in the room not glowing in the strong sunlight. It’s a dark, ominous presence in our midst, a magnet for an idle mind, a psychological black hole absorbing incident light. There is no accompanying piano.

As our conversation lulls my mind races, imagining all the different ways a girl could be punished across this sinister stool.

Bent over, elbows and toes on the floor.

Bottom raised high for a good caning.

Skirt up. Panties down.

Swick! Swick! Swick!

And thin pink lines glow across her cheeks.

Or perhaps Jenny will sit on the stool herself.

A finger beckoning the miscreant towards her lap.

She’d reach under her hem, tugging down her underwear.

Before grabbing the girl’s wrist and dragging her over her lap.

Then she’d lift her skirt.

Scolding her as she rubbed her paddle across her bare bum.

Or maybe Jenny is more inventive.

Lie on the stool, girl. On your back please.

Now lift your feet high into the air.

She’d pull her panties up, rather than pull them down.

A forearm behind the ankles to keep her in position.

As the strap in her other hand cruelly slaps her bum and thighs…

Three short knocks on the door abruptly interrupt my daydreaming.

“Enter!” calls Jenny.

I take a couple of deep breaths and hope I don’t appear too flustered.

A teenage girl enters almost apologetically, as if she’s the bearer of some depressingly bad news. Her appearance is immaculately smart, a creaseless white blouse beneath her grey marl blazer, a perfect windsor knot in her thin blue and white striped tie. Her shoulder-length chestnut-brown hair is equally tidy, it shines in the sunlight, I think she may have just come from brushing it.

“Ah, Stephanie!”, announces Jenny, welcoming her in a manner good deal warmer than I’d expected.

“Good Afternoon, Miss”, Stephanie replies, her eyes momentarily flicking over to me, uncertain of whether she should acknowledge me as well.

“This is Miss Clara…” explains Jenny.

“She’s a governess, and is here to see what happens to naughty girls at our school. Perhaps you’d like to explain what brings you here?”

“Of course, Miss”, Stephanie says, tentatively turning to face me.

“Good Afternoon, Miss Clara”

I see her pause and take a deep breath, composing herself.

“I’m here because on Tuesday afternoon I slapped Tess after she’d said some very hurtful things.”

There’s another pause as she swallows audibly, before she turns back to face her headmistress.

“I’m very sorry about what happened, Miss. I know it was very wrong for me to react that way.”

“I should think so, Stephanie!” Jenny interjects.

“The girls of Wengrave Hall should be sisters, not pugilists who settle disputes with their fists. I expect better from you.”

“Yes Miss”, croaks the girl, who looks crestfallen.

“So, what do you think the consequences of your misbehaviour should be?”

The pupil pauses, swallowing conspicuously.

“I deserve a good hard spanking on my bare bottom, Miss.”

The girl turns to face me again, looking into my eyes.

“I’m sorry you’ll have to witness my punishment, Miss Clara. I hope you won’t be offended.”

My tongue feels dry, I realise my mouth is slightly open, I close it as subtly as I can. The girl swivels to face her headmistress again.

“May I have permission to undress, Miss?”

Did I hear that?

My friend nods, “Yes, you may.”

With that, the girl turns to the empty sofa and takes off her blazer, laying it respectfully on the sofa seat. Next, she loosens her tie, pulling it apart until it’s just a long length of stripy fabric. Jenny and I watch in silence as she unbuttons her blouse, folding it neatly on top of her blazer. Underneath, I can see her white bra, a plain white garment with discreet lace edging, moments later she has reached behind herself and unclipped it, baring the small round mounds of her chest.

Goodness, I find myself thinking, this is an unexpected twist.

Without pausing she reaches down to untie and remove her shoes, before peeling off her light grey ankle socks. A brief fiddle at her waist to unbutton her skirt, and it slides silently down her thighs before being neatly folded and laid out with all her other clothes. She had disrobed with remarkable alacrity, it must have taken her no more than a minute.

Now she’s standing before us in just her plain white panties, which have the look of  school-regulation underwear, modestly covering the whole of her buttocks and the tops of her thighs. Her final act is to place her hands on her head, standing bolt upright in silence, as if waiting the Headmistress’s verdict.

I pull my gaze away from the middle of the room and look left to Jenny. She is almost expressionless, perhaps just a slight furrow in her brow, as if the girl before us was some kind of conundrum to solve. I try to look with new eyes, to look beyond the near-nakedness of the girl’s slender figure, to try to scrutinise her as Jenny is doing. Perhaps she is evaluating the girl’s body language: how sorry is she, really? Is her mind truly ready to accept her discipline, or is she secretly resentful, and merely going through the motions?

In the silence, the sexual tension is palpable. Then Jenny speaks.

“Pull down your panties, Stephanie.”

I hear myself swallow loudly.

Without pleading for a reprieve, Stephanie slips her fingertips into the waistband of her underwear and begins to tug it over her hips. Her mound is exposed first, shaved perfectly bare, then the little fleshy contours of her slit. She pulls the garment down her thighs slowly and deliberately, leaning over as it approaches her knees, facing the floor by the time she’s lowered her panties to the floor. Then she straightens up and replaces her hands on her head.

A distant memory makes my tummy flip, I can feel my heart pounding in my chest.

“Why are you standing in front of us naked, Stephanie?” asks Jenny.

“Because I’ve been a naughty girl, Miss. And I deserve a good spanking on my bare bottom.”

The three of us wait in silence. This is quite unlike any prelude to a spanking I’ve ever seen. After about 30 seconds, Jenny speaks again.

“Panties up.”

The girl complies immediately, bending over and drawing her underwear upwards at the same unhurried pace as when she’d pulled it down.

Oh yes, I remember this.

* * *

I can’t remember exactly who invented the game. I think it just evolved from our furtive explorations, during a time when my girlfriends and I were young and curious. It must have been after that age when our parents had taught us to be ashamed, that nudity wasn’t decent or proper, and there was one particular region of our bodies that was especially dirty, a naughty place that should never, ever, be revealed. So naturally, when we were playing upstairs undisturbed, and our parents were lounging in the garden, drinking and chatting, it was inevitable we’d try to discover what the fuss was all about.

I think it began as a forfeit. We had a wooden block game, some kind of vertical dominoes, and my girlfriends and I would all stand around a table and take it in turns to slot in a domino piece, gradually establishing an eccentric tower of blocks. The game was won by the player who managed to place all their dominoes, the challenge was avoiding collapsing our shared construction as it grew taller. But these games rarely produced a winner, our shaky hands and poor architectural planning regularly conspiring to topple the tower, forcing us all to start again.

Growing frustration almost made us abandon the game, until one of us had a bright idea: if you were responsible for the tower coming down, your panties had to come down too. Thus the loser would play the next game with her panties bunched around her ankles, and her skirt or dress rolled up above the waist.

This arrangement was carefully conceived, allowing whoever was exposed to quickly regain her modesty should adult footsteps be heard ascending the stairs to our playroom. Then, if someone else was responsible for toppling the tower in the next game, you got to pull up your panties and she had to pull down hers instead. And so the game came to be known as Ups and Downs.

It wasn’t long before we added an additional jeopardy. If you were responsible for toppling the tower twice in a row, your panties would be already down. So it was agreed that the culprit would have to face an additional forfeit, bending over with your legs apart. The other players would form an orderly queue, then take it in turns to peek between your legs, sometimes running a finger across your crinkled bottom hole, and the soft cleft that ran underneath. When each of us had satisfied our curiosity, you would be spanked, six times on the bare by each of us, until you had a rash of pink patches on your bum. I noticed those with spanked bottoms tended to place their pieces much more carefully afterwards. I certainly did.

It wasn’t long before our game of Ups and Downs evolved into something altogether more elaborate, as the dominoes were replaced by role playing. Now we pulled chairs up to the desk where we’d once built our little towers, transforming our games-room into an impromptu classroom. One of us was then elected Teacher, and she set us an assignment to write or draw.

But Teacher’s assignment wasn’t really the goal of the game, the real objective was to get others into trouble, and how you achieved that was limited only by the deviousness of your imagination. Whilst Teacher’s back was turned we’d pass notes with jokes or exchange pokes and tickles, anything to make a neighbour giggle or squeal. Or there’d be the telling of tales, allegations of copying or pencil theft. It was a game of anything goes.

When Teacher did inevitably spot a transgression, the culprit would be hauled to the front of the class by her ear. She’d be told to stand facing the wall and then, after a delicious pause as her hem was tucked away, be instructed to pull down her panties and put her hands on her head. It was a time well before I had discovered the word erotic, but that moment was always such a thrill. Perhaps it was the authority in our friend’s stage voice, or the expectation of what was coming next.

I vividly remember how, from our ersatz classroom seats, we couldn’t help staring at the unfortunate girl’s newly exposed bottom. Which was silly really, as we all had one, and we’d all seen bare bums countless times before. But something about this was seductively different. Now we were looking at something taboo, something we’d been told we absolutely should not see.

Even though few of us were ever spanked, we’d all grown up vaguely aware of the possibility that, if we were really naughty, our bottoms could be bared and smacked until they were sore. We’d seen it all in comics, how troublemakers got their comeuppance, put over a knee to be spanked by authority’s strict palm, slipper or hairbrush. Now, we were about to subvert the adult world’s ultimate sanction, but in a delicious twist, we’d be doing it for our own entertainment.

There was a little sand-timer on Teacher’s desk, taken from an old board game we never played anymore. Teacher would turn it over, and we’d all look up from the work we should have been doing to see the trickle of sand counting out a minute, grain by grain. Then, when it was all gone, our exposed friend would be told to pull her panties up. Slowly, of course. Whereupon the timer was turned once more, so that a minute later she’d be told to pull her panties down again.

Finally, after 3 or 4 repetitions, the naughty girl would be sent hobbling towards the toy boxes, her underwear stretched between her ankles, to fetch the implement that would be used to discipline her. We had accumulated quite a collection of rulers, whippy rods, hairbrushes, ping-pong paddles and slippers.

Meanwhile Teacher sat expectantly in the middle of the room on the designated spanking chair. The girl would hobble back to her, obediently hand over the nominated implement, apologise for her misbehaviour and ask politely for a hard spanking on her bare bottom. It was a request that was always granted. She would then bend over Teacher’s lap and, mindful of our parents downstairs, take her spanking in stoic silence.

We’d watch all this in rapt fascination, each slow deliberate smack echoing through our minds, as faint pink splotches began to appear on our friend’s pretty little bottom. It was like a shared dream we didn’t want to end, each of us acutely aware that at any moment a call could come from downstairs, and bring a halt to our wonderful game. And yet, there might still be time enough for any one of us to take her place over Teacher’s knee, and to go away with a warm bum of our own, secretly squirming on the back seat during the subsequent car journey home.

Jenny always spanked so hard, she always did like being Teacher.

* * *

Jenny’s voice pulls me from my reverie.

“Panties down, Stephanie.”

As the schoolgirl slowly exposes herself again, I’m transfixed, it’s like watching my own memories being vividly brought to life in front of me.

“Why are you standing naked in front of us?” Jenny inquires, for the second time.

I see the girl look up to the ceiling for a moment, as if pondering where her first answer had been insufficient.

“Because I don’t have anything to keep from you Miss”

Jenny seems to consider that a better answer, and nods, scrutinising the girl’s stance, as if verifying the veracity of her claim. She makes a subtle upward motion with her palm, which is the girl’s cue to bend down and pull her panties up again.

“Good girls are absolutely honest before their spankings, aren’t they?”

The girl nods her head in vigorous agreement with her headmistress’s assertion, before Jenny’s palm flutters and she begins to pull her underwear down again.

“Now Stephanie, tell us about what led to this unfortunate kerfuffle.”

“Tess was teasing me, Miss. She said Mr Curle was my secret boyfriend, and that she hoped the whole class would be invited to the wedding.”

I see her nose wrinkle with disgust at the recollection of that jibe.

“Mr Curle teaches Stephanie and Tess chemistry” explained Jenny, turning to me to provide some clarification. A flutter of her hand prompts the girl to pull her panties up again.

“Are you ready to be absolutely honest, Stephanie?”

“Absolutely Miss” she replies, with an earnestness that suggests she means it.

“Then pull down your panties.”

When she eventually returns her hands to the top of her head I notice the subtle change in her stance. Her chest is now pushed out more, her nipples more prominent, and her legs are wider apart, her panties now stretched between her ankles.

“Do you masturbate, Stephanie?”

The girl standing before us closes her eyes and bows her head, as if trying to physically deflect the forthright directness of Jenny’s question. I can’t help but look between her open legs, as if searching for my own evidence of self-pleasure within her delicate fleshy folds.

“Yes Miss”, she replies quietly, a blush rapidly filling her cheeks.

“And how often?”

“Almost every night Miss, it helps me go to sleep.”

I smile at the rider she supplies to her answer, it’s so very English to deny the pursuit of pleasure and reframe it as a quest for health and righteousness. Jenny merely flutters her palm upward, and the girl slowly pulls her panties up again.

“Only at night?” asks Jenny.

“Sometimes after school too, Miss” she confesses.

Another prompt, and thirty seconds later her underwear is between her ankles again. Utterly exposed, she awaits the next intimate inquiry from her headmistress.

“How do you masturbate?”

She closes her eyes again, patches of her cheeks now crimson with shame. But something tells me she couldn’t lie now, if even she wanted to.

“I lock my bedroom door and take off what I’m wearing, Miss. I like to play when I’m nude, like I am now.”

I see Jenny nod, encouraging her to continue.

“Then I lie down on my bed and put a few fingers in my mouth. I like to start by tracing wet lines around my nipples, so they tingle as the wet trails cool. Then I begin to rub my boobs, because they remind me I’m a big girl now.”

At Jenny’s signal she pulls her panties up again, then continues her recollection.

“Soon I feel a heat between my legs, so I start to caress myself down there. I rub myself all around, until I’m wet and sticky.”

She hesitates, then sees Jenny’s expression, and continues speaking – quicker now, as if she’d been granted permission to stop censoring herself.

“Then I get the vibrator I keep hidden in my bedside cabinet. At that point I usually put a pillow over myself to muffle the buzz – and because I like to pretend it’s my lover’s body between my thighs. Sometimes I place my vibrator on my clitoris, or even use it to penetrate myself.”

At that revelation I feel a tinge of regret that I never owned a vibe when I was a schoolgirl. All that joy I missed. Then Stephanie pulls her panties down again, and now I can see lines of sticky goo as her gusset comes away from her pussy lips. I must confess I can feel wetness in my own knickers too.

“Does it feel good to be honest, to stop keeping secrets?” asks Jenny.

“Yes Miss!” the naked girl replies enthusiastically.

“Do you have a crush on Mr Curle?”

“Yes, Miss…” she admits, almost apologetically.

“Do you fantasise about him?”

“Yes Miss.”

“What do you like to imagine?”

“I imagine he can’t take his eyes off me in class, Miss. That I make him hard under his desk. So he asks me to stay behind after class. Then he bends me over one of the benches in the chemistry lab, and he makes me feel amazing.”

My imagination supplies some filthy Interpretations of being made to feel amazing as the girl obediently pulls her panties up.

“Now Stephanie…” Jenny begins, in a different, suddenly serious tone of voice.

“… Mr Curle has already confided in me, and has reported your flirtatious behaviour in his class. It will have to stop, young lady! Mr Curle is thoroughly decent – and married – man. You are here to learn from him, not to seduce him!”

“Yes, Miss”  Stephanie whispers meekly, bowing her head in shame.

Quite unexpectedly, Jenny then stands up and walks from behind her desk to stand in front of the girl. She cups her chin with one hand, not aggressively, but as if she has something very important to say, and wants the girl’s undivided attention.

“I want you to report back to my office at the same time next week, when we shall have a chat about managing your limerence.”

Now that’s not a word one hears very often, I find myself thinking.

“Yes, Miss. Thank you, Miss.”

Now Jenny sits down on the piano stool and nods, which turns out to be the cue for her pupil to pull down her panties one last time. Stephanie is now facing Jenny on the stool, with her back to me, so I can see her beautiful round bottom opening as she guides her underwear past her knees. It is immediately obvious how aroused she has become, her intimate lips now puffy and sticky. This time she takes her panties off completely, handing them to Jenny who inspects them without comment, before depositing them on the floor. There is a conspicuous creamy splot on the gusset.

Without being told Stephanie kneels within touching distance of where Jenny is sitting, spreading her knees apart and placing her hands between her legs. Being behind her, I can’t see what she’s doing, so my attention is instead drawn to her as-yet-unmarked bottom, resting on the heels of her dainty feet and her pretty little toes.

“I am so very, very sorry for disappointing you, Miss” she begins, before adding earnestly, “Please may I have a very hard spanking on my bare bottom?”

In response Jenny looks down from her perch, fixing the girl with her gaze. The intensity of their eye contact is emotional – almost unnerving, in fact I begin to feel my own eyes water.

“Why of course you can” Jenny replies, in a warm, almost motherly manner.

And with that Jenny reaches down and hitches up the hem of her own skirt, revealing the bare skin of her thighs. Then she motions her pupil to stand and beckons her forward slightly, jutting out her left knee so it passes between the girl’s open legs. Stephanie bends over without being told, reaching forward until her hands rest on the floor and her feet rise from the ground. The girl emits a long moan as her slick crotch slides across Jenny’s thigh.

Jenny allows the girl to squirm for a few moments, then reaches down to rub her bottom. In the hush that follows I hear my own pulse hammering in my ears. Eventually the long silence is broken by Jenny’s first spank, her open palm slapping down hard at the base of her pupil’s right bottom cheek.

“Ooo! Thank you Miss!” gasps Stephanie.

Jenny spanks slowly and deliberately, and Stephanie takes her punishment in remarkably good grace, frequently thanking her disciplinarian, and exclaiming how much she deserves her spanking.

“Harder please, Miss! I’ve been so naughty.”

Jenny is spanking with her right hand, and is using her left to gather a bunch of the girl’s hair. I notice she tugs it just before every spank, making Stephanie’s back arch, so she pushes out her bottom to receive the incoming palm. Then, when each smack lands, the girl recoils forward onto her spanker’s thigh, which is soon slick with the spanked girl’s juices.

“Ooo! Yes Miss! I deserve this so much.”

Occasionally Jenny pauses to spread the girl’s labia apart, and transfer some of her wetness from the girl’s hole to her own thigh. From my vantage point I can see everything, the bright pink gash between her pinkening cheeks, and the dainty crinkled dimple of her bottom hole. Inside my damp knickers I feel like I have a marble where my clit used to be. I desperately want to rub myself.

In my time, I have given and witnessed many spankings. Often they start slowly, formally, until eventually the recipient begins to squirm and howl as the pain begins to mount. But this restiveness merely prompts their spanker to try to reassert their authority by quickening their slaps until they began to rain down in furious flurries.

However this spanking was something very different indeed. It was conducted at a slow, almost rhythmic pace. Jenny’s hard precision-placed slaps landing almost exclusively on the lower half of her pupil’s bottom, never quickening or veering off-target. Yet the recipient of this treatment never once writhed or howled; if anything she actually raised her hips, lifting her sore pink bum higher to welcome the incoming smacks.

“Thank you Miss! I’m such a naughty girl.”

The rhythmic beat of the spanking and the girl’s back-and-forth rocking on Jenny’s thigh held me mesmerised. I began to wish it was my turn next, that the girl with the stinging bum and the gaping slit was my partner-in-crime, and soon it would be my turn to go across strict Jenny’s knee for my just deserts.

I was imagining what that would be like, the knee-trembling mix of anxiety, trepidation and soaking arousal – when suddenly, the spanking stopped. I see Jenny firmly tugging a fistful of her pupil’s hair, literally grabbing her attention.

“Now Stephanie, I want a promise from you. That you won’t ever disappoint me like this again.”

“I promise Miss! I swear I won’t disappoint you again!” she exclaims desperately.

“Promise me you’ll never flirt with a Teacher at this school again.”

“I promise Miss! Never again! Never!”

Her pledge obtained, Jenny tugs the fistful of Stephanie’s hair until her back arches and her hips rise. Then, to my considerable surprise, she slides one of her fingers into the girl’s gaping vagina. Jenny keeps her handy steady, not moving or pumping, just holding it within the girl on her lap as her breathing becomes louder and louder.

“Oh Miss! Thank you! Thank you!”

Stephanie’s mews of pleasure are mixed with expressions of contrition and gratitude for her discipline. Every little tug of her hair causes the girl to rock backwards, pushing out her rear so she can impale herself a little more deeply. All around Jenny’s intruding hand, the girl’s bum glows delightfully pink.

I notice the girl’s gasps begin to escalate, both in volume and in frequency. But then, just when a climax seems certain, Jenny suddenly withdraws her finger and spanks the girl’s proffered bottom a dozen times with a flurry of stinging smacks. The girl on her lap now seems to have lost the power of speech, and merely responds with little ahs and moans.

The spanking stops as surprisingly as it restarted. In one swift movement Jenny places her right hand between the girl’s open legs, her palm facing the floor, I see her fold back her thumb and two smallest fingers, and then she slides the remaining two digits into her pupil’s vagina. She doesn’t pump in and out, but simply holds her fingers in place as the girl’s legs bend at the knees and her feet begin to wave in the air. I notice the tendons on the back of Jenny’s hand are tensing, probably as she massages the girl’s g-spot and grasps her pubic bone.

“Will you be a good little girl for me?” Jenny asks in her most authoritative voice.

And that’s the final straw. The girl’s legs spasm as she climaxes uncontrollably on Jenny’s lap, writhing against her thigh as she tosses her head back and forth, her feet kicking wildly in the air. Her vocabulary has shrunk to a single word: Yes, which she repeats ecstatically with almost every gasping breath, like some yogic mantra.

Jenny leaves her fingers inside her for a few minutes, stroking her hair with her other hand as the aftershocks of her orgasm tremble through her. Slowly her ability to speak returns, and she begins to thank her headmistress profusely. I find myself staring at her bottom, each cheek is now completely pink. It is difficult to believe that someone who has just suffered such a painful chastisement would be so appreciative towards their punisher. And yet, she undoubtedly is.

Stephanie’s legs are still wobbly by the time Jenny helps her off her lap and back onto her feet. She teeters like someone on the deck of a ship at sea until Jenny steadies her, widening the girl’s stance by pushing her legs apart and placing her hands on the seat of the piano stool.

“A good spanking, wouldn’t you say, Miss Clara?” asks Jenny, who’s performing a fingertip inspection of the girl’s pink globes and everywhere in between. I’m not sure if it’s a rhetorical question, and my mouth is too dry to croak anything other than a guttural mmm-hmm.

Satisfied with what she’s seen, Jenny fetches a box of tissues from her desk and slowly wipes her pupil clean. It takes three tissues to do the job, as Jenny meticulously attends to every fold and crevice between her pupil’s legs.

After that, Stephanie is encouraged to stand up again, and is given the box of tissues so she can clean up the sticky mess she’d left whilst grinding along her headmistress’s thigh, whilst Jenny holds the hem of her own skirt up at her waist, almost regally. Cleaning the headmistress’s thigh takes two tissues. From my seat I find myself staring at Jenny’s own underwear, taut and shining, her crotch wrapped in an embrace of black silk.

A sixth tissue is then used by Stephanie to wipe her own juices from her headmistress’s fingers. Whereupon Jenny raises her hand expectantly to the girl’s lips, and the naked girl respectfully kisses the hand that disciplined her and the fingers that pleasured her. She kisses with an ardour which – I have to admit – I found extremely erotic.

The kiss seems be the final act of closure. Afterwards, Jenny helps her pupil to get dressed again, fastening her bra and buttoning up her blouse. Thoughtfully, she also wipes the sticky goo from the girl’s ruined panties, before taking a clean tissue and wrapping it around her garment’s damp gusset. She directs her pupil to step into her underwear before carefully pulling it up to her crotch, with some last-minute adjustments so the tissue is positioned comfortably between her tender lips.

Finally, Jenny pulls up and fastens her pupil’s skirt before holding open her blazer for the girl to push her arms into. With that, at last, Stephanie is dressed again, looking just like she did when she knocked nervously on the door almost 40 minutes ago. It seems barely believable that since then, she’s been completely exposed, emotionally and physically, undressed to be as naked as it’s possible to be.

Jenny sends her pupil on her way with a cryptic reminder that she expects a note in her pigeon hole before classes tomorrow. Stephanie nods in understanding and bids us both goodbye, before striding purposefully out of the study, her head held high, a blush on her cheeks and what might even be a smirk on her face. She will be going home with a secret, one I consider myself very privileged to share. Who would ever suspect that underneath the light grey skirt of this confident, articulate young lady is the bright pink spanked bottom of a naughty little girl?

* * 4 * *

Jenny and I are alone again, and my head is spinning at what I’ve just seen. Her method of discipline was so utterly simple, so restrained, yet devastatingly effective. Jenny never once raised her voice, never needing to drag, bully or coerce. The girl simply recognised the obviousness of her teacher’s authority and obeyed. I find that astonishing – and absurdly arousing. My panties are sodden, absolutely wet through. It feels like I’ve accidentally had a little wee.

I have no doubt that Stephanie will not be involved in any further scuffles, but mentally replaying what I’ve just seen I think I’m beginning to understand what this whole episode was really about.

The real crime was not the scuffle, but the girl’s infatuation with her teacher. There was something about how the girl left the room, doe-eyed, hanging on Jenny’s every word, that makes me think her silly unrequited desire for her chemistry teacher is now going to be replaced by something more tangible – and possibly also much more manageable: a submissiveness to the Headmistress’s will. I have no doubt Jenny is an expert in channelling the passions of teenage girls. After all, the exam scores this school achieves are quite exceptional.

But how funny to witness someone doing Ups and Downs again. It used to be my very favourite way to play. All those times growing up when I’d slide the latch to lock my bedroom door, and put on the special dress I liked to play in, the one with the safety pin that lived permanently on the back hem. I’d use it to pin up the back of my dress, enjoying how the cool draught tickled goosebumps into my thighs.

Then I’d begin to pull my panties down.

So… so… slowly…

When you’re young and naive you can’t wait to tear open your presents, to rip the paper asunder with your little grabby hands and get at what’s inside. But as one gets older, and becomes more aware of life’s vicissitudes, you learn to savour the great experiences, to prolong the moment. I discovered an even greater joy lay in anticipation, learning to delay my gratification for an even greater ecstasy later.

Pulling down my panties was like unwrapping a Christmas present, one I was determined to savour. And for me, Christmas came almost every day.

That’s how I played, waiting with my hands on head, reliving the naughty games I used to play with Jenny and my friends, enjoying the sensation of cool air wafting between my legs.

Panties up, a short wait, then panties down again.

I started keeping the wooden ruler I used for my maths homeworks beside me, so I could give myself a whack on my bum before every Up and Down – just like our juvenile game demanded. It wasn’t long before my bum was stinging, and I loved being able to admire myself in my full-length bedroom mirror, watching my bum turning deliciously pink one spank at a time.

Up… Down… Up… Down…

On every Up I tugged my panties a little bit higher, feeling them slip just a little bit further into my puffy lips. This made my Downs a delicious release as my panties slipped out from within my slit, my stickiness becoming ever more noticeable, the caress of cool air over my moist places ever more exciting.

I often gave myself 50 Ups and Downs before I allowed myself to touch myself.

100 if i’d been very naughty. My bum would be bright pink by the end.

Sometimes I could make myself come just through doing my Ups and Downs.

My record was 148.

And then, something happened.

I began to get impatient, I stopped dressing up and my slow Up and Down ritual, it was no longer quick enough to indulge my urgent need for pleasure. Now when I locked the door I’d head straight for my bed, fiddling and rubbing inside my panties before I desperately tugged them down and impaled myself greedily on my fingers instead.

Perhaps with the loss of my own self-discipline, I lost the moral authority to enforce discipline on others. I began to whack bottoms like I masturbated, quickly, loudly, and with no subtlety, hoping to achieve an instant resolution, only later to realise an ultimately unsatisfying ending.

Perhaps I’d been too quick to please the men in my life, who regarded my expensively acquired lingerie as nothing more than overpriced wrapping paper, something to be urgently torn away to reveal the precious trinkets beneath. How did I let myself become a Christmas present for little boys?

How foolish of me to forget, that the life’s sweetest delights come to those who wait.

* * *

Jenny finishes scribbling into the ledger on her desk and breaks the silence.

“So Clara. Now you know what a spanked bottom means at Wengrave Hall.”

“Goodness me…” I say weakly.

I’m slumped back on the sofa, my arms hanging heavily by my sides. I dare not rest my hands on my lap, I’m using all my willpower to resist the urge to rub.

“We both know a spanking is worthless unless it changes the course of the recipient’s behaviour. And I’ve found my current approach produces the best results by far.”

“I was most surprised to see the girl undress” I comment.

“I’ve found the girls are much more candid when they’re completely naked. It’s much harder to lie with no mask to hide behind. Undressing right at the start emphasises that what’s coming next is inevitable, that there’s nothing left to negotiate.”

I nod in agreement, undressing did seem to rapidly assure Stephanie’s compliance.

“The first job of a disciplinarian is to get the one being disciplined into the right mental state: a submissive one, so she’s respectful and appreciative of your authority. An apology is worthless unless the penitent really means it.”

It was difficult to disagree with that, certainly the girl seemed to utter more thank you’s over the course of her spanking than ows and ouches.

“You may have noticed Stephanie was bare? It’s part of an informal social contract, I tell all girls under my care to keep themselves smooth, so they each have a daily intimate reminder to be on their best behaviour. After all, they never know when they might be standing naked in front of me.”

“Do you ever use the cane or those other implements?”, I ask, pointing to the racks of rods in the glass cabinet behind me.

“Goodness no!” scoffs Jenny.

“Oh – they’re relics from a bygone era. Museum pieces! Decorations! Just there for show. They’re probably all brittle with age by now, I bet they’d snap if I used them! I’ve always preferred to use my hand anyway. The most effective spanking is the one that leaves the longest impression, and I’m not talking about welts on the bottom, but imprints in the mind.”

“Is that why the girl was indulged with such pleasure at the end?” I inquire.

“You must know, discipline is about obedience, not bruises and scourging. Our role is delivering care, not retribution. That girl had suffered her punishment, the shame of exposing herself and the pain of having her bottom smacked. And she had endured it in good grace. There’s nothing to be gained by sending her away sulking with a sore bottom, that will only foster resentment.”

Jenny looked at me knowingly, no doubt alluding to the resentful stomping from the conservatory she witnessed when I last punished Xiu. The blush on my cheeks betrayed me, I knew what she’d said was true.

“By giving her a happy ending I demonstrate who is in charge, and that despite all her transgressions, the girl is still loved. No doubt you noticed how she came promising to be a good girl?”

That was undeniable, I can’t remember hearing a more earnestly given promise.

“Are all visitors to your lap so deserving?” I enquire.

“Not all. If I’m particularly displeased about the circumstances that have brought a girl to my door I will induce her climax by pushing my finger deep into her bottom.”

I feel a reciprocal ache between my legs, I squirm as subtly as I can manage.

“Girls who continue to disappoint me will lose their finishing privileges, I’ll make them sit in silence on their sore bottoms afterwards and write an essay, so they can put into words why they’re continuing to misbehave, and disappointing me so much.”

“And the note?” I wonder.

“I encourage each girl I spank to write a thank you note before they go to bed, when the sting in their cheeks has faded, and they’ve had time to reflect on what they did wrong, and resolved to behave better.”

“Here, let me show you…” Jenny proposes, inviting me to approach the desk and look at the large leather-bound book in which she’d been writing.

“This is the Punishment Book, where I record every spanking I administer.”

I can see the entry Jenny has just added, the black ink from her fountain pen still glistening on the page. There’s Stephanie’s name, today’s date, and a brief description of the circumstances that brought her to the headmistress’s lap. And the resolution: 10 minutes Ups & Downs, spanked naked for 8 minutes. It ends with a five word summary of proceedings: Good Girl. Strong vaginal orgasm.

“And then I keep all the notes the girls write here, in a separate file…”

My friend opens a drawer at the side of her desk, and brings out a lever arch file. I take it when offered and return to my seat to browse through it.

What I notice right away is how different each page is, these are not bureaucratic punishment forms, but every variety of paper imaginable. Some have used lined A4 pages, no doubt taken from the same pads they use to write notes in class. Others have taken the inside pages from jotters, twin puncture marks in the middle where the staples used to be. Others have chosen proper writing paper, some sheets are thick and crisp, others textured like linen, some have cutesy little illustrations, the kind the girls probably once used to write thank you notes when they were much younger. I wonder if what I’m reading is the first thank you its author had written for a long, long time.

I stop at a few at random and begin to read. They all seem to start with a “Dear Miss, …”, before a heartfelt apology segues into an effusive thank you.

Clearly their discipline has quite an impact, in several cases, the writer has attempted to explain the background to their poor behaviour. Some readily admit to just being poorly organised, missing assignments because of a busy social life. More heartrending are those who confess to problems at home, or issues with insecurity and self-confidence that led to them showing off to their peers, in the desperate hope of fitting in.

They end as they began, in contrition, each desperately sorry for disappointing their headmistress. The language used throughout is informal, chummy, almost affectionate, and by the end I can feel the sorrow in their hearts. Most sign their name with love, some even include kisses.

“They…” I struggle for the word I want to use, before realising the answer is obvious.

“… they… love… you.”

I feel my eyes mist as I say it.

“Discipline is love” Jenny observes.

It wasn’t a flippant remark, and now in retrospect I understand exactly what she meant. Yet it made me think of what I’d just witnessed, the ramifications of one schoolgirl’s crush; there was one more question I had to ask.

“But don’t you ever have problems with girls deliberately getting into trouble to get your attention?”

Jenny gives me a wry smile, and gazes silently into the space in the middle of the room.

* * *

Clara’s question was insightful.

Yes, some girls can’t wait to visit me. Which presents something of a dilemma. Standards must be maintained, I can’t be seen to turn a blind eye to rule-breaking, and I certainly won’t tolerate any of my girls performing anywhere underneath their best. Yet some girls do develop such a craving for my hand that they deliberately get themselves into trouble.

Consequently, if I ever think a girl’s misbehaviour was actually motivated by a desire to dance across my knee, I would offer her a deal: be a model student during the coming month and at the end of it, she would earn a trip across my lap.

As it happened, one such girl visited my office yesterday as part of our special agreement. Bethany is an exceptional pupil, clever, diligent and ambitious, she’d just received an offer to enter medical school. But at the beginning of the year I’d been puzzled by her uncharacteristically childish behaviour, and it was clear I would need to intervene to preserve her academic prospects. So I had invited her to my office, and we began a candid discussion of the real reasons behind her failing performance, whilst she stood naked in front of me with her panties around her ankles, of course.

The real reason, it transpired, was Bethany had become fascinated with spankings. Several of her friends had gone across my knee, and their accounts had been fuelling her own nocturnal fantasies. Like any conscientious scientist, Bethany had started experimenting with her own bedroom slipper, trying to replicate the sensations her friends had described. She had discovered how much she’d enjoyed her re-enacting her friends’ experiences, the escalating eroticism of pulling her panties up and down, ritual of bending over, and the unexpected pleasure that accompanied each stinging smack to her bottom.

Eventually her curiosity overwhelmed her, and she had decided to try to earn a visit to see me. She had started handing in her homeworks late, and made sure she would be overheard using profane and unladylike language whenever I passed her group of friends in the school corridors. It wasn’t long before I felt I had to intervene. So I had summoned her to my study, where she obediently pulled down her panties, and eventually, bared her soul.

Yesterday I’d been sitting at my desk, responding to email while I awaited her latest visit. There were a couple of quick raps on my study door.

Bethany entered nervously at my invitation, her shoulders slumped forward and her hands clasped in front of her waist. Even though she was here voluntarily, she adopted the classic naughty girl posture. I’d seen it countless times before.

To lighten the atmosphere and put her at ease we indulged in a bit of smalltalk, until I felt it was appropriate to begin the business at hand.

“So Bethany, have you earnt the right to stand naked in front of me this month?”

“Yes Miss!” she announced proudly, “I achieved A+ in both of my recent biology and chemistry assignments!”

I knew this already, of course, I keep a close eye on the performance of all my girls, regardless of whether they’re due across my knee. But there’s no harm letting them glory in their achievements.

“You are such a clever girl!”

My praise was sincerely meant, from what I’d read from her tutors, she’d been performing genuinely excellent work. I could see her struggling to suppress a smile of pride.

“Then you may undress for me.”

I noticed her shimmy in a little excited jig at my instruction. She undressed quickly and enthusiastically. Slow stripteases can be very tantalising of course, but I find it even more erotic to see someone urgently tear off their clothes because they just can’t wait to be naked in front of me.

Moments later, Bethany was standing with her hands on her head, wearing only her underwear, her chest heaving from the exertion of undressing so rapidly, obediently waiting my next instruction.

“Now pull down your panties like a good girl.”

In contrast to the frantic pace of her undressing, she performed my command very slowly indeed, taking what seemed like an age to peel down her underwear, revealing her immaculately smooth mound and the fleshy pink contours of her vulva. Being hairless means a much more pleasant experience when a girl inevitably grinds herself along my thigh; for both of us.

As her panties reached mid-thigh I could see a sanitary pad in her gusset. But it wasn’t because it was her monthly time, we always schedule our appointments to avoid that. Rather, many girls find the prospect of an after-school visit with me very exciting, but rather than spend the school day squirming in wet panties, some elect wear to pads to absorb the physical manifestations of their excitement.

“Is that the only pad you’ve worn today?” I enquired when she had finished lowering her underwear.

“No Miss. I changed it at lunchtime.”

“Give it to me, please.”

She reached down to the floor and pulled the pad from the material of her panties with a faint tearing noise, before hobbling towards my desk, her underwear taut like manacles between her ankles. She placed the pad in my outstretched palm then shuffled backwards to her original position.

The pad was sticky on both sides, from its adhesive on the bottom, and several hours of its wearer’s excitement on the top. I brought it slowly up to my face, scrutinising the glistening tidemarks and dried-out creamy splots. I raised it to my nostrils, looking deep into the girl’s eyes as I inhaled the musky scent of her arousal deep into my lungs. She smelt of girly perfume and zesty sweat, of damp earth after a summer storm, of honeysuckle flowers and musty old books. She smelt of that indescribable spirit we desire the most.

As I inhaled her very essence, I watched my student look back at me with lust burning in her eyes. I’m sure at that moment had her hands not been pinioned on her head, she would have plunged them into the wet puffy crevice between her legs. The relief she gained when I signalled she could pull up her panties came as little consolation.

I placed her pad on my desk delicately, I would come back and enjoy that later.

“Now Bethany, I want you to promise me you’ll never waste my time with anything less than your very best.”

“Of course, Miss.”

She spoke with a degree of earnestness that suggested the very idea of failing to excel was quite ridiculous. I nodded, and gestured that she could pull her panties down again.

“Are you doing your Up and Downs every night?”

“Yes Miss. I do them after I finish my homework.”

A wave of my hand, and she slowly pulled her panties up.

“And how often do you masturbate?”

“Every night before falling asleep Miss.”

“And how do you like to do it?”

“My hand just starts wandering, Miss, I stroke myself all over, until eventually I stray into my pyjama bottoms…”

At my signal, she pulls her panties down again.

“… then I rub up and down my lips until they get puffy and wet. I usually pull my bottoms off then, so I don’t make a mess inside them.”

My position as headmistress has given me an enviable expertise on the masturbatory habits of teenage girls.

The clitoris tends to be first pleasure spot to be discovered, so rubbing tends to be popular with the younger girls, typically as they lie on their backs with a finger or two between their legs or face down with a palm under their crotch. Pillows feature regularly too, especially amongst those keen to recreate the experience of going over my knee, a couple placed between the thighs so they can grind rhythmically with their bare bottoms in the air. I’ve found those who play when they’re alone in the house often like to recreate their spankings, tapping and smacking their own bottoms with a slipper, ruler or hairbrush.

As they get older, fingers start to explore deeper inside, with the more adventurous daring to probe their tightest hole. Once bank cards and the confidence to shop online are acquired, dildos and vibrators start to appear. By sixth form, the erotic knowledge of some of my students is extraordinary, I’ve found some can even teach me a thing or two.

Some might think my enquiries intrusive, but I consider it vital to know the sexual health of every girl in my care. If a girl is not masturbating, I believe it is important to know why. Lingering notions of shame or dirtiness need to be challenged at an early age. I’ve seen the damage done by unreleased sexual frustration, how it can drive girls into the arms of unworthy and boorish men. The prudish might try to deny it, but we all have a sexual side. I consider it far better that each girl leaves my care with healthy understanding of her own sexuality, believing it is a gift to be treasured, not a dirty secret to be buried.

“And what do you think of when you play?” I asked.

“Sometimes being spanked by you Miss, and…”

She hesitated, unsure whether to continue talking so frankly. I encouraged her on with a friendly smile and gestured that she could expose herself. Being naked before me always seems to loosen tongues. She slipped her panties down to her ankles again.

“Sometimes I imagine doing naughty things to you Miss.”

“Oh really? What kind of naughty things?” I asked curiously.

“I imagine kneeling in front of you, Miss. I’m watching you slowly pulling your panties down, then up, then down again… and…”

She hesitates, uncertain if she’s said far too much. I smile sympathetically and wave her on.

” … and every time you pull your panties down, I kiss you between your legs.”

I had to fight to keep my composure. What I like best about Up and Downs is how the candidness of answers increases every time the panties are lowered, as if the voluntary lowering of panties is an unmasking, shedding layers until the subject is fully exposed, naked in body and mind.

“Then I slide a finger inside you Miss. I hope you don’t mind…” she added hurriedly.

“Not at all” I said as casually as I could manage.

At that point I waved her panties upwards, buying a minute’s grace to compose myself.

“And then?”

“I keep sliding my finger in and out until you finish, Miss.”

“Until I climax?”

“Yes Miss. I hope that’s not too presumptuous, Miss.”

“Oh, heavens no! That’s very considerate. You are a sweetheart!”

I rewarded her revelation by allowing her to pull her panties down again.

I can still remember the longing ache I felt in my own crotch as my eyes first wandered across my prodigy’s naked body. She was sexually precocious, though perhaps still slightly too young to allow her to act out all her fantasies right now. But I believe it’s important to keep my star students striving, with appropriate incentives to improve themselves.

“And then you put me over your knee Miss, and spank me hard until I finish too.”

I smiled warmly.

“Well now! I know a delightful young lady who’s earned a good hard spanking on her pretty little bottom!”

I could see Bethany beaming with glee, her eyes sparkling.

At that point I rose from behind my desk and strode over to the spanking stool. Once I’d sat down I hitched up the hem of my skirt, exposing the tops of my thighs. All it takes is a knowing look down at my knee, my best students don’t need a verbal invitation, she immediately stepped out of her sticky panties, leaving them lying on the floor.

She was familiar with my disciplinary ritual by now, for her ultimate act of exposure. She knelt in front of me with her legs apart, reaching down to spread her labia apart with her fingertips, revealing her little glistening pearl and her slick pink crevice.

“I’ve been a very good girl for you, Miss. Please may I have a long hard spanking on my bare bottom?”

And she had indeed been a very good girl, so a good hard spanking was the very least she deserved. All I needed do was nod.

At my signal, Bethany stood, taking a step forward before lunging enthusiastically across my lap, her outstretched hands reaching for the floor, her legs on either side of my left knee. I could feel the heat of her bare mound on my thigh, then a sudden hot wetness, like the top of my leg had just received a particularly sloppy kiss. The hot wet mark slid up my thigh as she bent further and further forward, moaning contentedly until the palms of her hands were on the floor and her feet had lifted off the ground.

“Such a good little girl” I told her, as I massaged and stroked her bottom cheeks.

And then I started spanking, slowly, deliberately and hard. I spanked her just as hard as I would punish any naughty girl, she’d have felt cheated if it was any other way. The only difference is that where I would usually scold the girl on my lap for her delinquency, now I punctuated my spanks with praise.

With every smack, I could feel her smooth mound grind against my thigh, and she moaned or thanked me after every stroke. Two round pink patches soon appeared on her bottom, and in-between I could see her vagina begin to gape.

“You are such a clever girl, Bethany. All your teachers think very highly of you.”

I married my praise with a flurry of spanks, causing my student to mew wordlessly in appreciation. Sincere flattery, the ultimate feel-good accolade; because how many of us really know how much others appreciate us?

“All your hard work will be so well rewarded, Bethany. You can be anything you want to be. The whole world’s at your feet.”

What a thrill it was to deliver a spanking with such positivity. I looked down at the beautiful young woman perched naked on my lap, and felt my bosom swell with pride. I had known her for seven years, ever since she was a little girl. I remember her entrance interview, trembling nervously, the painfully reticent girl who, when finally coaxed from her shell, burst with extraordinary ideas. I never thought I’d need to spank her bottom, not for bad behaviour anyway.

When I could sense she was getting close, I began to run my fingers through her hair. I grabbed a bunch of her soft black curls, tugging firmly to win back her attention, before treating her to another series of hard stinging spanks. In response, she squirmed delightfully on my lap.

“Miss, please!” she gasped, “I’m so close!”

I spanked her hard for her temerity, reminding her I decided when those underneath my palm were granted release. Gasps and moans peppered her apologises. I continued spanking until I was sure her rosy cheeks would still be stinging by the time she masturbated in bed tonight.

Pain and pleasure made Bethany grind herself deliriously on my lap. It was only then that I placed my fingertip at the entrance to her vagina, as if I was shushing the lips of a noisy child.

“Oh please Miss!” my pupil pleaded.

Two of my fingers slid into her effortlessly, then curled downwards, gripping her tight. I always relieve the good girls this way; most of my girls tend to play by rubbing their clits, so my method feels exotic, like a special treat. But such pleasure must be earned, if I believe a girl performs her Ups and Downs poorly, or I feel her apologies are insincere, or I believe she hasn’t learnt her lesson yet, I shall push my index finger into her bottom, and masturbate her anally instead.

I could feel Bethany’s vagina begin to quiver around my fingers. Any moment now. I lowered my lips to her closest ear and whispered:

“I’m so proud of you, Bethany.”

My star pupil came exuberantly moments later, bucking vigorously on my thigh, her hands supporting herself on the floor, her bare feet kicking wildly in the air.

I kept my fingers inside her as she lay sprawled on my lap, feeling the aftershocks of her climax quivering against my fingers. With my other hand I stroked her hair during several minutes of intimate silence.

And then afterwards, when strength had returned to her wobbly legs, because she’d been such a good girl, I allowed her a single kiss.

But I tell Clara none of this.

* * *

Clara must have noticed my vacant stare, her voice interrupts my reminiscence.

“Yes…?” she prompts.

“Yes” I admitted, “Some girls do develop a bit of a crush on me. But that’s why I question each girl so intimately, to discover the real reason she’s here. Often it’s just that basic human need, to feel someone cares about you.”

Clara nods in understanding.

“If a girl isn’t misbehaving, I always offer her a deal: if she excels in her schoolwork, she can visit me every month. What happens will be exactly the same, she’ll undress to her panties, then pull them up and down at my command until she’s soaking wet. Then I’ll put her over my knee and spank her hard until she comes. And if she wants to come back next month, the only requirement is she performs even better.”

I shuffle through the pages of my desk diary.

“I have appointments with two such prodigies tomorrow, Melissa is currently excelling in Maths, and Rei is producing some remarkable written English, it seems her poetry is attracting quite a following online.”

“To be honest, Clara, I spank many more good girls than bad girls these days.”

At this, I see my friend’s eyebrows rise in surprise, so I continue to explain.

“I’ve always thought the defining characteristic of a good headmistress is the ability to convert naughty girls into good girls, and keep them that way. One that spends her time punishing with no discernable improvement in behaviour is a poor disciplinarian indeed.”

Clara’s wide-eyed expression now resembles one of incredulity. Is she really that surprised that I use spankings more as a means of encouragement than as a means of punishment? From what I witnessed last week, I was inclined to think her approach to increasing disobedience is simply to spank harder. Yet, there is another way. A better way.

I believe I have one more lesson to teach.

* * 5 * *

Jenny’s last comment had left me dumbstruck. That some of her girls, her best performing girls, wanted to go over her knee so badly they made appointments. I can see her looking at me intently, like she was an owl, and I was a mouse.

“Now, that just leaves one more naughty girl to punish” Jenny observes.

Instinctively, I look back at the door, waiting for another knock, but nothing breaks the awkward silence. I look back at Jenny, who is still looking directly at me. And then, suddenly, I understand.

“Get undressed, Clara” the headmistress orders.

The bluntness of her command leaves me reeling.

“What?! No!” I reply instinctively.

My objection prompts Jenny to jump to her feet, stepping around her considerable desk until all of a sudden she’s looming above me.

“Do you need me to undress you, young lady?” she asks sternly.

She reaches down to grasp my wrist, and pulls me to my feet. I want to protest, but I just feel like a little girl again. My big girl voice seems to have deserted me. Somehow my fingers have risen to my own throat, and I find myself beginning to unbutton my blouse. Jenny helps it off my shoulders, then reaches around me and unhooks my bra. My nipples, still hard from watching Stephanie’s spanking, send a tingle across my body when finally exposed.

Visibly pleased by my acquiescence, Jenny turns and sits down on the spanking stool, and watches as I slip off my shoes and unfasten my skirt, letting it drop unceremoniously to my feet. I roll down my nude tights to reveal my last remaining garment: my skimpy ivory-coloured satin briefs, which reveal my hips and barely cover my mound, I might as well be wearing a thong.

Some distantly remembered muscle memory makes me put my hands on my hand, and I stand in front of Jenny again, awaiting her scrutiny.

“It seems someone found watching a schoolgirl getting her bare bum spanked rather exciting…” she observes.

The evidence of my disgrace is plain to see, the front of my briefs are soaked through, as if I’d wet myself.

“Pull down your panties, Clara.”

A shiver runs the length of my body. Jenny has no idea how long I’ve waited to hear those words again. This all feels so unreal, slightly fuzzy around the edges, like some vivid dream or hallucination. But I do as she instructs, my fingertips reaching under the elasticated ribbon at my waist, slowly tugging my remaining modesty down my hips. I feel so naughty when the damp fabric of my briefs clings momentarily to my sticky lips.

This time there’s no one behind me to stare between my bottom cheeks as I bend at my knees, but I find the motion just as exciting as I remember. Once my underwear is at my ankles I stand upright again for Jenny’s scrutiny.

“I expect my students to keep themselves bare,” she observes, “that will have to go.”

I look down at the little bush on my mound, and nod agreeably whilst I process what she’s just said, how she’d placed her emphasis on ‘my students’. It echoes around my head as I search for nuances and hidden meaning, wondering if meant she considers me one of her own pupils now.

Jenny flutters her finger, and I obediently pull my panties up again.

Part of me wants to speak up, to refuse to continue with this silly ritual. I’m too proud to admit I deserve the same treatment as her naughty schoolgirls. I’m Clara Tayborn! I tell myself. Professional governess. Much too important to be subjected to an indignity like this. But then Jenny’s finger instructs me to tug my panties down again. And as I do so, I feel my resistance weaken further.

“Why do you spank your girls?” Jenny asks.

“Because they’ve been naughty” I reply, trying not to sound flippant, I thought that much was obvious.

“No. No. No! That’s not WHY you should be spanking them.” corrected Jenny, scolding my ignorance like I was a silly child. I’m directed to pull my panties down as penitence.

“You should only spank because you care.”

I nod my understanding bashfully.

“Why do you shout at your girls?” Jenny asks.

“Because they don’t listen!” I answer, rather tetchily.

“I’d say it’s more that they don’t hear anything worth listening to” she observes.

“But… I need to preserve my authority somehow…” I whine.

As I tug up my panties, I can feel the ache caused by her criticism throbbing in my tummy.

“The strictest words are softly spoken” Jenny says quietly, as if to emphasise her point.

At her direction, I begin to expose myself again. In that long awkward silence I begin to admit my failings to myself. What I was wielding wasn’t authority, not like the authority Jenny has. I begin to recognise that the discipline I’d inflicted on my girls had been completely counter-productive. My chastisements had been delivered in anger, and had only served to foster more resentment. This horrid realisation shocks me. All I can do is burble a meek apology.

“I’m so so sorry, Miss”

My voice doesn’t sound like a big girl’s any more. I realise I need my friend’s approval, her acceptance, more than anything. I want her to make things right. That’s when a sinking fear begins to swell inside me: that she’ll stop right now, tell me I’ve learnt my lesson and instruct me to get dressed, and then send me home without the punishment I know I deserve.

“I deserve a good spanking Miss!” I blurt out.

“I know” she says simply.

There is another long silence, I can feel her eyes roving across my body, as if she’s peering under my skin, verifying my sincerity.

“Give me your panties, and kneel.” she says at last.

I step out of my embarrassingly sodden underwear and creep forward humbly, like a wretched peasant approaching a regal throne, kneeling before the Queen to present my shabby gift.

“Knees apart. Hold yourself open and show me your clit.”

I am under her spell now. I want to do anything she asks of me, no matter how explicit or humiliating. I part my legs, reaching down to my crotch with both hands, splaying my labia apart with the fingers of one hand, and pulling the hood of my clit back with the other. I can feel my pearl throbbing with every thumping heartbeat.

I look up into her eyes and find myself imploring her.

“Please spank me, Jen,” I’m begging now, “… spank me like a naughty girl … spank me hard on my bare bottom.”

A thrill shimmers through me as I see Jenny hitching the hem of her skirt, revealing the beautifully smooth expanse of her thigh.

“Over my knee…” she says simply.

I stand as quickly as my trembling legs will allow, and straddle Jenny’s leg just as her pupil had done, lunging past Jenny’s hip until my palms are resting on the ground. I gasp as my weight leaves my feet and my wet crotch slides along her thigh.

Jenny parts my bottom for a cursory inspection, and then begins spanking me without saying another word. Each hard whack leaves a fiery imprint on my cheeks. I’d forgotten how sore a proper spanking could be, each smack a little ring of blazing pain that quickly becomes a stinging ache, then another, and again until all the patches begin to overlap, throbbing into a smarting medley of burning torment.

And yet I hear my own voice, asking – begging – to be disciplined harder.

I feel Jenny’s hand running through my hair, gathering a bunch and tugging hard. I arch my back, presenting my bottom for her attention. I am her puppet, completely under her control. I find myself thinking back to that night I disciplined Xiu, how crude my whackings must have seemed, how disappointed she must have been in me.

In between gasps I heard myself desperately apologising for my poor stewardship of those in my care. I know I’ve failed them, and as my bottom burns I beg my friend to teach me the art of loving discipline.

“I’d be delighted to teach you” says my oldest friend.

Once, when I was a girl, I broke a neighbour’s window with a ball. Somehow I managed to run away and never admitted to it. A policeman even visited our street, but I was so innocent back then; they blamed it on a group of rowdy boys instead. I used to fantasise about the whacking I would have received had I not run and been caught. How I’d be put over my neighbour’s knee and have my bottom bared, and then be slippered like I was the naughtiest girl in the entire world. I spent years wondering how sore a spanking could really be. And now I know, at last the spanking I’ve long-deserved.

I’m almost delirious now, only just aware of Jenny’s middle finger hovering below my nose. I take it into my mouth, sucking it submissively like a pacifier, something to soothe me as her strict palm repeatedly stings my bottom.

Then her finger withdraws, I whine childishly. Moments later I feel a damp fingertip circling my bottom hole. Now I remember what Jenny said, that a finger in the bum is what naughty girls get. I feel a pang of deep regret, that I’d been such a disappointment to my old friend, that I don’t even deserve her fingers in my pussy.

She pulls my hair like reins, and I lift my stinging bottom dutifully. My tight hole offers surprisingly little resistance to her fingertip. By the time her first knuckle enters me, I knew my body had surrendered to her.

“Make me better, Jen” I gasped.

A sense of tranquility washes over me, a sense of contentment, of things making finally making sense. That what had been missing from my disciplinings was not just authority, but love. I feel myself relaxing, welcoming rather resisting Jenny’s probing finger.

Then a second digit begins to enter my bottom. It hurts – my whole bum hurts – but Jenny tugs my hair and I push back compliantly, quickly impaling myself. Now I can feel both her fingers deep within me, like she’s somehow giving my insides a delightful tickle. Her tickling becomes a pleasurable shiver, and I realise I’m about to pass the point of no return.

I manage to gasp Jenny’s name just before every nerve in my body seems to fire. Each patch of my skin seems to tremble, the burning pain of my spanked bottom instantly numbed. I come squirming and kicking on her lap, my back arched, grinding my soaking crotch against her thigh as her fingers are squeezed tight by my quivering hole.

It is the most extraordinary orgasm of my life. An epiphany.

Although I remember virtually nothing of it, later Jenny told me I spent a couple of minutes dancing and moaning upon her lap.

When I eventually recover the strength to stand again, Jenny makes me bend over the stool with my legs apart, and wipes me clean like a naughty little girl. I had made quite a mess on her thigh too.

* * *

That night I stayed at Jenny’s residence. I found my old friend’s company intoxicating, and we talked well into the early hours. My heart leapt when we agreed to meet regularly in future, she as the judicious teacher, me as her grateful student.

I had so wanted to repay the favour, to give her the pleasure that she had bestowed on me.

But she simply kissed me and told me that too was a privilege I’d have to earn.

My beautiful friend can be so cruel.

* * 6 * *

I sent the photo of the inscription I found inside Clara’s bench to a polyglot friend. It is indeed written in Arabic script, but its words are actually in Farsi, the ancient language of Persia. The text turns out to be the opening lines of 13th century Sufi love poem by Rumi, an eight-hundred year old voice that whispers like the desert sands:

“If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting will look,
lift your face
and say,
Like this.”

It is a secret message, one intended to be seen solely by the individual bent over the bench, and then only when she tosses her head as she comes.

How delightful. Could you ever imagine such an artefact, or indeed such a beautifully erotic sentiment, originating from the pious darkness of 13th century Europe? I wonder how Clara came by it. Some erotic adventure in a sand-blown souk no doubt.

This new revelation makes me wonder if that beautiful piece of furniture was initially created as a fucking bench rather than a spanking bench. It’s become my new favourite fantasy – imagining myself in the glorious walled city of old Baghdad, in one of the last glorious summers of the Abbasid Caliphate, the fin de siècle before the devastating Mongol storm. 

Maybe the bench was a gift, a wedding present from the son of the Caliph to his new bride. It excites me to think of her, raising her head to read the secret inscription in the moonlight just before her consciousness is swept away by an irresistible wave of ecstasy.

It thrills me to imagine all those who must have lain in the same position over the ages. Restrained and surrendered, enjoying the kisses of whips and their lovers’ lips. I picture each lucky captive being teased, feeling the head of her lover’s stiff cock bobbing between her legs whilst his nimble fingers massage her petals apart.

Once I dreamt of a camel train, trudging over golden dunes. Behind them proud Baghdad, smouldering mournfully under a shroud of smoke, the river Tigris running black with the ink of looted books. The camels carry many priceless treasures, and on the back of one, I see the bench. It is the beginning of an epic wandering journey; until seven hundred years later, it finally encounters me.

I have already planned a new episode for her beautiful bench, one that I hope befits its glorious history.

The family is away this weekend, so we shall have the house to ourselves. It will be a hot, sticky midsummer night, and I’ve already told Clara that when I arrive tomorrow evening I expect to find her wearing just her panties. It shall be the most she wears all weekend.

When the full moon has risen high in the night sky, I shall lead Clara by the hand to the conservatory. I shall climb to the top of the bench and sit astride it, like a Queen mounted on her royal steed, and command her to begin her Ups and Downs. I shall look down on her with regal authority as she repeatedly exposes herself, looking up to me with wide obedient eyes.

When I am satisfied by her submissiveness I shall dismount, and instruct her to bend over her own beautiful bench. Only when I have fastened her by hand and foot, will I undress completely. This way Clara will be unable to see behind her, I will be blur in the corner of her eyes, an apparition, her very own angel of discipline.

I plan to chastise her with her own whip. I will spank her bottom hard just like a naughty girl, but pausing from time to time to run the stem of the crop between her needy lips. I shall use its round leather tip to flog the tender regions between her open cheeks, and continue until I’ve painted every part of her backside pink. I shall spank her until I’ve quashed the resistance within her muscles, to the point when her struggles cease, and she finally slumps over the bench subdued.

Then I will reach over and lower a blindfold over her eyes. Because I intend to tease every one of her senses.

Only then shall I walk in front of her, and bend over in front of her face.

So first she will smell me.

I will let her inhale the scent of my cunt. I shall say nothing. I shall let her animal mind wake her from her slumber.

And then she will feel me, as I back into her eager face.

The tip of her nose will be the first to feel my heat, before her mouth touches the velvety softness of my lips.

Then she will taste me.

I shall shimmy my hips, dancing until she has covered every part of her tongue with my sweet musky flavour.

Only then she will hear me.

All my little gasps and moans as I enjoy her tribute.

But still her eyes will remain denied. I know Clara has never seen my cunt, and how she longs to see me intimately. Perhaps if her tongue is diligent, I will turn around and lift her blindfold, but keep my bottom pressed into her face, so all she sees is the blurry outline of my cheeks.

Only when she’s brought me to the very edge will I slowly walk forward. I want the first sight she has of my cunt to be a vision, like an oasis emerging from a desert haze.

I expect I’ll feel her hot breath blowing across my wet, excited lips. I shall tease her by revealing just how close she came to making me come.

Eventually I will release her, help her down, and take her place on top of the bench. And then I intend to surrender myself to Clara’s erotic imagination. I want to know how eager to please my marvellous new student can be.

And more than anything, I want to read that message in the moonlight as I come.

* * *

Tomorrow evening, my dear teacher Jenny is coming back to visit me – to stay the night. I find myself trembling with excitement. She has promised me a very special surprise.

Since becoming her student, I have solemnly promised not touch myself without her permission, as I attempt to relearn my self-discipline. I’m shaved bare now, of course, which helps me feel like I’m one of her schoolgirls. And every night before going to bed I do my Ups and Downs.

I’m writing this, dear diary, dressed only in my panties, already damp through anticipation. In a moment I shall put down my pen, and walk to the middle of the room. I’ll feel my chest swell as I take several deep, almost yogic, breaths.

And then I’ll slowly pull my panties down.

I perform my ritual like Jenny has taught me, standing with my underwear around my ankles and my hands on my head, breathing slowly and deeply, filling and emptying my lungs. Soon, I’ll feel my head clearing, the mental fog of the day somehow dissipating. For a moment, I’ll meditate on the virtues of self-discipline as cool air wafts across my cheeks. And then I slowly pull my panties up again.

I always take my time of course, Jenny is teaching me to enjoy the journey of arousal rather than rushing to its destination. She is very strict about such things.

Afterwards I often send her an image of my wetness, my swollen pink folds, politely and respectfully asking permission to take the final step and rub myself towards relief. The pause whilst I await her reply is such a thrill, even when the answer is sometimes: No.

At first, I resented my frustration, the cruel times when I was sent to bed with such longing burning between my legs. But soon I began to understand: that gratification and denial were like light and shadow, each inextricably linked, each meaningless with each other. It wasn’t long before her wisdom won my obedience.

Panties up, then panties down.

Up, then down.

Up, then down.

I’m a good girl doing Up and Downs again.

spankingtheatre 2014

You’re welcome to share.

Christmas Present

There is a message within a message in every handwritten note, a subtle impression of the writer’s soul. Here, her handwriting wrote with the elegant fluency that only comes from the heart, the ebony stream flowing from her fountain pen slowly transcribing a secret she’d never ever dared reveal. How could a small rectangle of plain white card ever hope to contain something of such importance?

It made her shiver to see her secret written out so explicitly in an undulating line of black on white. It was as if her private fantasy had finally escaped from the gilded cage in which she had kept it hidden all these years. She was beginning to realise that on this little piece of card she had inscribed a magic spell, and those twenty-four words were imbued with the power to change her entire world. That was scary.

And also, she had to admit to herself, rather exciting.

Tinsel and baubles glimmered in the candlelight. She was sitting at the dining room table, alone for the evening, a chance to wrap christmas presents for the nearest and dearest. One present had particular significance, it was the one into which she’d slip the note she was writing. But only if she was bold enough.

A lump of sanded driftwood occupied the middle of the table, a platform for the tall fat candle that illuminated the room, its warm brightness complementing the colourful glow of the christmas tree fairylights. She looked into the flickering flames, turning the little card between her fingers. Over and over. Prevaricating, hesitating. Reading and re-reading what she’d written, checking the spelling, wondering if she’d said enough, or far too much, feeling the cool sharp points of the card’s crisp corners tingle her fingertips.

“My love”, it began.

“I’ve been fascinated by spanking since I was a girl.”

“I long for it, I crave it.”

“Please. Will you spank me?”

* * *


Her fascination had started early. There was a secret word that had begun to obsess her from an early age. It tended to appear at the end of comics and fairytales where naughty miscreants got their well-deserved comeuppance. Not that she had ever experienced it herself, it sounded like a archaic practice from Dickensian times, her tenderhearted parents would never have dreamed of laying a finger on her.

Nevertheless, it gave her a thrill when she whispered it, its seductive start, its abrupt end. It made her imagination race when she thought about it. In her books, spankings were never described with the level of detail her voracious mind demanded, just frustratingly coy mentions that punishments were given. So she had to fill in all the details herself, the implement used, the number of smacks given, with special thought given to the rituals of undressing and shaming.

Spank. Verb. To slap or smack with the open hand, slipper etc., especially on the buttocks”

It was the first word she’d ever illicitly looked up in a dictionary. At one time, a couple of her friends had gone through a phase of leaving any dictionary they’d found unattended in the school library open at the entry for penis. She’d smiled at their infantile prank, but never understood why it provoked such giggles, especially given there was an even more powerful word lurking a few dozen pages later.

All of which had led to a Christmas memory that was especially cherished.

It had actually been the day after Christmas, Mum had taken her sister to the Boxing Day sales, whilst Dad had taken her brother to a football match. She had made plans to go to a friend’s house later, and so had stayed behind, leaving her alone in the house with a couple of hours to occupy herself.

In their absence she had reclined decadently across the living room sofa, and started to read. Her book’s protagonist was a precocious teenage detective, she was a huge fan of the series, a heady mix of international adventure, historical mysteries, capers and hijinks. She liked to think she saw a bit of herself in the heroine.

In this book, Nancy Jones, the intrepid girl detective, had broken into Eldritch Hall on the trail of the fabled Copa de Zafiros, the golden sapphire-encrusted goblet she’d previously uncovered in a perilously ramshackle temple in the High Andes. Her investigations had led her to the stately home of one Baron Eldritch: Olympic fencer, raconteur, suspected art thief and criminal mastermind. Of course, one does not simply knock on the gates of Eldritch Hall, so Nancy had broken in, improvising a smoke bomb to dodge the security lasers.

Nancy Jones was good. She’d penetrated the heart of the Baron’s ingenious defences and discovered his secret museum, where she found the priceless goblet atop a plinth in a glass case. She’d tried to extricate it, but – Drat! – been unable to deactivate all the alarms in time. Thick steel bars had dropped from the ceiling, clanging all around her, imprisoning her in a cage of her own. One more exhibit for Eldritch’s nefarious secret museum. Curses!

The Baron himself had appeared some twenty minutes later, he was not a man who liked to be hurried. He was a tall fit man, immaculately dressed (as always) in a spotlessly white woolen suit. Just because you’d been born to the Eldritch baronetcy didn’t mean you had to dress like a vampire count, and the Baron did enjoy confounding people’s expectations. And he had a lot of secrets.

“Good evening, Miss Jones”, he said. He saw her trespass and present predicament as no reason for impoliteness.

“You’ll never get away with this, Eldritch!”, she’d reposted, with less regard for social niceties.

He smiled, in the same way someone who’d forgotten their umbrella might respond when told it was going to rain. He produced a small glass bottle from an inside pocket, and approached the cage where Nancy was standing indignantly. She didn’t flinch, and held his stare. It looked like he was holding a small bottle of perfume. How curious. Then his finger pressed the brass stopper, and a small cloud of vapour puffed into Nancy’s face. She staggered backwards, holding onto the cage bars for support.

“I do hope you’re going to be a good girl for me…”

He was pressing buttons on the wall now, there were a few pulsing beeps, and then the bars began to lift, retreating into the ceiling. Released, Nancy felt woozy and strangely passive, like she’d been robbed of her instinct to run. She did not demur when the Baron approached and took her by her arm, and escorted her up the grand spiral staircase.

They walked up several floors until they reached one of the top corners of the manor, and a door to one of the windowless turret rooms. The Baron unlocked it and ushered her inside, it was small room, its round walls whitewashed, a single wood frame bed the only furnishing.

“Now, you can wait here until I decide what to do with you”, said the Baron.

Nancy sat on the bed compliantly.

“You have been a very naughty girl”, he told her, as he began to close the door.

Then, just before the door shut, a line that would burn itself into her imagination:

“I’ve half a mind to put you over my knee.”


* * *


And just like that, the chapter ended.

On the sofa she’d stopped and gasped. She’d followed the adventures of Nancy Jones for years, during which her heroine had survived all kinds of jeopardies, devious Aztec temple-traps, crumbling Transylvanian castles, scary pitch-black tombs with their creepy curtains of clinging cobwebs, innumerable perils that had made her pulse quicken and her palms sweat. But this was different, the Baron’s threat had dampened somewhere else entirely.

Home alone, with a tingle developing down below, this was an opportunity too good to miss. She closed her book, rising from the sofa as elegantly as she could manage, as if she was being spied on, and she was trying to conceal her true intentions.

The stairs of the family home had a slight bend, making her think of that grand sweeping staircase of Eldritch Hall Nancy had just been forced to climb. She imagined what that must have felt like, to be captured, to be completely at his whim, his arm under hers, escorting her upstairs, powerless to resist.

At the top of the stairs her parents’ room faced landing. Their door was open, and inside she could see the grey slippers Daddy had just received for Christmas lying under the bed. Goodness, they’d be just perfect, she realised.

Once in her own bedroom she immediately dressed herself as Nancy Jones, choosing the smartest short skirt and most stylish shirt in her wardrobe. And then she was ready to jump into her story.

She sat on her bed, picturing herself in the little turret room, waiting for the Baron to return, her tummy fluttering at the thought of what nefarious torments he might have in store for her. Then she imagined the door opening.

“You’ve been a very naughty girl, Nancy Jones”, she announced in a low voice, mimicking the cut-glass accent she imagined the Baron possessed.

“Yes, Sir”, she replied meekly.

Sir? Wow, she thought, clearly whatever had been in that narcotic vapour must be highly potent! Headstrong Nancy had been robbed of her resistance, rendered unable to disobey him.

“Pull down your panties”

She complied quickly, reaching underneath her skirt and slipping them down her legs until they lay abandoned on the floor.

“Lift your skirt”

She tugged her hem and slowly did what she was told, lifting her skirt high above her waist, revealing her secrets to the Baron’s commanding eyes. A cool breeze tickled her mound; she imagined the Baron admiring the prize he’d captured.

“Now, you know what has to happen to naughty girls…”

Of course she did, and the thought thrilled her.

“Bend over, young lady”

She approached the armchair that sat in the corner of her room. Its chunky leather-padded armrests jutted out towards her, each as wide and long as the Baron’s thighs. She imagined standing before him, both of her legs either side of one his knees, straddling it. Then she bent over the armrest, feeling its smooth leather rub along the inside of her thighs as she descended, squirming slightly until her weight was pressing against her mound.

“Legs apart”

Nancy Jones was a stubborn young lady, but now she was powerless to resist under the influence of this devious narcotic. She spread her legs as wide as she could, allowing her disciplinarian to see every inch between her legs, her tight puckered hollow and her swollen slit, now damp with her dew.

She picked up her father’s slipper from the seat of the armchair, and tapped it against her bare bottom. It had a soft rubber sole with a foam underlay, making it an ideal implement for spanking. For a moment she wondered who exactly had bought these slippers. Had it been her mother? She rubbed herself against the Baron’s knee in eager expectation.

The first whack stung her bottom. Then a second. The Baron would be meticulous so she spanked herself slowly, every now and then adjusting her arm to ensure each smack was appropriately hard and satisfyingly painful. In her bedtime fantasies, the Baron was an accomplished spanker, young ladies had often come to stay at Eldritch Hall, and all had received regular bare bottom discipline.

The smacks continued to rain down onto every region of her smarting cheeks. Nancy took her punishment stoically, she wasn’t the kind of girl to beg for mercy. The Baron paid particular attention to where her bum met her thighs, making her squirm her mound indecently against his knee. This over one knee position offered her no modesty, he could see how wet she was getting, how her petals had swollen open. But that just excited her even more.

The last ten whacks were as hard as she could muster, filling her room with loud echoing slaps, and making her recoil and grind herself against the armrest, which had now become slippery with her disgrace. When the last smack fell she lay panting over the chair, her bum raised into the air, red, hot and sore.

But she knew her torment was far from over. Her spanking, whilst painful, was no worse than a naughty schoolgirl might get for skipping her classes. She was Nancy Jones, caught trying to raid the treasured art collection of her arch-rival, the cruel Baron Eldritch. Her punishment would clearly need to befit his devious mind.

She wondered how the next chapter of the book might continue, as fantasies of her own began to swirl in her imagination.

“Up. And stand in the corner”, she told herself.

She did as she was told, looking over her shoulder to see the bright pink flush the Baron had applied to her cheeks. She rubbed her sore buttocks in slow lazy circles, pulling them apart, feeling the cool air tickling her arse.

“Hold your bottom apart girl”

She gasped at the bluntness of the Baron’s command, but obeyed without complaint. Her cheeks were hot to her touch when she grasped them, and pulling them apart felt deliciously naughty. She could imagine the Baron standing behind her, looking between her legs. A surge of self-confident pride ran through her; she must be, she realised, a glorious sight.

She could almost hear the dialogue between them, adult, edgy and flirtatious. Adopting the characters’ voice she spoke their words aloud.

“Why do you think a naughty girl should hold herself open?”

Nancy interpreted his question as a test of her worldliness, and resisted the temptation to answer flippantly.

“Acquiescence”, she suggested, “You want me to demonstrate my submissiveness.”

“Go on…”, he prompted.

“Or maybe you want me to truly feel the sensation of my spanking as it radiates through my fingers.”


“Humiliation. My punishment is to feel ashamed, naked and exposed…”

At that point in the story, she’d decided, a featherlight touch on her bottom hole would silence Nancy’s loquacious explanations. It felt warm, and wet – slightly sticky, like the tip of a moistened finger. The submissive Nancy accepted this intrusion matter of factly, pushing back slightly, groaning at the pleasurable sensations it provided.

Moments later, she imagined the Baron’s hands gripped both her shoulders.

And with a shock Nancy suddenly realised what was really pressing against her arse.

“Now Miss Jones…”, said the Baron, “I shall show you why naughty girls hold their bottoms apart…”

Minutes later she was lying on the floor gasping, after the most spectacular orgasm of her life.

The intensity of her wantonness had shocked her, she had been amazed she’d ever been able to imagine something so filthy. Yet the experience was to become one of her most cherished Christmas memories.


* * *


Even now, remembering that episode with Daddy’s slipper still made her blush.

She was supposed to be a nice girl. Nice girls didn’t think about such things. Nice girls were supposed to respect themselves, not spank themselves pink and then masturbate to a frenzy with a finger up their bottoms. Surely girls who believed themselves the equal of men shouldn’t be aroused by thoughts of surrendering to them, about willingly becoming mere objects of lust.

At the dining table she looked again at what she’d written. Was that really who she was? A naughty girl who wanted her bum smacked? Perhaps it would be better to compose a more conventional note.

Love You. Happy Christmas. Hugs and Cuddles.

Just like she always did.

She raised the little white card to the candle. Maybe this was a secret that was better kept hidden away in her own private collection. The card hovered over the flame, close enough for her to see its edges darken.

The glint of the candle flame stayed her trembling hand. There was something about the flickering light that was meditative, a calming glow that relaxed the mind. It made her return the card to the table and sit back in her chair.

In the mesmerising candlelight she began to see what might be.

She saw herself edging the card towards the candle flame. A black spot appearing, like a blotch of spilt ink, racing towards the elegant swirls of her illicit message. Her secret was obliterated in an instant, the blackened card igniting in a puff of flames that she could feel in her fingertips. Its charred ashes disintegrated, floating apologetically onto the table.

She would write another note, a nice note, a proper note, a note her partner wouldn’t be shocked to receive, one that wouldn’t reveal her sordid little secret. Then on Christmas Day, they’d open their presents, laugh and joke about the various trinkets they’d bought each other, exchange the customary kisses and cuddles, then eat, drink and be merry. It would be like Christmas was supposed to be.

And then they would grow old together. Over the years, their kisses would evolve, from the early passionate embraces where they’d sometimes lose themselves in each other’s scent to short perfunctory touches of each others’ lips. They’d never notice when they began to sit on their own chairs in the living room. It was no big deal, it all happened so gradually. It was no big deal either when they moved to their own bedrooms, after all, they didn’t fuck any more, their physical contact had dwindled to the occasional hug and cuddle.

In the twinkling candle flame she caught a glimpse of her future self, lying alone in bed, as her soulmate slept at the end of the hallway. She saw tears well in the eyes of her future self, and heard herself wonder: how did this happen?

When did this happen?

Then she remembered the note and the candle. The secret she’d thought of revealing, but fed to the flame instead. Perhaps that was where the path of her life diverged, when she’d taken the comfortable path, the respectable path. She’d locked her desires away, like musty boxes in the attic, wanted enough to keep, but too embarrassing to reveal, and ever so slowly, they’d been forgotten. Their passions suppressed, the fire had faded from their relationship. Now they were just friends who’d shared a fabulous life story, and just happened to live in the same house and share the same spaces.

She woke from her daydream with a jolt. A sharp point pricked her finger, beneath her hand, the card was still there.

Her gaze returned to the golden oval of light dancing above the candle wax. Had her future already been set? Or was a different destiny possible? She searched her head for an answer, provoking a dizzying cascade of what-if this and what-if that? She stared into the candle, as if pleading for its divination, it flickered impassively.


* * *


Nancy Jones had been captured!

Now she sat on the bed of the small turret room, her hands cuffed behind her back, waiting for her captor to return. Eventually a metallic rattle in the keyhole signalled the door had been unlocked. She held her breath as the door swung slowly inward with the faintest of squeaks.

His tall frame dominated the doorway. He’d dressed as The Baron, following her instructions meticulously. A pristine white suit hugging his trim athletic torso, the only colour the red and gold silk stripes of an MCC tie. In his right hand he held a large grey round-nosed bedroom slipper, which she immediately recognised. Hello again old friend.

She wore her black hair in a short stacked bob cut with cheek-length bangs that gave her a chic, gamine look. Her short skirt and shirt had been chosen for freedom of movement rather than style, they were clothes for scaling walls, or jumping through a windows, which resulted in an almost tomboyish appearance.

“Ah, Miss Jones”, he announced, in a voice that always made her insides tremble. She met his eyes defiantly.

He closed the door behind him and motioned her to stand, plucking a key from his trouser pocket to undo her cuffs, which clattered to the floor.

“Undress please, Miss Jones”, he said succinctly.

It was not a request, more an expectation.

She complied immediately, unbuttoning her shirt and then skirt, folding them neatly on the bed, after all, there were standards of decorum to maintain. She paused for a moment to allow him to admire the filigree of her fine lace underwear, knowing a connoisseur like him would appreciate it. The eyes of most men would have sparkled with lust at the sight, but the Baron just gave a subtle nod of acknowledgement, one befitting a worldly-wise aristocrat. He seemed determined to put his illustrious captive in her place. She, naturally, would follow her own agenda, attempting to shatter his ice-cold toff act with the sexual heat of her femininity.

Her bra slipped coyly off her shoulders, revealing her small round mounds, and nipples that were already conspicuous erect. The removal of her panties was even more of a performance; as it should be. A whole minute of seductive revelation that demonstrated the glories of every one of her curves en route from the swell of her hips, all the way down her slender legs to the tips of her toes. It culminated in the spectacular final reveal of her magnificently bare pudenda and the gorgeous globes of her bottom.

He could feel his cock stir. The Minx! He knew he needed to reimpose his authority, and quickly.

“You shall now be spanked, Miss Jones, like a naughty schoolgirl.”

His perfectly pronounced threat made her legs wobble. Without thinking her hands drifted behind and rubbed her bare cheeks.

Just two strides brought him to the bed, and he sat purposefully in the manner of a chairman taking his seat in the boardroom. In one smooth movement he jutted a knee between her legs, and pulled her forward by the arm so she toppled over his lap. Before she knew it she found herself with her head behind his waist, her arms and chest resting on the bed and her feet dangling just above the floor.

In this position she could feel the heat of his thigh radiating onto her mound, but frustratingly, her clit was hovering just above the soft wool of his trousers. He let her squirm, as she attempted to rub her little pearl on his leg. So close – but too bad, the dastardly baron would ensure she endured her spanking in a state of yearning frustration.

Putting a girl over one knee was the Baron’s personal favourite spanking position, maximal erotic effect with minimal physical effort. His left leg would keep hers splayed apart, and he could his right to push her legs wider, or clamp them over hers to prevent any kicking. And with her arms outstretched across the bed, she’d be unable to reach back and interfere with her chastisement. All as it should be.

His left hand wandered between her legs, whilst his right simultaneously rubbed the slipper across her bottom.

“Do you know how naughty schoolgirls are spanked, Miss Jones?”

“Very hard, Sir, on their bare bottoms”, she replied earnestly, she didn’t need to ponder that.

His left index finger began to slowly circle her bottom hole, alternating unpredictably, one clockwise, then a few anti-clockwise. Every now and then, he’d let his finger drift downwards, drawing it down the middle of her soft wet lips, until her petals had opened completely. A slick splash of soft puffy pink soon filled the space between her legs.

The first whack of the slipper rudely interrupted Nancy’s blissful reverie. It was a glancing smack, hitting the top half of one bum cheek, momentarily lifting it, imparting a smarting sting and leaving the slipper just above her hip by the time it stopped. A similar whack stung her other cheek moments later.

The next whack landed in the centre of her left buttock, stopping the slipper in its tracks. This was a hot burning impact that expelled her breath in a little yelp, as she ground herself against his leg. Her subsequent slippering was moan-inducing medley of searing thudding whacks and stinging glancing slaps. He spanked quickly and methodically, his elbow barely moving, to ensure his arm wouldn’t tire before her bottom was appropriately sore.

He spanked so hard! She could begin to feel her eyes watering as she squirmed, yelped and gasped. The gap between her legs now felt like a cavernous hole, in those brief pauses between his spanks, she could feel it throb, like her fingers had just been inside her, then abruptly pulled out. Then the slipper would land again, and the yearning throb would be swamped by the fiery sensation that burned across her cheeks. It was excruciatingly divine.

He was building up a rhythm now, which made him recall something he’d read in a bizarre little Victorian book called The Disciplinarians’ Gazetteer. He’d received it for his birthday, delivered with a sly smile and wrapped in a bow. It really was a delight, a treasure trove containing seemingly everything a gentleman might need to know about the spanking arts. There were testimonials from schoolmasters and the clergy, discussing how regular bottom smacking was an effective antidote to moral turpitude. There was advice on not only how to spank, but where to spank, and countless listings of clubs, brothels and bordellos across the Empire where flagellation was not only performed, but seemingly practiced to the point of perfection.

And within the book had been the memorable advice that “a gentleman should spank his minx until he feels his member swell, and continue until it is impossible to contain it in his britches”. He was rapidly reaching that point, his cock was now painfully stiff, and beginning to bend against the confines of his trousers.

His fingers returned between her legs. He smeared them with her excitement, transferring her wetness to around her bottom hole several times. When his fingers suddenly vanished, she moaned, so he cruelly let her squirm in frustration for a few moments. Then she felt the warmth of his left hand on the small of her back, followed by a fingertip crawling down her bottom crack. Seconds later the invading finger was pushing into her arsehole, pinning her in position as his other hand delivered the final volley of her slippering, a set of hard targeted whacks that made her bottom throb and her clit ache.

All of a sudden the smacking stopped, and the room echoed to the sound of their mutual panting.

“To the corner with you, Miss Jones”, he announced after a brief repose, wrapping his arm around her waist and lifting her from his lap.

She wobbled uncertainly to her feet, teetering towards the corner of the room, where she stood swaying slightly.

“Naughty girls hold themselves apart”, he reminded.

“Sorry Sir.”

Nancy reached back and cupped her cheeks in each hand, then slowly pulled them apart, which only exacerbated how much they stung and sizzled. In the process she could feel her labia parting too, admitting cool air to tease her soaking folds. Behind her, she could hear him undressing.

“Why do naughty girls hold their spanked bums open?”, he asked. It was a rhetorical question, she knew the answer well.

His warm breath ebbed through her hair, tickling her scalp and the back of her neck. And then something touched her bottom hole. Nancy knew she was on the edge now, on the very verge of surrendering control, of being taken. In moments she would be impaled, and after that she would be powerless to resist him. She would be defeated by her own yearning, she would let the Baron fuck her until she collapsed in a delirious heap, and she’d enjoy every moment.

One last gambit flashed through her mind.

“Take me on the bed Sir!”

True to the spirit of the game, she remained compliantly submissive. That was the only rule, she couldn’t demur – she had to do anything he said. But it was perfectly legitimate for Nancy to provide a little encouragement. So she turned around, grasped his stiff dick in her hand, and tugged him towards the bed.

“Oh Sir…”, she said coyly, whilst gently squeezing, “So thick and hard, I can’t wait to take it in my tight little bummy hole…”

Her words seduced him onto the bed with no complaint, and she made a point of rewarding his compliance by taking his cock in her mouth.

“Oooo… so wet”, she said in between mouthfuls, “It’ll slip in… so deep…”

From his position on the bed, the Baron didn’t see her hand scrabbling on the floor, but you could say he was distracted.

Now she stepped up onto the bed and knelt, straddling his waist and obediently reaching underneath to position his cock against her bottom hole. She could feel that his member was soaked with her spit and completely rigid.

“I’ve been so very naughty, Sir. I deserve a good seeing-to!”

She could see the lust twinkle in his wide blue eyes as she began to push downward, feeling the tip of his helmet starting to intrude into her bum hole. He reached forward, as if to grasp her hips, but she intercepted his hands, leaning forward to stretch them above his head, encouraging him to grip the bed frame instead. He seemed to enjoy her initiative.

She kept lowering herself downward, gasping as the tip of his cock finally pushed through the tight ring of her arse.

“Oh Sir!”, she exclaimed, as innocently as she could manage.

Then, as a wave of pleasure surged through him, she saw him close his eyes.

It was a move that would have made her heroine proud. As she’d sucked him, her hand had searched the floor for the handcuffs she’d worn. She had kept them out of view behind her whilst she climbed onto the bed. Now, as he was rendered momentarily incapable by his own bliss, she’d reached forward to slip the cuffs behind the bed frame and over his wrists. The cuffs had clicked shut before he’d realised what was happening.

She gave a little yelp of triumph, “My turn!”.

He should have known better. Didn’t he know she was Nancy Jones? Incorrigible minx, daredevil adventurer, and maestro of improvising victory from the jaws of certain defeat.

Tables now turned, she rose, enjoying the sensation as his cock slowly slipped out of her bottom, despite his best efforts to raise his hips and stay inside her. She could see a scowl developing on her captive’s brow, which made her smirk.

Then she turned around, straddling his torso so her bottom rested on his chin. This proved to be a very enjoyable position, because when he breathed, she could feel his warm breath blowing through her legs.

“You’re a very bad man”, she observed, “You’ve made my bottom very hot and sore.”

“It seems I have”, he replied unapologetically.

“I expect you to make amends. You’ll lick my poor spanked cheeks better.”

With his hands trapped at the top of the bed, and the weight of her body pinning him to the bed, it was clear he was no longer in a position to give the orders. She exploited her position by slowly rubbing her perineum up and down the bridge of his nose. The scent was intoxicating. Mouth-watering. He swore if it wasn’t for the cuffs he’d have rolled her over and ravished her there and then.

She altered her stance so she could feel his breath on her left bum cheek, and gave the order.

“Begin licking”

He did as he was told, placing his tongue on her hot skin and painting slow lines with his own saliva. She cooed as his rough tongue tingled her spanked cheeks, leaving a wet trail that felt delightful as it cooled. When the left cheek was covered to her satisfaction, she shifted so the same treatment could be given to the right.

This was amazing, she thought, surely every girl deserves to have her sore bum soothed by her spanker’s tongue. Her mind drifted into a blissful fug, contemplating the practicalities. Something made her imagine herself as a naughty schoolgirl, skirt rolled up, holding her recently slippered bottom apart in the headmaster’s study. Obviously it would have been rather awkward to have had to ask Sir to soothe her bum with his tongue, so she dreamt she was allowed to nominate another. Then there was a knock on the headmaster’s door. Tim had been her teenage crush; and now he was going to kneel behind her bare spanked bottom, feel the warmth of her punishment against his cheeks, and lick it all better…

“And in between too…”, she commanded.

She lunged forward, pushing her hips back until she felt his tongue press into her bottom hole. That brought his groin within her reach, allowing her to reward the performance of his tongue with tugs of his cock. Soon his tongue was prying into her arse, circling it, pushing into her little hollow, widening her hole and pushing further and further inside. Meanwhile his cock throbbed in her hand, and she encouraged his intrusions with yanks of increasing vehemence.

It was time. She turned around, placing her knees just above his shoulders, and splaying her legs. He had a close-up view of her labia approaching his lips, separated and glistening, her pearl now swollen and protruding. This time she gave no instructions, it was obvious what she expected. His tongue explored her gap, whilst she reached back to grasp his cock, which she angled forward, pointing it at her bottom.

Their endgame had become a contest of wills, of who could make the other erupt first. So she kept his tongue away from her clit, whilst her hand slid over his helmet. She could see the shaved skin of his sac was drum tight now, and his balls trembling as he fought to retain his control.

“Oh Sir, are you going to come?”, she teased, “… and splatter your sticky mess all over my naughty spanked bottom?”

“You are a minx, Nancy Jones!”, he retorted between breaths, “You deserve a good, hard spanking!”

Just the mention of the word made her clit throb and her insides quiver.

“Another spanking, Sir?” she asked coquettishly.

And after that, there were no more words; their conversation continued in gasps.


* * *


The future is unknowable, people are complicated and unpredictable, and the paths of life are many strange. She could only be certain of her own heart, her passion for adventure and desire not to settle for the mediocre, which had burned within her ever since she was a little girl.

She slipped the card bearing her message on top of the slippers and closed the box. Each fold of the wrapping paper made it feel more and more like a fait accompli, as if her secret had already been uttered, and there was no going back.

She tied the snow white box with a strand of vivid red ribbon and tied it into a bow. She wanted it to be conspicuous, its contents were priceless, it was the most important gift she’d ever given.

And then she left it under the Christmas tree, her little pot of gold, hidden among the twinkling lights, just waiting to be discovered.


@spankingtheatre 2013


Originally published at You’re welcome to share.

Punishment Panties

“On the whole human beings want to be good, but not too good, and not quite all the time.” — George Orwell


Alice wore her reins, every day.

She wore them to work under her elegant business suit. She wore them around the house under her jeans. She wore them whenever she went out, hidden beneath her pretty summer dress as she casually chatted with friends. She even wore her reins when she went to the gym, they were clearly visible whenever she undressed, yet no-one ever noticed. It was her kinky secret, hidden in plain sight, beyond the perception of all around her, as they busied themselves with towels, leotards, sprays and all the other paraphernalia of fitness.

Only He could see her reins, only He knew how to take them. He could control her with just one skillful hand. He could tug her, slowly increasing the force she felt, quickly silencing her bratty mouth until she was as still as a statue. He could tease her, slowly releasing his hold, feeling her squirm and longing for more, arching her back expectantly… until another firm tug brought a moan, and a reminder of who was really in charge.

That familiar soreness between her legs had been the sensation of discipline for as long as she could remember. It had begun with the appointment of Ms McGiven, an old-fashioned governess who’d brought with her some very old-fashioned methods of dealing with naughty girls. Goodness, it must have been fifteen years now since the first time.

We are the sum of our stories. And Alice could remember one particular story like yesterday. She thought of it often, retrieving it from her memory like a treasured relic, replaying it when drifting off to sleep with her fingers between her thighs, that one beautiful summer when Penny came to stay.

* * 1 * *

Alice tiptoed over the gravel path cursing its ostentatious crunchiness with every step. Ahead of her was Firecrest Manor, a Georgian-period country house, slightly less grand than its name suggested. Home was a modest cream-stone edifice with three Palladian columns, set amongst beautifully verdant grounds that had exploded into flamboyant bloom with the arrival of summer. How strange that the house seemed so huge when she was young. Once, it had seemed like her very own castle, epic expansive hallways, towering ceilings, always so many more hidden rooms to explore. But the manor had seemed to shrink as Alice had grown bigger, now it paled in comparison with the grand stately homes seen in TV period dramas, with all their wings, ballrooms and servants’ quarters. Nevertheless, Firecrest Manor was still home.

Alongside Alice was her best friend Penny, who’d escaped the suffocating smoggy heat of London to come to stay for a couple of weeks. Penny’s arrival had transformed what had threatened to become a tedious summer holiday alone into a series of shared adventures, secret games and incorrigible hijinks.

The two teens were partners in crime, exploring all the places they’d been told not to go, taking horses from the stables and galloping off like outlaws of old into the surrounding countryside. Together they didn’t just push the boundaries of what they were allowed to do, they improvised rungs and climbed over them, straying far and wide, having a glorious time. As a result, Alice’s governess was becoming increasingly tetchy, stern warnings were being issued, ominous ultimatums: Alice, you know what happens to naughty girls…

A governess! Who had a governess these days? thought Penny when she’d first met Ms McGiven. Penny’s pleased-to-meet-you smiles had gone unreciprocated by the dour older woman who’d been tasked with looking after Alice, and the manor, whilst her parents’ attended to business abroad. Instead of a warm welcome, Penny had received an unexpected talking-to: warning her against misbehaviour, and it was made very clear that just because she was a guest, didn’t mean she wouldn’t be disciplined.

“Disciplined…?”, Penny had asked Alice, as soon as they were out of earshot.

“Oh, that tends to mean spanking”, explained Alice matter-of-factly.

Penny’s mouth had gaped open in surprise.

“Best be good…” Alice added with smirk.

Today though had involved a lot of wilful misbehaviour. It had been a gloriously hot day, far too good to be stuck around the house, but with permission to go swimming unlikely, a conspiracy was hatched.

Misdemeanour One was raiding the pantry to compile a picnic.

Two was taking the horses without permission and riding off to the lake, which her governess had deemed out of bounds.

Three was going skinny dipping.

Four was skipping dinner to eat the various treats in their picnic.

Five was staying out well past dinner time.

And Six was That Thing: an episode of quite delicious naughtiness, a secret they’d be keeping between themselves, no matter what.

All of which meant they approached the weather-beaten front door of the manor with considerable trepidation. Alice had a key, but they didn’t have much of a plan to explain away their absence. Perhaps if they were lucky, they could still sneak in unnoticed. They should have been home hours ago, and they certainly shouldn’t have been anywhere near the lake. The door creaked open unobligingly.

They’d only advanced a couple of footsteps down the hall when Ms McGiven floated into view like a malign spirit.

“And just where have you girls been?”

With their hair still wet and a picnic basket between them, it didn’t need a detective of Sherlock Holmes’ calibre to deduce the case against them. Explaining away such damning evidence was beyond even Alice’s considerable powers of argument, it seemed safer to just keep her mouth shut. An awkward silence filled Firecrest Manor.

“Upstairs!”, shouted the governess.

Two pairs of sullen eyes stared at the lady’s pointing finger.

“To your rooms! Both of you! You may wait at the bottom of your beds. I’ll be up to deal with you both shortly!”

Being dealt with – that sounded ominous, thought Penny, as the girls slouched upstairs in silence. Alice accompanied Penny to her room, one of the guest bedrooms just opposite her own, she recognised the Now What? look on her friend’s face.

“We’re going to be spanked and put to bed”, Alice announced abruptly.

Penny did the open-mouth thing again, “WE?”

“’fraid so”

There was another awkward silence as the implications of their fate percolated through their minds.

“Pen, we need to get ready, before The Wicked Witch comes upstairs. Wash and clean teeth, and go to the loo.”

“For real?” Penny mumbled, her mind still processing the bit about the spanking.

There wasn’t time to explain, so Alice just tugged her friend towards the bathroom. Penny trailed along reluctantly, dazed by this sudden turn of events.

Ten minutes and several ablutions later, they were back in Penny’s room. Alice was no stranger to spankings, but she suspected Penny hadn’t been disciplined much. But no need to make it into a big deal, thought Alice, what was going to happen was just like one of the spanking games they sometimes played together, except someone else would be doing the smacking. And it would probably hurt more.

It was a good mindset, thought Alice, every trial and tribulation could be re-imagined as a game if you tried. Just stay playful, and you never know, Penny might even enjoy it. A tiny smile appeared on Alice’s face.

“Penelope Templeton!” said Alice theatrically, doing her best to channel the spirit of their strict headmistress, “you’ve been a very naughty girl!”

Momentarily startled, Penny looked back at Alice – seeing her standing with her hands on her hips, nose indignantly in the air. She quickly recognised her friend’s mannerisms, from Their Game.

“Yes Miss…”, replied Penny meekly, playing along.

“And what happens to naughty girls?”, inquired Alice.

Penny could feel herself blushing as she contemplated her reply. “They get spanked, Miss… on their bare bottoms…”

“That’s right, Penelope, bare bum is best for a good hard spanking. Now, get undressed, young lady.”

Penny obeyed readily, lifting her summer dress over her head and then her vest top, folding the discarded garments neatly on her dressing table. Her bra followed, until she stood before her friend wearing only her skimpy panties. Her fingers hovered over the elastic of the waistband dramatically, although Alice wasn’t quite sure if she was just milking the moment, or waiting to be commanded. She gave the order anyway.

“Pull down your panties…” she said sternly.

Penny’s panties stretched and slipped over her hips. There was one last sensation, a fleeting tingling as her gusset clung to her moist lips, then slowly pulled away with all the reluctance of parting lovers. Then there was the long shameful descent down her thighs, until gravity did the rest and they dropped around her feet – from where they were quickly consigned to the laundry basket to conceal her sticky little secret. And then Penny was standing naked in front of Alice. Not for the first time today.

The guest bedroom was dominated by an antique Victorian bedstead. Its frame was an elegant medley of sturdy iron and elaborate brass flourishes. From the bottom of the bed, it looked like an intricately decorated garden gate, with a lattice of horizontal black-painted iron rails running between the two corner posts, each topped by a round shiny brass knob.

Whilst Penny stood contritely with her head bowed, Alice fetched one of the bed’s pillows, and folded it over the uppermost rail at the foot of the bed.

“Stand on the bottom rail, young lady… and bend over the pillow!”

Penny did as she was told, the upper rail was almost as high as her waist, stretching her legs as her toes balanced on the bed’s narrow bottom rail. She had to put her hands down on mattress for support.

“Now, legs apart…”

Alice nudged Penny’s feet to the side, until each foot was almost touching the corner post. This splayed her legs apart, parting her buttocks and revealing her most intimate parts, a smudge of darker skin around her puckered hole and oyster-shell-shaped lips that were already bright pink and puffy.

Alice fondled her friend’s delightfully soft round buttocks, prompting Penny to gasp and wiggle alluringly. She desperately wished she could spank them herself, but knew her governess would not be best pleased if she arrived to find someone else had usurped her responsibilities and Penny’s bum was already pink.

“Pen…”, she whispered, “I have to go and bend over my own bed now. Her Ladyship will be up soon to spank us. Don’t worry, it’ll be just like our little game.”

“We have been rather naughty today…”, admitted Penny.

As a parting gift, Alice slowly ran two fingers from the small of Penny’s back, down between her bottom cheeks. She felt her fingers skirt the dimple of her bottom hole before encountering her soft moist folds, which she massaged until she could feel her sticky wetness between her fingertips. She wondered if Penny knew The Secret: that being aroused during a spanking not only made it hurt less, but much more enjoyable too.

Her fingers glanced around Penny’s hot little pearl, as she leant over the bed to kiss her on the cheek, and they whispered their goodnights.

Alice hurried across the hallway to her own room and undressed quickly. Just as she’d done for Penny, she retrieved a pillow and folded it over the brass rail at the bottom of her own bed. A nervous glance at her open door: no one there yet. Her fingers darted between her legs, rubbing urgently, but she was careful not to push herself too close to the edge. Experience had taught her that suitably aroused, spankings were tolerable, sometimes even strangely enjoyable. But climaxing would rob her of the pleasurable aftershocks of each whack, making her skin so sensitive and tender she’d feel each smack as an excruciating sting.

She lingered between her labia as long as she dared, before reluctantly stepping onto the bottom rail of her bedstead and bending over the pillow. She adjusted her stance, sliding her feet wide until her legs were spread apart, and she could feel the cool air teasing her dewy lips.

And waited…


* * 2 * *


We are the sum of our stories.

And a new chapter of Alice’s life was just beginning.

She’d left school. She’d travelled. She’d gone on adventures. She’d earned a degree. She’d found a great job, doing what she loved. And now, she’d met someone.

A great day was turning into a great evening. Dinner and wine al fresco on the restaurant patio, with the high summer sun seemingly frozen above the horizon, as if it was reluctant to bring the day to an end.

Sitting opposite Alice was Patrick. Quiet Patrick. Thoughtful Patrick. Inscrutable Patrick.

She’d first encountered him on another patio during a friend’s party, amid a group earnestly discussing the modern-day frustrations of life and work. Physically, he was unremarkable, she only started to pay attention to him because he was the only one not talking. Whilst his companions whined and bellyached, empathising with each others’ vexations in an escalating game of oh-you-think-that’s-bad one-upmanship, he just listened silently, as if pondering the solution to a perplexing conundrum.

Her first words to him: “You don’t say much”.

His first words to her: “I don’t like to complain”.

Then they’d introduced themselves, and had kept chatting even after all the others had wandered away, cathartically unburdened of their various first-world miseries. Patrick turned out to be very easy to talk to, not at all as shy or aloof as her initial impressions had suggested. He spoke quietly and deliberately, as if she was a library, and he was picking books off her shelves, thumbing through her pages, gleaning her plot.

He was more abstruse. Within fifteen minutes of meeting most men, Alice had usually been told his occupation, a recent glorious achievement and an anecdote that alluded to his exotic, adventurous lifestyle. But conversations between friends were different, free from the need to boast, impress or solicit praise. Talking to Patrick was refreshingly natural, their dialogue flowed naturally, surging enthusiastically downstream, spawning a delta of new subjects, themes and possibilities. They made each other laugh and smile, and resolved to meet again.

And soon, they had become more intimate than friends.

They had spent today in the hills walking up an appetite. Not just a hunger, but that yearning to see the other undressed again. Now, with dinner beginning to sate their hunger, it was the other appetite that began to influence their conversation, and with Alice now pleasantly tipsy, their exchanges were becoming entertainingly flirtatious.

The conversation was segueing from nature to naturism.

“You like the wilderness” he’d observed.

“Yeah! When I was a girl, I loved exploring the countryside. My favourite place was the little blue lake…”, a smirk was followed by a conspiratorial whisper, “… I loved skinny dipping.”

He picked up on the hints of illicitness she’d dropped, like a sparrow following breadcrumbs. “Really? And did your parents approve?”

“Oh, they never knew! I used to sneak out there when the days were hot. It was my governess I had to evade. She often caught me.”

“And did she punish you?”

Alice looked down coyly, “… of course…”


She leant across the table, whispering salaciously, “She spanked me. Long… hard spankings on my bare bottom. With a little leather paddle. Can you imagine? And then…”

She bit off the rest of the sentence, suddenly aware that her runaway enthusiasm might have revealed too much.

“And then…”, he prompted.

Alice sat back in her seat, blushing deeply, refusing to elaborate further.

Patrick liked to make her blush. He lamented how blushing had become synonymous with embarrassment and loss of face. To him, blushing was delightful. A real man should strive to make a lady blush, because the radiance of her skin was the shine of her life force. When a lady blushes, her heart thumps, her skin tingles and her mind races. What a beautiful gift to give.

To Patrick, Alice’s half-revelation was like wandering freely around a house, and then discovering a locked door. He knew something intriguing lay behind it – and if the owner of the house wouldn’t open it, he would just have to pick the lock.

Intrigued, Patrick began to ask Alice about her governess. Alice talked about her affectionately, she seemed to have a genuine respect for her former guardian, even if she’d occasionally found it necessary to spank her charge’s bare bottom. But Alice recalled her spankings with a smirk, as if they were just part of some flirty power struggle.

Then without saying a word, Alice pushed her seat back and left for the Ladies. In her absence, Patrick pondered what she’d said, replaying her comments. Her governess did seem to have controlled Alice’s natural impetuousness – through a method Alice was in no hurry to reveal.

Eventually, Alice returned, walking past her empty seat to stand beside him, subtly dropping something into his lap. She bowed slightly to whisper into her companion’s ear: “I’ll be at the car”.

He examined the item on his lap. A pair of panties.

Still warm.

Disgracefully damp.

He caught the eye of the maître d’, writing in the air – a universal mime.


* * *


During the drive home, the hem of Alice’s floaty dress migrated from just above her knee to just below her hip. It seemed to be a fraction higher every time Patrick took his eyes off the road to look down at her lap. So by the time the car whooshed up his driveway, he was already painfully hard, his tight jeans forming a tormenting vice. Now he could just about see her bare mound peeping out from underneath the hem, and the hint of her groove disappearing into the shadows between her thighs.

Patrick hopped out of the car almost as soon as it had stopped, without even turning off its headlights, which spot-lit the garden’s small ornamental fountain. He strode purposefully to the passenger door, opening it courteously, offering her his hand like a gentleman should, helping her rise from her seat. Alice accepted the honour, only to find he kept hold of her hand, and was leading her somewhere. She teetered a couple of footsteps behind him, as he dashed towards the fountain, a pool of light amid the dusky shadow.

At the fountain, he stopped abruptly.

“Tonight, you’ve been a very naughty girl.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing…” she reposted, flirtatiously.

Alice felt her hem being lifted above her waist, exposing her naughtiness, the warm evening air making her moist lips tingle. Her dress continued its ascent, over her breasts and up over her head. She raised her arms instinctively, Alice hadn’t been undressed like this for years, her governess used to do this to her, before she put her to bed. Just the memory made her tummy flutter.

Moments later, Patrick had dropped her dress on the ground, and unclipped her bra. He planted his left foot on its low stone wall, hauling Alice over his raised knee. She rose to her tip-toes, bending over without resistance, her palms plunging into the cool water of the fountain pool.

Head down, Alice’s blonde hair tumbled across her face. Just as it always did when she bent over the bottom of her bedstead.

A hard slap brought her back to the present, stinging her bottom.

Alice gasped, first at the impact, then at the realisation she was being spanked naked in the open air. Only one other house overlooked Patrick’s front garden, but Alice had no idea who lived there, or even if they were home right now. She moaned as another series of loud smacks landed. If the neighbours were home, they’d surely be peering curiously out of their windows now. Would they be shocked – or intrigued by what they saw? A smartly dressed man by the fountain, illuminated by his own car’s headlights, with a naked lady over his knee, being soundly spanked.

Alice’s hair was dipping into the trickling water, which glowed and sparkled in the limelight. With enough light to see the blurry reflection of her own face, she stared in fascination at how her mouth gaped with every smack. Patrick spanked with unexpected expertise. Her pussy was soon as wet as her hands.


The incident at the fountain was merely the overture to an evening-long performance of teasing, pleasing and bottom smacking.

Patrick was determined to extricate Alice’s secret: what was her governess’s special punishment? Alice refused to say. He tried spanking the secret from her, with a variety of implements, in a variety of humiliating positions. But it was like hammering on a castle gate, its defenders merely added more bars, and Alice’s mouth remained resolutely sealed.

Perhaps there was an alternative way past her defences. He fetched some cuffs, tying her down, so her hands and feet were apart. Then he slipped a finger inside her, and slowly beckoned her towards the edge. And just as Alice felt she was about to burst. He stopped.

Alice bucked and writhed against her bonds, aching for that extra touch.

He asked again.

Again, Alice just smirked in silence.

He took her to the edge several times, it was a delightful torment, but his question continued to go unanswered. Alice seemed to enjoy this particular plight too much. It was almost as if she didn’t need to come, and she was quite content to be pleasured like this all night.

Patrick pondered. What did she need? She didn’t need the spankings to stop, and she didn’t need to climax. A verse of a poem he’d learned at school swam through his thoughts.

“Our gates were strong, our walls were thick,

So smooth and high, no man could win

A foothold there, no clever trick

could take us in…”

His eyes scanned the bedroom, looking for leverage, before running through a mental inventory of the rooms nearby. He thought of the bathroom, there was a small pot of Vicks in the cabinet, he could lube his fingers and slowly push them deep into her bottom. The sensation would be akin to sitting on an icicle, it would certainly make her squirm – but he doubted it would make her talk.

Alice broke the silence of his contemplation.

“I need to pee.”

Ah… thought Patrick with a smile, there was something she needed. How did that poem go?

“There was a little private gate,

A little wicked wicket gate

The wizened warder let them through”

Patrick smiled, there was always another way in.

He unclipped her cuffs from the bed, helping her up onto her wobbly legs. Then to Alice’s surprise he clipped her wrist cuffs together again, behind her back. She was even more surprised when he fetched her panties from his jacket pocket and made her step into them. Patrick noticed her knees tremble as he slowly pulled her panties up her legs to her slick puffy slit. Alice gave a little moan as he tugged them up tight. It was a very familiar sensation. Had he guessed? How could he have known?

Patrick escorted her to the loo. With her hands bound behind her, Alice felt like a prisoner being taken to her cell. Nevertheless, Alice had expected some privacy, she hadn’t expected him to follow her in.

“Sit down.”

She did as she was told, feeling the cold seat soothe the warm soreness of her spanked bottom. Sitting with hands bound behind her on loo turned out to be quite exciting, and for a while she sat with her eyes closed, just appreciating the sensations, before the pressure down below served a reminder of what had brought her here.

“Aren’t you going to pull down my panties?”, she asked.

“What was your governess’s special punishment?”, he countered.

Alice remained tight-lipped; but he noticed her smirk had gone, and wondered if perhaps the lock was yielding. A few more tweaks perhaps. He knelt beside her, reaching behind the toilet pedestal to fasten her ankle cuffs together, splaying her knees apart, and revealing the conspicuous damp patch in the crotch of her silky ivory-hue panties.

She sat on the loo, bound and immobile, half aroused by her predicament, half humiliated by it.

“I know a naughty girl with a spanked bum who’s going to pee her panties”, he teased.

In reply, she stuck her tongue out. But it was an act of bratty bravado she knew would be difficult to maintain. By now, she was desperate to go. She couldn’t remember ever wetting herself, the last time would have been in that distant hinterland of childhood, in that time before memories really start. And now, she was going to pee in her panties. Her lovely silk panties. She wouldn’t even be able to conceal her shame by closing her thighs, she was going to humiliate herself in one long mortifying gush in front of the man that she adored.

Her eyes looked at him pleadingly.

And then he knew; yes, shame and not pain was her little wicket gate, the lever to her soul.

He repeated his question, offering to uncuff her ankles and pull down her panties in exchange for her answer.

In her heart, Alice knew she’d have to concede, that even if she humiliated herself now and held her silence, the night was long, and his devious mind would eventually find a way through. By now an ache was spreading from her waist, and she was having to squeeze to hold it back, the faintest tickle would set her off.

He repeated his question, his voice curious, not pestering.

“She called them Punishment Panties…” she whispered.

He nodded, reaching down to release her ankles. She jumped to her feet immediately, crossing her thighs, her eyes imploring him to tug down her panties. Patrick being Patrick, he couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease her one last time, and took his time slowly sliding her knickers down to her ankles. Finally, Alice got to plunge back down to the toilet seat and close her legs. She relieved herself with a massive sigh, which despite her audience and having her hands tied behind her, was the still best pee she could ever remember.

We are the sum of our stories, and later, in the bedroom, as his skillful fingers caressed the length and breadth of her body, she recounted one of hers. It was one she’d never told anyone before: the night she and her best friend were put into punishment panties. And as he explored her every nook, fold and wrinkle, she revealed the secret of her reins.


* * 3 * *


Alice and Penny had waited, and waited.

Audrey McGiven had been in no hurry to punish her charges, and had left them to wait, exposed in their disgrace and simmering in their apprehension. Ultimately the girls felt the governess’s footsteps before they heard them; beginning as almost intangible tremors, somehow amplified by the hollow tubes of each bedstead and their hypersensitive imaginations. They felt her approach as a tiny tremble, first in their toes, then in their thighs, and then their tummies. Soon they could hear her narrow-heel shoes clip-clopping up the old wooden stair-boards.

Ms McGiven’s stern, almost old-fashioned disposition might give those who’d encountered her the impression she was much older than she actually was. Despite her governess title, she was no dowager battleaxe, but a physically attractive woman in her early thirties, with an innate confidence that demanded obedience. For as long as she could remember, she had been spanking bottoms; not just naughty girls and boys, but when the occasion presented itself: naughty men and women too.

With an image of a disciplinarian to project, Audrey liked to dress the part, often wearing dark-coloured full-length skirts matched with a plain white blouse. She also collected Edwardian corset dresses, for when she really wanted to make an impression. Her black hair was short, styled in a bob, with a straight fringe and jaw-length bangs that perfectly framed her you’ll-do-what-I-say frowns.

On reaching the hallway between their rooms, the governess looked into Penny’s room first, and was happy to find her bent over the foot of her bed – naked and exposed, as expected. She left without comment, and entered Alice’s room, finding her in an identical position.

“I’m very disappointed in you, Alice.”

In this position, bent over the bedframe, Alice’s head was bowed so close to her mattress that her shoulder length blond hair fell over her face, a shroud for her blushes. From behind it, her voice mustered a mumbled apology.

Alice’s curtain of hair also meant she didn’t see her governess pull some short black straps from her pocket. Ms M knelt on one knee by the foot of the bed, and looped a strap around each of Alice’s ankles and the neighbouring strut of the bedstead. The velcro fastening crackled as she sealed it, tying Alice in position, ensuring her legs would remain spread open for the duration of her punishment.

From one knee, she looked up between Alice’s open legs. The naughty minx was soaking wet.

“No doubt you were the ringleader of today’s sorry escapade, so you can listen to Penny being punished first”, she announced, rising to her feet.

“Yes Ma’am”, replied Alice meekly.

Alice heard her footsteps recede, and moments later from across the hallway, the familiar crackle of velcro straps.


“I’m very disappointed, Penny”, she began, “I’d hoped you’d be a calming influence on Alice’s impetuousness, not a partner in crime.”

“Sorry, Miss”, peeped Penny, her head bowed just above her mattress.

“As I thought I’d made quite clear when you arrived, in this house, naughty girls go to bed with sore bottoms. Have you been spanked before, Penny?”

Given her last spanking was over Alice’s knee, Penny felt it was best to curtail that particular line of questioning.

“No Miss!”

The governess surveyed the glistening gap between the Penny’s legs.

“I see you find the prospect of a sore bum quite exciting, nonetheless…”

This was good, she liked to see girls wet before she spanked them, it demonstrated their thoughts were fully occupied by their predicament. Penny gasped as the older lady’s fingers began to glide between her legs, brushing through her thin fuzz of intimate hair. Delicate fingers explored her folds, finding them already slick with her arousal. She moaned as she felt the hood of her clit being tugged back, unaware it was a classic governess test of old, one to tell if a girl had recently fiddled herself to a climax. It seemed she hadn’t. The fingers reappeared beside her bottom hole, stretching the surrounding skin, checking its cleanliness. Her inspector seemed to be satisfied.

A firm hand pushed down on the small of Penny’s back. Moments later, Ms M’s open palm slapped across her bottom. Almost instinctively, Penny bucked against her bonds, but the hand on her back helped suppress her wriggling. More loud slaps followed, Audrey was spanking Penny slowly, deliberately: letting her appreciate the sensation of each smack. How the sting spread, how the sting turned to heat – and how it slowly radiated away before a new hot spot suddenly appeared somewhere on her other cheek.

The slow smacking continued for several minutes, getting louder and sorer. From the neighbouring room it sounded like a small, bored and particularly restive audience. Until suddenly, it stopped.

“Now Penny, I’m going to deal with Alice. You can stand there and feel your bottom glow. But don’t think your punishment is over, young lady.“

More? Penny sighed inwardly, but held her tongue.


* * *


Ms M marched purposefully into Alice’s room. Bent over and facing her mattress, Alice never saw her governess lift the hem of her midnight blue ankle-length skirt, and so continued to be unaware that underneath, tucked into a garter along the inside of her thigh, was where Ms M kept her leather paddle. It was her totem, the source of some very fond memories, and Audrey liked to keep it close, occasionally it rubbed her leg when she moved, like some kinky witch’s cat. The first Alice knew of it was when she felt its cool smooth surface gliding across her bottom, which by now was a quite familiar sensation. It was also her cue to be a good girl, to apologise and ask for her punishment.

“I’m sorry for being such a naughty girl, Ma’am”, Alice said earnestly, pushing her bum out slightly, “Please may I have a very hard spanking on my bare bottom?”

Her request was granted immediately, Alice felt the older lady’s hand pressing on the small of her back, which was followed by a series of stinging whacks to the lower insides of her buttocks.

Her governess spanked expertly: slowly and accurately, almost professionally. Did people spank professionally? Alice did wonder about the background of her mysterious disciplinarian, she seemed to know her parents very well, she hadn’t just turned up at their doorstep like some modern day Mary Poppins. And her parents trusted Ms M completely, not only with their daughter, but with their household.

The latest smacks were hard enough to leave Alice gasping, but were delivered infrequently enough to allow her to regain her composure. Audrey felt she put effort into each spank, and felt the recipient should savour it, from its hot fiery impact to its lingering stinging aftermath. For her part, Alice knew it was only polite to demonstrate some appreciation of her discipline.

Sometimes she’d whimper a “Ahh. Thank you, Ma’am.”

Or a “Ooo. I’ve been so very naughty.”

Sometimes even a “Oww. Please spank me harder.”

Her expressions of contriteness were no charade, Alice did mean what she said. She had misbehaved wilfully, and understood she deserved a sore bum as the consequence. She was a big girl now, and big girls took responsibility for their actions.

Eyes closed and senses heightened, Alice could feel each whack reverberating through her, they emanated from her bum, rippling out through her thighs and crotch, the echoes of each strike making her clit quiver in harmony with the faint trembles in the hollow bedstead frame she was bending over.

A drop of dew seeped from Alice’s hole, trickling down between the folds of her lips.

A bead of sweat trickled down Audrey’s temple, meandering down her cheek.

And across the hall, Penny ground herself against her pillow in time to the nearby muffled slaps.


Eventually, there was a much longer pause between spanks. Alice braced herself, but the next smack never came. Instead her governess walked to nearby chest of drawers, out of which she took out a pair of plain white panties. The drawer had once been full of such panties, fresh smelling and neatly folded. One was removed for use each time Alice was naughty; now the drawer was almost empty.

It was an unremarkable garment, snow white, conservative in appearance, with no lacework or frills, predominantly cotton with some stretchy synthetics to give it a tighter fit. A pair of everyday knickers, of the kind found under schoolgirls’ skirts across the globe. It had been fashioned to hide rather than show, with a high waist to ensure all of a young lady’s pubic bush would be discreetly covered, and a gusset wide enough to enclose all of her fleshy secrets, no matter how wide she might spread her legs. The fabric was cut slightly shorter at the hip, its sole concession to comfort over modesty.

“Time for your punishment panties, young lady.”

Alice resisted the considerable temptation to complain, to argue the case that she’d been punished enough. She knew the rules, bit her lip and acquiesced, “Yes, Ma’am.”

Ms M knelt by the foot of the bed and untied the straps that had kept Alice’s legs spread apart. From here, she could see at close quarters the pink blush she’d applied to Alice’s bottom, the rounded edge of her favourite paddle had left no red marks, giving her a buzz of satisfaction on a job well done. Between her pink globes, a thin patch of paler skin, divided by the ridge of her swollen lips, and hints of the moist pink crevice between. The girl’s arousal was both obvious and expected, so she let it pass without comment, and helped a wobbly-legged Alice stand down from the bed.

Audrey knelt again, holding the panties just above the floor. Alice stepped into them daintily, then stood still as her governess began to slowly pull them upwards. The garment glided past her calves, over her knees, slipping along her thighs, up over her tender pink bottom to her waist, before Audrey finally tugged them firmly upward to ensure they were snug around Alice’s crotch. Audrey delighted in how humiliating this simple manoeuvre could be, how it could make a naughty girl or boy feel so infantile, so humbled.

Satisfied, she turned Alice around to face her bed, who took the hint and stepped up onto the bottom rail of the bedframe, bending over the pillow once more. Alice felt her governess grip the waistband of her panties, just below the small of her back, and tug her forward, pulling Alice’s panties further into her bottom crevice.

The ensuing burning sensation, a hot line of pain running from her mound all the way to the gap between her bum, would have been familiar to anyone who’d ever experienced a playground wedgie. But this was no quick pull-and-run, this was a sustained, carefully crafted agony, one that would be combined with bottom-smacking to create a deliciously painful torment.

With her other hand, Audrey picked up her paddle and began spanking again. A veteran of this mode of punishment by now, Alice knew the more she struggled and wiggled, the further her panties would creep between her legs. So she tried to remain still, taking her spanking like a good girl should. Nevertheless, bit by bit, the white cotton covering her bum slipped away, bunching between her cheeks, revealing more and more of her sore pink mounds to her disciplinarian’s paddle.

Occasionally, Audrey would pause her paddling, and tell Alice to reach behind her and pull her stinging cheeks apart. This allowed the governess to make tiny adjustments to the gusset of Alice’s punishment panties, ensuring they remained appropriately positioned: tightly running over her clit, down between her puffy inner lips, so Alice would felt the material rubbing against her vagina’s opening. From there the garment – now narrowed to almost the width of a thong – would run across her perineum, over her bottom hole, and up the crack between her buttocks.

Soon, Audrey was satisfied that Alice’s panties were tight enough, and her bottom sore enough – and guided Alice off the bedframe and back down to stand on the floor. Alice’s bum smoldered painfully from her spanking, but she mastered her urge to rub and kept her hands by her waist.

“Pyjamas on, please”, Audrey ordered.

Alice longed to reach between her legs and release herself from the painfully tight grip of her underwear. But with her governess watching she had no choice but to step into her powder blue pyjama bottoms and reluctantly pull them up over her punishment panties. Once she’d pulled the pyjama top over Alice’s head, the governess reached underneath, tucking it in, ensuring the waistband of her panties – by now flapping loosely at the small of her back – remained outside.

And it was no accident that she’d chosen pyjama bottoms with a drawstring waist, it enabled Audrey to tug them up high above the curve of Alice’s hips, and tie them with a special knot to ensure Alice wouldn’t be able to pull them down again.

“Tiptoes please…”

This was Alice’s cue to stand with her back to the bedstead and stretch on her tiptoes, making herself as tall she could. Whereupon her governess took a short length of cord from her pocket, and passed it around and through the elongated waist of Alice’s stretched panties. Then she looped the cord around the top rail of the bedstead, which was only just a bit higher, and pulled the cord tight, pulling the waist of Alice’s panties up until it was beginning to wrap around the rail, and Alice herself was forced up onto the very tips of her toes.

Finally Audrey took the straps off the bed that had previously secured Alice’s ankles, and fastened them around each of Alice’s wrists, moving each of Alice’s hands beside her waist and tying them to the underside of the nearest rail of the bedframe. Her meticulous bondage was deliberate, ensuring Alice would not be able to reach back and support her weight with her arms; she would have to bear it all on her tiptoes instead, pointing like a ballerina.

The governess reviewed her work with a sense of professional pride. Dressed in her pale blue pyjamas, and with her hands flattened to her sides, Alice looked as if she had just climbed out of her bedroom window, and was now tiptoeing around a perilously narrow ledge. Head bowed, Alice’s eyes were hidden by her blond fringe, but Audrey could see enough of Alice’s face to recognise a grimace.

“Not so clever now, young lady?”

“No Ma’am. Sorry Ma’am”, Alice murmured.

“Now, you can hang there by your panties and listen to Penny having her bum whacked. And you can think about how her sore bottom is all your fault.”

Alice wanted to plead for leniency on Penny’s behalf, but knew her friend’s imminent suffering was an integral part of her own punishment. That she’d got them both into trouble, and now she would have to take responsibility for the consequences.

Alice had felt bad enough listening to Penny’s earlier spanking. Feelings of guilt amplified by the fact she’d found it so arousing too. As she laid bent over her bed, she’d daydreamed about escaping from her bonds like a master thief, then climbing down from her bed and creeping stealthily across the hallway. She’d be as good as invisible as she peeped around the bedroom door, able to stare in rapt fascination as her governess painted Penny’s pretty bum pink, whilst watching her wet slit swell and gape.

Now, from across the hallway Alice heard the thuddy slap of her governess’s paddle on Penny’s bottom, accompanied by startled gasps. Ms M was spanking hard, it sounded like a proper naughty girl whacking, with cries and ows and muffled sniffles. Sorry Pen, she thought, wincing in sympathy with every subsequent smack.

Alice’s attention was soon recaptured by her own discomfort. She was standing on the very tips of her toes, if she sank lower – even by a fraction – her panties would be pulled up even further between her legs. The tender skin between her intimate holes already felt as if it was burning, and another hot spot was developing within her bottom crack, just below her tail bone. Alice doubted she’d be wanting to ride her horse for a few days.

And Alice’s feet were tiring. The less of her own weight she could bear on her toes, the greater the force pulling her panties upwards and into her most sensitive areas. Alice could feel her clit, swollen and hard, gripped tight by the material bunched between her crotch.

I deserve this, thought Alice. Her aching feet sank lower, pulling her gusset deeper inside her. Guilt and punishment panties were a powerful combination, every gasp and squeal coming from Penny’s room seemed to weaken Alice’s defiance, eroding her stance into a guilty slouch.

Sorry, Penny, she whispered to herself, moaning as her panties pulled even tighter, feeling them beginning to push against her vagina and tug back the hood protecting her little pearl.

She relaxed the muscles of her legs, increasing the burning sensation at her crotch. Alice wished her governess could see her now, so accepting of her fate, submitting so completely to her punishment. The thought of being punished so her friend might be spared was weirdly cathartic. Alice the Martyr buzzed with a righteousness that was inexplicably erotic.

And then there was silence.


* * *


Penny’s eyes were watering. She wasn’t crying – of course! – she wasn’t a child any more. It must just have been the effect of repeatedly clenching her eyelids shut as that woman’s cruel paddle had whacked her poor bottom. Yes, that must be it. She mentally congratulated herself on bearing her ordeal so stoically.

The smacking seemed to have stopped, from behind her there was a crackle of velcro, and she felt the ties around her ankles being released. This allowed Penny to finally step down from the bed and give her poor stinging bum a rapid, furtive rub whilst her tormentor wandered over to the chest of drawers. Her bum felt like she’d accidentally sat on an Aga hotplate.

Ms McGiven returned carrying some pale pink pyjamas and a pair of plain white panties, which she held up in front of Penny’s face. A seductive smell filled her nostrils: cotton dried on a windblown washing line.

“Now, Penny, these are your punishment panties. Once I’ve put them on you and pulled them up tight, you’re not to fiddle with them, and you will wear them all night. Is that clear?”

Penny nodded solemnly, keen to regain some of her modesty.

The governess knelt, holding the knickers open just above the floor, and Penny obediently stepped into the leg holes. Having her panties pulled up made her blush vividly, and her hands fly up to hide her face. It was unbelievably humiliating, far worse than standing naked in front of a woman she barely knew. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had pulled up her panties, it had almost certainly been her mummy whilst she was potty training – in that unremembered limbo before her earliest memories.

The panties passed over the bump of Penny’s knees and drifted upwards, unimpeded until her thighs became as wide as the leg holes. Thereafter the white cotton fabric began to cling and stretch, teasing her most sensitive skin on its climb towards her groin. Even worse, the governess seemed to take special delight meticulously adjusting the gusset, ensuring all the material went between her embarrassingly wet puffy lips. Then she tugged Penny’s panties slowly up over her hips, the tight clingy material dragging across her bum’s sore pinkness, making every patch sting and ache, before disappearing between her bottom cheeks.

Once her panties had been pulled up snuggly, Penny was escorted backwards until she stood against her bedframe.

“On your tiptoes, as high as you can please.”

Penny did what she was told without fuss. Then from behind her, there was fiddling and a faint tinging noise, like a small bell being rung, as the cord was tied, pulling her panties tight around the hollow brass bed rail.

What’s this all about? wondered Penny, as her wrists were tied by her sides. It was only when she tried to take some of her weight off her tiptoes, and felt her panties being pulled painfully upwards, that she understood.

Ah – this must be why she called them Punishment Panties, thought Penny; who’d always been a quick learner. After her quite traditional spanking this particular predicament did seem rather surreal, like a form of discipline that belonged to England’s strictest ballet school. She bit her lip, fast discovering the gnawing cramp of standing on her tiptoes was preferable to the burning discomfort in her most intimate places if she didn’t.

Audrey surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction, and left Penny to hang whilst she revisited Alice. By now Alice’s heels had almost sunk to the floor, which had stretched and pulled her panties deep within her. At the front her pubis was as pink as her smacked bottom behind her. It looked appropriately painful.

“Have you learnt your lesson, young lady?”

“Yes, Ma’am” was the meek reply.

“And what have you learnt?”

“Obedience, Ma’am. I’m sorry I disobeyed you. It was very naughty. I deserved to be punished.”

Audrey thought her use of the past tense presumptuously optimistic, but let it pass as she untied Alice’s wrists, and then her panties, allowing Alice to sink to the floor with a grateful sigh.

Then she took Alice’s hand and led her across the hall. Poor Penny was hanging from her bed frame, just as Alice had been, a scowl of discomfort and concentration on her face as she tried to remain balanced on her tiptoes.

“I’m sorry Penny, for getting you into trouble.”

Penny flashed her if-you’re-not-living-on-the-edge-you’re-taking-up-too-much-room smile. It was an expression she often used when they were plotting their various schemes and hijinks. It immediately made Alice feel so much better, that despite all the pain, Penny still loved her, and still wanted to rattle the world with her.

After exchanging goodnights, Alice was led back to her room and put to bed like a naughty girl: tucked in before the light was put out.

Alice lay on her back in the gloom, as the achy sting of her spanked bottom and the hot pain of her tight panties burned underneath her. She still felt a lingering guilt about getting her friend into trouble, all this added to the shameful torment of sexual frustration she was unable to remedy. Her pyjama bottoms had been specially tied and could not be pulled down, and her tender clit was now shrouded by the bunched gusset of her panties, like some cruel fabric chastity belt.

From across the hallway she could hear Penny being put to bed too.

The fiery throbbing between her legs contrived to keep her awake. She lay in the dark, simmering in a crucible of shame and neediness, contrition and desperation, pain and arousal. The same words floated through her mind like hallucinations: naughty girl, very disappointed, punishment, hung by the panties, disobedient, partners in crime.

Eventually tiredness overwhelmed her, sweeping her into vivid dreams of precarious predicaments and devious jeopardies.


* * *


You’re galloping through scenery that is unmistakably Western. A dream-like pastiche of all the cowboy films Alice had ever seen, dusty canyons, bone-dry deserts, towers of prickly cacti and seemingly endless prairies.

You’re riding your favourite horse, Sugarlump, a tan coloured colt with a small white patch on his forehead. Beside you is Penny riding Chestnut, her own beautiful maroon colt, his coal black mane flowing in the wind.

You are wearing handkerchiefs over your faces, partly to keep the dust from your noses, but also to conceal your identities. You are outlaws. They call you The Bad Girls: Bad Alice and Bad Penny. You’ve become the most notorious lady outlaws in living memory, infamous for your high-speed hijinks: robberies of moving trains, lightning bank raids and audacious bullion wagon hijacks. The more daring the better. You do try not to hurt anyone, well, not seriously anyway.

Both of you are wearing pale yellow dropseat pyjamas. A rather bizarre attire for outlaws. But you had been hiding out in a remote deserted ranch when you’d heard the posse approach, and you’d had to flee from your beds straight to your steeds without being able to dress. Now you’re riding for your lives along a trail in a dense broadleaf wood, trying to outrun your pursuers. But your horses are tiring. Behind you, the thundering of hooves is growing louder.

Suddenly you catch sight of a rider just behind you. This track is so narrow, thick with trees on all sides, preventing you from veering to evade him. You spur Sugarlump onward, desperately hoping for a burst of speed. You hear something whoosh towards you, and a lasso drops over you, pulling tight around your chest a moment later, pinning your arms to your sides.

Beside you, Penny sees what’s happened and slows her horse to a trot, trying to free you. But a lasso entangles her too. Moments later, the posse has surrounded you. As the men see your pyjamas, whoops, laughter and ribald comments fill the air.

You have been captured.

Several pairs of busy hands appear around you, removing the handkerchief covering your face, and helping you down from your ride. Once on the ground, your hands are bound in front of you. But they leave the lasso around your chest and upper arms, looping it around several times, so it rubs your nipples through your thin pyjamas every time you breathe.

A clatter of buckles follows as the saddles and bridles are removed from your horses. The men push you towards a nearby tree stump, encouraging you to step up and remount your horses. Without the saddle, you can feel your horse’s sizzling heat between your legs.

The Sheriff appears in the throng around you, easily distinguished by his large silver star. He acknowledges you by touching the brim of his black stetson hat. Immobile, you roll your eyes in return.

He tells you will hang for your crimes.

You shrug your head nonchalantly. Of course, you have both escaped the gallows once already. You can remember what was to have been your final night, peering out the barred cell window in the town jail of Broken Arrow, Oklahoma. Beyond, in the gloom, in the middle of the dusty town square, two nooses dangled in the twilight. Tomorrow would be the last ever public appearance of the Bad Girls, a very large crowd was expected.

Despite your manacles, you’d found it easy to undress yourself, and once naked, seducing your jailer was easier still. You’d left him unconscious in your cell as you and Penny had galloped away from town unnoticed. And the jailer’s subsequent yarn of how you’d overpowered him had only added to your infamy.

A troop of riders chaperones you down the track. Ahead, a giant White Oak looms out of a clearing, its mighty branches thicker than barn beams. From one high sturdy branch, two nooses dangle ominously in front of your eyes.

The posse nudges your horses underneath the ropes. You notice the trailing end of each rope has been wound around the branch overhead several times and now dangles freely just behind the slipknot. You wriggle in protest as the dropseat of your pyjamas is unexpectedly unbuttoned behind you, and the free end of the rope is pulled up through the waist of panties and tied tight.

Now the noose is pulled towards your face. You try to avoid it by ducking down, but a hand behind you roughly grabs a bunch of your hair, pulling your head back. You are powerless to prevent the scratchy rope necklace being tightened around your throat. When you try to protest, someone pulls your bandana down from your forehead and over your mouth, retying it tight, gagging you.

You look across at Penny, exchanging a steely stare as if to say: we’ll get out of this, partner. Penny’s predicament mirrors your own, gagged, the noose around her neck, with the other end tied to her underwear. Neither end of the rope appears to have much slack.

You know how this ends. A spank to your horse’s rump, making him bolt forward, leaving you behind to dance away your final breath. How appropriate to go out with a spanking.

The Sheriff rides in front of you, tipping the brim of his hat in a gesture of farewell. He takes a small canvas sack of fodder from his saddlebag and begins to trot away, spilling the fodder on the ground until there are two broken lines of hay, oats and maize scattered in front of both your horses.

You feel Sugarlump lurch forward he lowers his mouth to the ground and begins to eagerly tuck into the spilt food. But the rope tied to your panties pulls you back, tugging you towards your horse’s rear. You try to talk, demanding to know if this is to be an execution or a dastardly torment, but the gag silences you; and you fear the answer may be both.

You watch the jeering posse depart, their whoops and catcalls growing fainter as the forest muffles them. And then you and Penny are all alone, left to your fate.

With no stirrups or reins, you try to keep Sugarlump still by clenching your thighs. But he is lured ever further by the tempting trail of corn, quite unaware of his passenger’s predicament. Your jeopardy increases your breathing, causing the lasso tightened around your chest to rub your tender nipples with increasing frequency.

Sugarlump whinnies contentedly, lurching forward for another mouthful, and again the rope behind tugs you backwards, pulling your panties tighter, dragging you ever closer to the drop. There’s a burning pain between your legs now. You dismiss it as the least of your worries.

The tightening of your panties makes you suddenly aware of the pressure building in your bladder. A shocking realisation hits you: soon you will have to pee, and the hot stream on your horse’s back will cause him to bolt forward. Leaving you behind, dancing.

You realise your drop is inevitable, unavoidable, inescapable.

Yet you find the inevitability of your predicament intensely arousing.

Your nipples are being rubbed and rolled between the rope around your chest. Your clit is swollen and hard, becoming increasingly tender as your panties ride higher and tighter. You’re trying to keep still, but can’t help but squirm as adrenaline surges through you, tingling your skin. You feel yourself building to a climax quite unlike any you’ve experienced before.

You hear yourself thinking: I’m going to come, and then I’m going to hang.

A clip-clop of hooves distracts you; Penny’s horse is trotting forward, eating hungrily. She moans from behind her gag as her panties drag her backwards until she’s perching precariously on her horse’s hindquarters.

A montage of memories fills your mind. All the times you were naughty. All the subsequent punishments. Bending over for the switch in the rickety old schoolhouse, waiting for the strap in the woodshed, over Daddy’s lap as he opened the dropseat of your pyjamas for the hairbrush. You remember each long-ago episode with startling clarity. Each has been replayed again and again in your mind’s eye, repeatedly remembered, curated like a relic, so you can preserve every possible detail.

How many times have you recalled that afternoon in the schoolhouse, your dress lifted and your bloomers parted as your classmates tittered behind you. There was the cool wetness of the damp rods against your skin, then the hot stripes. You clung to the back of the desk like a shipwrecked sailor, but never cried. Back home, you had traced the hot weals with your fingertips, as your other hand stroked and rubbed.

You hear yourself thinking: such a naughty girl.

Suddenly, there’s a flash of pleasure between your open legs. Involuntarily, your thighs squeeze tight, your legs gripping your horse’s flanks. Startled, he jolts forward. You feel the rope behind you pulling you back, tugging you backwards by your panties. You feel the nobbly undulations of your horse’s spine sliding underneath your throbbing crotch.

Suddenly you’re lurching, falling backwards, a fiery pain between your legs.

You feel yourself swinging, dangling in the air, your feet kicking helplessly, searching for the ground far beyond your toes. Across your back, the rope behind you is pulled taut, suspending you.

But the noose around your throat is mercifully slack.

An astonishingly intense climax overwhelms you.

You come with utter abandon, dancing a jig in the air as a sublime wave of gratification washes over your entire body.

Alas, all too soon your fug of ecstasy fades, swamped by the reemergence of the fiery pain between your legs. The nagging scratch of the slipknot underneath your ear focuses your mind on the urgency of your predicament.

You try to wriggle free from your bonds, but your arms are tightly bound to your sides, and they’ve tied your wrists in front of you too well. Your urgent struggles are curtailed by the sound of tearing.

You hear your panties ripping, and with horror realise what will happen when they split.

You try to cry out to Penny. You want to say sorry. To say how much you love her.

Suddenly your tummy sinks.

A momentary sensation of weightlessness.

You feel yourself falling…


* * *


Alice awoke with a start, her pyjamas drenched with sweat.

Alarmingly, there was a wetness between her legs too, she reached down, checking her bedsheets hurriedly, hoping she hadn’t wet her bed.

False alarm.

The wetness was inside, not outside, her panties. She smiled to herself, filthy girl.

Alice’s sigh of relief almost immediately became a grimace of discomfort. She needed to pee, but cruelly, couldn’t. Her governess had tied her pyjama bottoms above her hips with the knot behind her, so even if Alice had been able to undo the tight mysterious knot, there was no way she’d be able to retie it the same way. Come the morning, when Ms M came to inspect her, she’d be rumbled for sure, and her disobedience would mean another day in her punishment panties. Alice had to wait until dawn, when her governess would wake her, and release her.

Once put to bed, Alice knew she wasn’t allowed out of her room. Ms M routinely wedged a coin between the door and jamb to reveal if Alice had attempted any nocturnal adventures. Which meant if Alice really really needed to go, her only option was to use the potty. She knew it was there, lurking underneath her bed, like some creepy childhood monster.

Once, one terrible humiliating time, she hadn’t been able to wait until morning. She’d had to scrabble under the bed in the dark, urgently searching for the wretched potty. Then she’d had to sit on it, desperately trying to untie the knot that held up her pyjama bottoms before the pressure became too great to bear. But the knot had been intended to foil her, and she had failed, and begun to wet herself – just a small trickle at first, initially absorbed by the tight gusset of her punishment panties, like a little improvised nappy.

But it was only a momentary reprieve, the hot wet band gripping her crotch seemed to sap her remaining self-control. The flow restarted, the trickle became an unstoppable flow, seeping and dripping into the potty below. Now soaking wet, returning to bed was out of the question, so Alice had been forced to stay seated on her potty, squirming as her punishment panties slowly cooled, until they felt like a clammy hand groping between her legs.

It wasn’t until after dawn that her torment finally ended, when her governess came to undo her pyjamas. She’d fetched a towel, tied it around Alice’s waist and led her to the bathroom, before standing her in the bath and stripping her naked. A short spanking with the back of the wooden bath-brush followed, especially stingy on her still damp buttocks. Then she was bathed, with Ms M paying cleaning between Alice’s legs meticulously, soaping and sponging every nook and cranny, before shaving her bare.

Afterwards, to emphasise Alice’s childish lack of self-control, she’d been dressed by her governess like a little girl for the day – in a frilly pink polka-dot dress and training panties. For the rest of the day, each time Alice had needed the toilet, she’d had to ask her governess to escort her there, and pull down her training panties, and then wipe her afterwards.

Alice had found the whole experience mortifying, and as a result, her behaviour afterwards had been exceptional. This did not go unnoticed by her governess, and so ever since, a day of dressing up had always followed every night spent in punishment panties.

Alice turned over in her bed, trying to think of something else. But her thoughts were dominated by the sensations between her legs, the cruel tight panties, her swollen clit rubbing on the taut material but concealed too well for her to satisfy herself. Beneath, her bum was still tender and achey from last night’s spankings.

For Alice peeing had long had some mysterious connection with pleasure. It had begun when she’d started to explore the alluring groove of her own front bottom. In private of course. The skin down there felt different, softer, smoother, nice to touch and stroke. After bathing she’d often sit cross-legged on the bathroom floor, with a curved magnifying mirror propped between her legs, holding herself open, tracing her folds with her fingertips.

Exploration soon became stroking. She soon developed a method of rubbing herself in long slow circles, like a minute hand sweeping around a clock face. Each time her finger reached the hour there was a pleasurable tingle as she touched her little button, an enjoyable little buzz that began to fade just after 1 o’clock. At 3 and 9 o’clock she could feel her finger tug her outer lips apart, and in between, at 6 o’clock, her finger slipped over her delightfully sensitive hollow. All too soon another minute had passed, and she was rubbing her little pearl again.

Initially, Alice tried to keep time with the minute hand on the bathroom clock. One sweep around her front bottom for every minute passing. But all too soon, she was breaking time. Rubbing quicker and quicker, eager to feel the delicious sensations at the top and bottom of her traverse.

You’re a very naughty girl, Alice, she’d told herself, imagining the consequences were her governess to burst in. A long hard bare bottom spanking, at the very least. Or being pulled by the hand, still naked, through the house to the living room to be caned. Mummy and Daddy had guests, and she imagined having to apologise and explain the interruption to everyone.

“… I was caught fiddling with my wendy, so now I need to be caned on my bare bottom…”

She would mount the big leather sofa, standing on its cushions and bending over the back. Her governess would spread her legs apart, the audience murmuring as they recognised the glistening evidence of her naughtiness. Then the cane would tap against her bum.

But imagining all that simply made her rub faster.

Suddenly, Alice felt as if she was going to pee herself.

She stopped rubbing abruptly, overwhelmed by the fear of gushing across the bathroom floor.

It had happened several times now; each time, a long delightful session of rubbing, culminating in an intense impulse to pee. Even when she’d deliberately emptied her bladder beforehand.

For ages, it was a barrier she feared to cross. Would her pee spray out uncontrollably, soaking all around her? Was she in danger of rupturing something? Was she hurting herself? How would she ever explain that to a nurse?

But the barrier began to obsess her, and eventually Alice plucked up the courage to see what was beyond it. One afternoon when no one else was home she locked herself in the loo and got undressed. She had a pee – just to be safe, flushed, and then sat cross-legged on the bathroom floor in front of the bathroom clock, and began her delightful minute-long sweeps. Soon, she was stroking faster and faster, until she could feel herself wanting to wee.

But this time Alice did not stop, she hopped up from the floor and sat on the toilet seat, which felt so cool under her hot sweaty thighs. She resumed her rubbing, quickening until she began to gasp, until she felt she could never stop. Then urge to pee appeared, but this time Alice didn’t  try to hold herself  back. It was her final leap of faith. Suddenly she was wracked by the most astonishingly pleasurable body-quake, which left her shivering, tingling and shaking for several minutes afterwards.

When Alice emerged from her daze she examined the region between her legs. Her slit was wet, but it was a strange sticky-wet. She smelt her fingers, musky, earthy, but not smelling of pee at all. And there was no colour in the bowl below. Whatever it was, it wasn’t peeing.

Later that night Alice plucked up the courage to do the same in bed. The jeopardy of potentially wetting herself was thrillingly exciting. Again, she circled herself slowly, quickening until she was throbbing. Arching her back as the sensations intensified, as she felt the familiar need to pee. Just then, a vivid image flashed through Alice’s mind: her bedroom door opening, her governess bursting in, pulling the quilt from her bed, just in time to see Alice with both hands between her legs, trying in vain to hold back what was seeping between her fingers.

Alice pushed her fingers deep, trying to hold back what was about to flood forth, only to come in several delirious bouncing spasms.

When she opened her eyes again, her bedroom door was still closed, her sheets were still dry,  and an incredible new delight had been discovered.

How Alice longed to do that now. To play, fondle, impale and come. But her panties had been pulled tight to enforce denial as well as discomfort. Alice sighed frustratedly, staring at the closed door in the halflight, wondering if across the hallway Penny was also awake and suffering in the grip of her own punishment panties.

Eventually tiredness conquered her, and Alice fell back into her vivid dreams.


* * 4 * *


Dawn was heralded by sparrows and blackbirds, a chorus of cheery chirping and flutey whistling, Nature’s very own orchestra tuning up before the overture commenced.

Audrey McGiven was a lark, in bed when night fell to rise with the sun. This morning she’d risen with particular excitement, with some very special duties to perform. She dressed more casually for the occasion, a shawl wrap dressing gown of dark blue silk with matching slippers, no need for underwear underneath, it just would have got wet anyway. She walked eagerly down the hall to the girls’ rooms, deciding she’d deal with Penny first.

The first task was to check both doors, and she found both coins exactly where she’d wedged them. Good. No nocturnal wanderings. She opened the door to find Penny already awake, squirming under her covers. It could be difficult getting some teenagers out of bed, but Penny practically leapt out of bed, standing with her hands on her head as instructed.

Audrey knelt beside her and untied her pyjama bottoms, letting them fall to the floor, and began to examine her panties, which had become a thin white band stretched tight between her slit. Then she slipped her fingers into the waistband – now high above Penny’s hips – and began to pull Penny’s panties slowly downwards. She liked to take her time during an undressing, particularly enjoying the delicious moment when the tension of the panties was suddenly released. Suddenly, Penny gasped and wobbled. Ah, there, Audrey smiled.

The governess slid the girl’s panties down further, watching how the fabric slowly detached itself from Penny’s wet swollen lips, revealing a creamy smear inside. Once she’d slipped the panties off Penny’s feet, she pulled her pyjama top over her head, so Penny stood naked in front of her once again.

“Now, time for your bottom inspection, young lady.”

Penny swayed on her feet slightly, uncertain what this actually meant. The governess noticed some clarification was necessary, and nudged Penny towards her bed.

“Kneel on your bed girl, knees wide apart. That’s good. Now bend over… Yes…. Now reach behind with both hands and spread your bottom cheeks apart.”

Penny hesitated, but after a few quick spanks of encouragement, did as she was told.

The stripe caused by Penny’s punishment panties was clear to see now. Audrey began to trace it with a fingertip, it started just above the bump of her tailbone as a narrow purple bruise, which lightened to a rosy pink as it ran between the crack of her bottom. Audrey could feel Penny flinch as her finger followed the tender track along her flesh.

She let her fingertip linger at Penny’s bottom hole, circling, teasing, just as the punishment panties had done. They’d rubbed against her hole every time she’d squirmed, threatening to push deeper, hour after hour, until Penny began to long for the intrusion. During the night Penny had even tried pushing her own finger between her bottom cheeks, only to find the material that was tormenting her was now a barrier, frustrating her clumsy attempts to gain relief.


When Penny eventually did fall asleep she dreamt of walking naked through the gardens of a stately home. At the end of one long gravel promenade she discovered a marble statue of a naked man, carved so it looked as if he was sitting by the fountain, his toes dangling just above the water. The man’s head was bowed, looking between his legs as if scrutinising his own reflection in the glistening water below. Penny found the statue astoundingly attractive, a beautiful thoughtful face, and a virile, perfectly muscled body. A single word had been engraved beneath in angular Roman quadrata lettering: NARCISSVS

She yearned to dip her sore tender feet into the cool fountain pool, but the low wall surrounding the pool was crowned by a prickle of razor sharp flints, leaving nowhere to sit. Then a flash of inspiration. She began to climb the statue, standing on his feet, intending to sit on his lap and dangle her legs between his own. It was when she was lowering herself to sit that she felt something hard poke against her bumhole.

She gasped in surprise, looking down at the statue’s lap to see an erect stone phallus pointing back. How had she failed to see that? She chided herself, she could be so naive sometimes. Perched on the statue’s feet she surveyed her options, but there really was no other place to sit. If she wanted to cool her poor aching toes, she’d have to sit on the statue’s lap.

She tried to sit again, and again the phallus poked her bottom hole. She pushed against it, hoping to somehow push it out of the way, but instead it was her who yielded, allowing the phallus to slip a bit inside. Penny could feel herself getting frustrated now, she pushed back again, feeling the stone protrusion deeper still. This was making her bottom hurt, but she had stubbornly decided she wouldn’t be beaten by this stupid statue. She was hot and tired and her feet were sore, and she wanted to soothe them in the seductive sparkling water. She tried lowering herself as slowly and gently as she could manage, at least this diminished the pain in her bottom to a tolerable ache.

She was sitting upon the statue’s lap. From her new vantage point she could see a sundial, it had taken almost an hour to fully impale herself. She could feel the phallus deep inside her, making her bottom throb with a fiery pang. Her nakedness and high exposed position made her feel very naughty, that she shouldn’t be here, that she shouldn’t have this thing in her bum.

But at last she was ready to plunge her feet into the invitingly blue pool below. She stretched her legs and dipped her toes. The water was icy cold, unexpectedly cold for such a hot summer day, painfully cold in fact. She withdrew her toes quickly, as a chill raced over her uncovered skin. She was shivering now, this wasn’t very comfortable at all, she didn’t want to sit here any more.

She tried to stand up, to lift herself off this awful cock. But she couldn’t move, the chill had become an intense fatigue, numbing every one of her muscles. She tried crying out for help, only to find her jaw wouldn’t move. She felt cold, the heat of the sun began to vanish from her skin, as if she was turning into stone.

One by one her senses failed, the smell of the gardens, the burbling of the fountain, all began to fade, leaving her sitting in perfect silence. Her sight dimmed last, eventually shrouding her in utter darkness. Soon, only one sensation remained, and with horror she realised it would be her sole companion for eternity: a constant burning throbbing ache in her bottom hole.

Penny had awoken with a gasp, urgently flexing her limbs, still half-fearful that she’d been paralysed. The pain in her bottom was real enough though, and was just as uncomfortable as she’d dreamt it.


Now it was Audrey gently pushing her finger against Penny’s poor bum hole, she noticed how easily her fingertip sank into Penny’s most intimate hollow. Penny tensed her thighs; just moments away from giving into the urge to push back onto the older lady’s finger – but then… the finger withdrew, and the opportunity was lost. Penny bent further forward, pushing her face into her mattress, hoping that at least would stifle her sighs and conceal the blush burning across her cheeks.

Audrey’s finger resumed its journey, following the short purple line between Penny’s holes. From experience Audrey knew the time spent on tiptoes suspended from the bedframe could be particularly cruel on the tender flesh of a girl’s perineum. This bruise would be the last to fade, aching whenever the girl crossed her legs, a lasting reminder of her naughtiness.

The bruise ended at the entrance to her vagina, here her panties had parted her inner lips, which were now puffy and sticky wet. Audrey ran her finger between the labia tracing the tender regions where the panties had pressed. At the top, her little nub was conspicuously swollen in size, peeping out from its sheath as if demanding her attention. The governess pulled Penny’s hood back, gently massaging the little bulb underneath, checking Penny’s need to come. Her back arched in response. Very much in need it seemed. That was too bad.

Above Penny’s hood the faint pink line faded away as it reached the summit of the charming little bump of her mound. It was a classic punishment panty stripe, enough to make Audrey’s own parts tingle. Her only regret was that she couldn’t kneel between Penny’s splayed legs right now and trace the line with her tongue. From experience, she reckoned it would only take three round trips. If she started licking where the pink line began on her mound and slowly followed its path between her lips, then around and across her bottom hole until its terminus in her bottom crack – she was sure it would only take three round trips to bring Penny to climax. Four, at the very most.

But such behaviour might be construed as improper.

Which was a tremendous shame.

For them both.

Instead Audrey encouraged Penny to her feet and escorted her to the bathroom. Whilst Penny used the loo, Audrey rolled up her sleeves and ran a bath. The hot foamy water made Penny feel like a little girl again, an impression reinforced when she was made to lie back in the diaper position, with her legs lifted to her shoulders. Audrey then applied a slippy aloe gel between Penny’s legs, and carefully shaved her bare. Without her fuzz the purple line between her legs was even more conspicuous, like she’d sat astride a dirty fence.

Afterwards, Audrey washed and rinsed Penny’s hair before starting to clean every inch of her, from head to toe, with a soapy sponge. She washed behind her ears, around her neck, under her armpits, around her breasts, all down her back, before a particularly thorough cleaning between her legs that masturbated Penny to the brink… only for Audrey to whisk the sponge away just in time, leaving Penny lying on her elbows with her legs splayed wide, moaning in frustration as the sponge slid down her thighs to attend to behind her knees instead.

After the sponge had finished caressing the soles of her feet and visited between each of her toes, Penny was told to kneel on all fours, and raise her bum up high. She complied speedily, surprising herself, and moments later could feel the cool flat back of a long-handled wooden bathbrush tapping against her dripping cheeks. She arched her back submissively in response.

“Now Penny, I think naughty girls need a reminder to be good. Don’t you?”

“Yes Miss!”, blurted Penny compliantly.

“And what do you think would be an appropriate reminder?”

Penny didn’t have to think too hard about her answer.

“A sore bum, Miss.”

“Ask like a good girl…”

“Please spank my bare bum Miss, to remind me to be a good girl.”

The logical side of Penny’s mind could barely believe she’d just said that. But her more primal side knew exactly what she wanted.

During yesterday’s games at the lake, Penny had discovered how much louder – and more painful – a spanking on a wet bum could be. As the first smack landed, Penny recoiled forward in the bath, making the water slosh around her turbulently. Then without needing to be told, she raised her bum high again for the next stroke. Audrey murmured her approval, dipping the brush in the warm bathwater, before rubbing and wetting Penny’s cheeks to ensure the next whack would be just as sore and stingy.

Audrey noticed that after the sixth smack Penny’s gasps had turned to moans, experience had given her an ear for such details. She’d also noticed how Penny’s hands were sliding up her thighs after every whack, trying to sneak a touch between her legs before she raised her bum again. The signs were unmistakable; Penny was getting close.

Audrey knelt by the side of the bath, and whispered in Penny’s ear.

“Do you want to?”, was all she needed to ask.

“Oh please Miss, I’ll be so good”, moaned Penny.

Audrey reached over, putting her left hand underneath Penny, sliding over the smooth, freshly exposed skin of her mound until she reached the soft ridge of her lips, swollen and hot to the touch. She splayed her hand open, simultaneously stretching Penny’s labia apart, and wedging her clit between two fingers. In her other hand, the long-handled bathbrush tapped ominously against the girl’s proffered bottom.

“Oh please…”, begged Penny, rocking forward on all fours with a gentle slosh.

The brush began whacking again, causing Penny to buck forward, grinding herself against the older lady’s hand with every smack, thrashing in the water like a struggling fish.

“Harder please… Miss…” she pleaded.

The governess was happy to oblige: spanking forcefully, wetting the back of the brush to maximise its impact. Penny was now soaking wet – and not just with bathwater – sliding over Audrey’s hand easily after every spank. The harder the whack, the further down she pushed, and the longer her clit spent wedged in the cleft between Audrey’s fingers.

“Spank me harder Miss!”, she gasped, “On my bare bum!”

Penny didn’t care about the fiery pain in her backside now, or the ache between her legs where the panties had been pulled tight. She’d spent too long being foiled and frustrated.

In the gap between two breaths her mind lept elsewhere. Back to yesterday, at the lake.

Emerging from the water naked, dripping.

Lying beside Alice, face-down, drying in the sun.

Being spanked, playfully at first, getting harder.

One of Alice’s fingers stroking. Slipping inside.

Feeling so good. So naughty.

Spank me harder, Alice. I’m so naughty.

Your finger. So deep now. Oh so good.

Please don’t stop…

A stinging whack brought Penny back to the present and tumbling over the edge. It was a climax quite unlike any she’d ever experienced. Just as the intensity of her bliss seemed to be fading, another whack stung her bottom, sending another wave of pleasure surging through her. Audrey continued spanking until Penny stopped grinding against her palm, and slumped exhausted to the side of the bath.

“Now, I hope you’ll be a good girl for me” said the governess, running her fingers through the younger girl’s hair, with one of her rarely seen smiles. Penny seemed to have been rendered temporarily mute by her experience, and so merely mewed appreciatively in response.

Audrey had learned it was best to bring girls to climax after a night of frustration in punishment panties. Denial just made girls sulky and tetchy rather than relieved and grateful – and that encouraged duplicitousness. An unsatisfied girl would spend the day scheming, planning how to sneak off to fiddle with herself. Far better for her release to come through a thorough spanking, with the girl earnestly begging for every whack.

The sponge returned between her legs, gently cleansing the stickiness from her tender tingling lips, whilst Audrey explained what happened next.

“You behaved very childishly yesterday, Penny. So you’ll be spending today dressed as a little girl, and being treated like one too.”

Penny’s mouth gaped in an expression of stifled surprise that mimicked the appearance of her swollen slit below.

Her first experience of her little girl treatment was being shrouded in an oversized fluffy towel whilst the governess’s busy hands skittered across her, rubbing through her hair and then over the rest of her body. Of course, Ms M was careful to only dab the girl’s bottom dry, she didn’t want to soothe away her naughty glow.

Then it was back to the bedroom to be dressed. First, arms up to have a skinny vest pulled down over her head, no need for a bra today. Penny winced when she saw the fresh pair of white punishment panties in the governess’s hands, but stepped into them obediently.

“These are to remind you to be a good girl”, Ms M explained, “Any misbehaviour and it’ll be straight back here to have your bottom warmed, followed by an hour dangling in your panties.”

“Of course not, Miss!” Penny replied, intending to be behave angelically.

Audrey pulled the panties up slightly, just enough to expose the pink blush of Penny’s spanked buttocks, and for her to feel the fabric tightening across her newly shaven slit. Just enough to say: you know what happens to naughty girls.

The governess selected a bright yellow dress from the wardrobe, it was a girly juvenile garment, the kind that only parents would buy, that no self-respecting young girl would ever choose for herself. But Penny resisted the urge to stick her tongue out, and cooperated as the dress was pulled over her head.

She turned to look at herself in the dressing table mirror.

“What do you think of your new dress?”

In the mirror, Penny could see herself blush. The short, ruffled sleeves barely covered her upper arms, whilst the wide boat neck exposed the top of her shoulders. The frilly sunshine-yellow cotton hugged her chest before widening below a decorative bow at her midriff into a loose bell that barely touched her hips and ended at mid-thigh. The floaty hem seemed almost tailor made for panty inspections and impromptu bottom smacking.

“It’s… beautiful”, lied Penny.

The sarcasm in her reply was far too obvious, making her wince almost as soon as the words had flown her lips. It prompted Audrey to pick up an ebony hairbrush from the dressing table, and flip up her skirt, the first smacks landing before Penny even had time to apologise. Audrey then gripped the waist of the girl’s panties, pulling them upwards, holding her in place so she had to dance on the spot to the hairbrush’s beat.

“I will not tolerate cheekiness, young lady”, the governess scolded.

“Aah! Ooo! Sorry, Miss”, squeaked Penny, hopping from foot to foot.

When it had finished warming Penny’s bottom, Audrey put the hairbrush to more conventional use, tugging it through the girl’s hair. She parted and straightened it, before gathering it into bunches, which she tied with yellow ribbons just behind each ear. When Audrey had finished, Penny looked into the mirror. It was eerie: staring back was a long-lost version of herself. It was as if she’d fallen back through time, and was now destined to relive her childhood again. Except this time, there’d be spankings. Lots of spankings. Bare bottom spankings.

Once Audrey had fetched a pair of sandals from the wardrobe, Penny’s outfit was complete. She led the girl by the hand into the hallway, and positioned her facing the wall, in sight of the bathroom door.

“Now, you can stay here Penny, where I can see you, whilst I deal with Alice.”

She lifted the back of Penny’s dress again, tucking it into the waist. Her panties had been tugged up, so the fabric that usually covered her buttocks was now between them, exposing the rosy pink consequences of her recent spankings.

“When little girls get spanked, they have to stand in disgrace, don’t they?”

“Yes, Miss”, Penny admitted reluctantly.

And then it was Alice’s turn.


* * *


Generously, the governess had left Alice’s door open during her bottom inspection, allowing Penny to follow and imagine every gasp, probing and moan. So by the time Alice was escorted to the bathroom, Penny was hot and horny again.

Behind her, at the end of the hall, Penny could hear the splashing of water and wet bottom slaps. How she wished she could turn around and watch, it was like the torment of Orpheus. Beyond the open doorway, each smack of the bathbrush was accompanied by a gasp, each getting progressively louder as Alice sought relief on her governess’s fingers. Soon, Alice was begging to be spanked harder, desperate for those last few whacks that would release a whole night-time of frustration.

In front of her, hopefully hidden from view, Penny’s right hand had already sneaked under the hem of her skirt. Just listening to Alice’s spanking had been very arousing, but the gusset of her panties had been pulled too tight to wiggle a finger into her vagina. So she entered her underwear from the top instead, sliding down the exquisitely sensitive patch of freshly shaved skin, rubbing her mound as much her tight panties would permit. Alice had kept herself bare for years, and Penny was now beginning to understand why.

Behind her the smacks were quickening. Penny fretted, was she being watched? Or was the governess too busy spanking Alice? At any moment she feared the smacking might stop, there’d be footsteps thundering behind her, and the whacking would resume on her own poor little bottom. But once Penny’s fingertips glanced her hood she knew couldn’t stop, that now she’d have to rub herself all the way.

Penny silently echoed Alice’s moans, her hips moving forward in time with each smack, pushing her hood beneath her fingertips. Behind her, she could feel her exposed cheeks tingle. She knew exactly what Alice was feeling, on her knees, her legs wide open, grinding against her governess’s hand as she tried to escape the bathbrush’s fiery stings. Penny opened her fingers, pushing them either side of the narrow band of her gusset, allowing her to push her hand further down. She gasped as the little bump of her clit nestled between her fingers, and began to rub vigorously. Alice’s cries and the whacks that accompanied them were approaching a crescendo. They were both so close.

Alice came first, in a long series of emphatic, staccato gasps; an irresistible song that pushed Penny over the edge like an avalanche. The two girls came together, Alice’s cries and the slaps on her bum conveniently drowning out Penny’s furtive moans. But what are friends for?


Later, at the breakfast table, Alice and Penny finally got to say good morning to each other, sitting down gingerly on their tender bottoms with little gasps. Alice was dressed in a white and pink polkadot dress, with her blonde hair bunched with long white ribbons. When they looked at each other, both could see the girl with whom they’d first made friends, all those years ago in primary school. The realisation made them giggle together and smile.

The rules of today’s regime had already been explained to them both: politeness and good manners at all times, with permission required should they want to leave their governess’s presence. And when they needed the loo, governess would accompany them to pull down their punishment panties, and – more importantly – pull them up again afterwards, nice and tight.

Audrey loved the improvement in a girl’s behaviour that a good spanking and a childish costume could bring. A girl who’d only yesterday been sulky, cheeky and wilful would today be smiling, chirpy and eager to please. Girls in punishment panties were especially obedient and attentive, delightfully submissive, as if they were wearing invisible reins.

Alice’s parents would have to be informed of their daughter’s misbehaviour, of course. The rules of the house were quite clear: Alice’s naughtiness was, fundamentally, a failure of parenting. So each time Alice was spanked, Ms McGiven would have to administer a caning. She would wait until Alice was away, and then inform her mummy and daddy of her misdemeanours, describing in meticulous detail the punishment she’d endured. Then the governess would instruct them both to undress and bend over the living room’s grand old leather sofa. And Firecrest Manor would echo to the sound of whacking once more.

It was going to be a fine summer, Audrey thought.

* * 5 * *

We are the sum of our stories.

We guard some stories zealously, because they define us, they explain us.

We hide them away, like a rusty old treasure chest buried deep on a paradise beach.

We hope to store our secrets safe from view, so no one ever has a clue of what we dream when all alone.

But Alice had led him to her treasure chest, and given him the key to open it. Her secret was not betrayed by weakness, on the contrary, Alice had needed to summon all her courage to reveal it. Because in revealing her story, she had ceded him her reins.

Alice was headstrong young woman, with an inner self-confidence some mistook for aloofness. But she loved how he could stand up to her. Giving up control allowed her to relax, when she submitted, it was like taking off a mask, or finally shedding a pair of showy but uncomfortable heels. It was like her whirring mind had dropped into a lower gear. With him, she’d rediscovered the simple joy of once more doing what she was told, it was almost meditative.

He had a glance, not quite a stare, just a look that silently said: “That’s quite enough, young lady”. It was a look that never failed to make Alice go gooey inside.

Patrick wielded his authority subtly. An inexperienced disciplinarian might be quick to pull down a young lady’s panties, eager to control her through her shame. But Patrick knew better, that panties left on were an even more effective means of control – one that could be tugged, tweaked and pulled until she was begging to obey.

Alice especially enjoyed provoking him, tickling the dragon’s tail. Testing how far she could go, how long she could balance on the edge, before the inevitable repercussions.

If they were alone together, he might move behind her, lowering his head to kiss the back of her neck. She’d feel the warmth of his breath, nips from his lips raising the little hairs on her nape, and his fingers sliding down the small of her back, lifting her skirt, or entering her jeans.

And then she’d feel her panties tighten, feel them part her moistening lips, and the beginning of that cruel burning between her bottom cheeks.

Being in public would bring no reprieve either. He would pull her panties when necessary whenever they were out together, reining her in like a feisty filly. The backs of dresses could be unzipped or unbuttoned just enough give access to his nimble fingers. Alice knew that if she ever complained he’d make her take her knickers off completely, there and then, and put them in his jacket’s breast pocket, where they’d peep out like a handkerchief. It was remarkable how no-one ever seemed to notice their erotic games, and surprising how much you could get away with if you believed you weren’t doing anything wrong.

Even if they were far apart, Alice would still be disciplined.

Sometimes she’d hear his voice on the phone.

”Stand up.”

“Reach behind you.”

“Pull up your panties.”

“Up tight.”

“Between your bottom.”

“Between your slit.”

His calm voice, so matter-of-fact, soothing yet compelling; as if he were dictating directions to a secret beauty spot, a destination he knew she couldn’t wait to reach. If she was in public she’d have to pull up her panties as discreetly as she could manage. If she was lucky she might be able to nip into the loo or dart behind a tree. But she always obeyed, she knew there could be no excuses when she deserved her punishment panties.

She knew his commands off by heart now, they were like a mantra. Sometimes he’d be with her, and would tell her to pull up her own panties as a test of her submission. He’d look deeply into her eyes, and recite his instructions like love poetry, and she would prove how much she loved him, regardless of who might be watching.

Sometimes he’d send his instructions by text, or email them. Once he’d even had them printed on the little card that accompanied a beautiful bouquet of pink carnations. Her colleagues in her office had cooed at the romance, little knowing the bloom’s devious secret raison d’etre. They’d pass her desk smiling, congratulating her on her catch, whilst Alice squirmed in her seat, her panties now pulled tight beneath her, her face turning as pink as the carnations in her vase.

When she got the order to pull up her panties, she always complied, wherever she was, whatever she was doing. It was the rules. And she would keep her panties pulled up until she received permission to pull them down, which often meant a whole afternoon sitting squirming, feeling the fiery line along her crotch smouldering, and the hot ache of sexual frustration building.

At other times he had instructed her to tie her panties to the bed and wait for him to get home. They’d even bought an iron bedstead especially, just like the one in her family home, so she could be disciplined the classic way. She’d stand on her tiptoes and reach back to tie her panties to the rail just above her waist, often sending him a picture of herself in her precarious predicament, with a message imploring him to hurry home.

When he did finally arrive he rarely released her immediately. If she’d been bratty, he’d employ one of his favourite torments: tickling her feet, which made her prance from toe to toe, working the cruel panties ever deeper inside her with every hop. Or perhaps he’d untie her from the bed and put her over his knee. One hand to rub and spank her bottom, the other hand pulling her forward by her panties to control her struggles.

Eventually, he would peel down her panties, out from between her sore sticky lips. An intimate inspection often followed, conducted with the tip of his tongue, tracing the thin purple stripe running from her bottom crack to her mound. Their favourite finale was a slow sensual spanking followed by a fantastic, almost feral fucking that made Alice blissfully glad she’d found this man, and had the courage to share with him the secret of her reins.


* * *


Through the years, Penny and Alice had remained the closest of friends, rock solid, inseparable. But, Alice had once wistfully mused, didn’t they once think that about the continents? So seemingly permanent, so immutable, yet actually at the mercy of powerful forces, so subtle they were barely perceptible. No matter how earnest their promises, the forces of love, career and ambition were pushing them, drifting them slowly apart.

Even though they now lived in different cities, both still tried to remain close, visiting each other regularly, often staying over. Tonight, Penny was staying with Alice; although her host was out this evening at prior commitments, that wasn’t a problem, Penny was in town for a few days, she’d just have a quiet night in.

Perhaps it was something about being left alone, but Penny was in an unaccountably horny mood, the kind a boyfriend loves. But tonight he was miles away, so her thoughts turned to making her own amusement. She particularly liked to fuel her imagination with naughty stories, especially spanking stories. She had a few favourites, stories that described her own fantasies so perfectly they could almost have been written for her. She returned to those stories repeatedly, it was like revisiting an old friend (with benefits).

If only she’d brought back her laptop. She’d left it on her desk in her company’s office, but not to worry, there was Alice’s Macbook sitting idle on the coffee table. Penny often borrowed it. Private browsing windows had practically been invented for this purpose.

Penny dabbed the trackpad, dragging the cursor up and to the right, towards the browser’s search field at the corner of the screen. She slowly and deliberately typed her favourite search term: spanking. It was her own little ritual. She could still remember that very first time she’d plucked up the courage to tell her computer her little secret.

She’d been a curious teen, an occasional player of spanking games with Alice and a few other close friends, but even she could barely believe what her virgin spanking search had revealed. It was like walking through a magic wardrobe, into a whole new world that was bigger, more colourful and more thrilling than anything she could have imagined.

That first time she’d browsed eagerly through the endless stream of search results, stumbling across journals and stories, pictures and videos. It was like a crash course in bottom smacking, every click making her eyes wider and her panties wetter. She eventually came whilst witnessing her very first caning.

It was all so real! It was as if her laptop was a magic window, which had opened unseen at the back of a headmaster’s study, hidden amongst the wood-panels and bookcases. A pretty young lady in an immaculate school uniform entered, she had been naughty, and her sentence was swiftly pronounced: “You will be caned on your bare bottom”. Justice was dispensed quickly in this school it seemed.

Penny could barely breathe when he told the girl to lift her skirt and bend over. The girl obeyed without complaint, lifting her hem from knee to waist, as if she couldn’t wait to display her bottom’s beautiful curves, which filled her white panties, stretching them tight.

The headmaster took a cane from the wall (he had a collection!) and – unbelievably! – pulled the girl’s knickers down to her ankles. Penny was shaking, realising she was just moments away from witnessing a real bare-bottom caning. The cane tapped threateningly against her bum exacerbating the tension – then a blur, a swoosh, and a whack. The girl rocked forward on her toes, stifling a cry, a pink stripe now visible on her enviable cheeks. Then another. And another.

This was mind-blowing! Penny unzipped her jeans, allowing her fingers into her own panties. By now, she was soaked. She watched, mouth agape, as the headmaster continued the whacking, quite matter-of-factly, and the girl moaned and mewed with every new stripe. Suddenly, Penny was hit by a flash of understanding: being caned hurt, but this girl was enjoying it. It was a game, just like the ones she played with Alice – and this scene showed how exotic the games could be, they were almost theatrical.

The final stroke fell, and the schoolgirl was sent to stand in the corner to display her new stripes. As she reached back to soothe her sore cheeks, her rubbing pulled her cheeks apart, revealing glimpses of her wet puffy slit in between. It was gone in a blink of an eye, but Penny knew immediately what she’d seen: a spanked girl who got as wet as herself. Moments later she plunged her fingers deep inside, and came in a quivering heap.

Ever since, just searching for the term ‘spanking’ gave Penny a special thrill. But this time she hadn’t entered the word into the browser’s search field, but absent-mindedly entered it into the laptop’s Spotlight search instead. Inadvertently, she had just asked the laptop to show her all the files on its hard drive containing the word ‘spanking’.

And as it turned out, there were lots of them.

It took Penny a moment to realise what had happened. O. M. G.

How did laptops come to know us so well? Our magic silvery slabs, our constant mute companions, accompanying us everywhere like witches’ familiars. An oracle to answer virtually any question, an enchanted window to see anywhere in the world without moving. Though sometimes what we want to see… well, let’s just keep that our little secret. Our faithful glowing windows witness a side of us few others will ever know.

But now Penny had stumbled upon Alice’s chamber of secrets, and found the door unlocked. It felt kind of awkward, a bit like overhearing a flatmate fucking, and not quietly leaving for a long walk, but staying to listen to the moans.

The lure of Alice’s treasure trove proved equally impossible to resist. Penny began browsing through what her friend had collected. There were plenty of pictures, all with the word spanking in their filenames, Penny began to click.

This one had three naked girls bent over the side of a bed, bottoms raised, not spanked yet, but surely about to be. Oh yes, she could remember that game.

The next featured a girl in dropseat pyjamas lying across a man’s lap. She was facing away from him, her hands on the floor, her legs either side of his hips. The flap of her pyjamas was open, revealing her bright pink cheeks, which the man was in the process of prising apart. A bottom inspection was surely imminent. Mmmm.

Next, a view from behind a girl with her blond hair in bunches. Her school skirt had been flipped up and her white panties pulled down to mid-thigh, revealing a delightfully pink bottom and a view between her legs that left nothing to the imagination. The colours of this one were glorious, a thin sand-coloured cane hovering above fifty shades of pink.

Then a series of moody monochromes, a nude woman lying over the lap of a man in an expensively tailored suit. He cradles her chin in one hand, whilst the other spanks her gorgeous arse. Her eyes are closed, her expression suggesting a moment of transcendence. Arty.

Next, a governess, looking knee-tremblingly authoritative in a sumptuous Edwardian velvet corset dress. In the foreground, just the lower back and buttocks of a naked young lady, lying across some kind of padded bench. There’s a leather paddle in the governess’s hand, and in the background, barely in focus, an old-fashioned glass jar with a long rubber enema tube. Kinky.

The pictures were titillating, but what really interested Penny was the written word, so she filtered the search results so only text files remained. But disappointingly, there didn’t seem to be any stories. There was, however, a file that seemed to be a transcript from a chat session between two people, one of whom was almost certainly Alice.

Curiosity got the better of her, and she started reading.

AliceWonderland @ 17:57: Miss you

Stricture @ 17:58: I know

AliceWonderland @ 17:58: Wish you were coming home tonight

Stricture @ 17:59: Back in a few days. Amsterdam is cool, you’d love it

AliceWonderland @ 18:00: Gah. You know how impatient I am. I was so so horny today, I had to relieve myself in the loo at work

Stricture @ 18:01: Naughty girl! You need a lesson in self-control. When you get home I’m going to teach you what loos are really for

AliceWonderland @ 18:02: yes Sir 😉

(Penny’s eyes widened at the illicitness of what she was reading, scanning over their smalltalk until the conversation resumed a few hours later)

AliceWonderland @ 20:11: Sir, I’ve been a very naughty girl and have escaped punishment for too long, but I need to be taught a lesson. I’ll need the loo soon, so if it’s convenient for you, please will you discipline me?

Stricture @20:12: You have indeed been a very naughty girl, and you deserve a good spanking on your bare bottom. Go to your room and get undressed

AliceWonderland @20:12: yes Sir

AliceWonderland @20:15: done

Stricture @20:16: Now you can kneel on your bed, and start rubbing your bum with the back of your hairbrush. With your other hand, massage your silky smooth mound for a minute

AliceWonderland @20:18: ooo. done

Stricture @20:19: Keep rubbing with the hairbrush, and pull your hood back for a minute. Then describe yourself

AliceWonderland @20:21: I wish I could play more… I’m so wet and *so* achy

Stricture @20:22: Now put in your butt plug

AliceWonderland @20:22: Oh! okay

Stricture @20:23: 3 minutes spanking with the hairbrush on your bare bottom, young lady.

AliceWonderland @20:27: done. ouch.. my bottom’s already stingy.. with a small, light pink blush on each cheek

Stricture @20:28: Now put your phone beside you and use memo to record a 4 minute spanking with your hairbrush. I hope it’ll be a good whacking for being such a naughty girl. Then send me what you’ve recorded

AliceWonderland @20:33: done. ow Sir. my bum is hot and pink. I could feel every smack through my plug. I’ll send what I recorded now..

Stricture @20:35: Good. Now put on a pair of your plain white panties and pull them right up into your slit, so your bottom is bared

AliceWonderland @20:41: Ooo. my punishment panties are on. they’re pulled right up so that they push the plug deep into my bottom and rub uncomfortably against my clit when I move…

Stricture @20:43: Now go and stand in the corner for 5 minutes, hands on head with your naughty spanked bum on display. You can contemplate your sore arse and the pressure on your pee hole, whilst I listen to your bottom being whacked

AliceWonderland @20:50: I’m back. I hope you liked my spanking Sir. My panties are stretched so tight across my clit, I can feel it so clearly through the soaked material – so hard and swollen I can feel its exact outline

Stricture @20:51: Your spanking sounded hard and sore, very good. Do you need to pee?

AliceWonderland @20:52: yes please

Stricture @20:53: Take your phone to the toilet with you. Sit on the seat, but don’t pull down your panties. Describe yourself

AliceWonderland @20:56: I’m on the loo. I really need to go. When I clench I feel myself squeeze the butt plug, which makes me want to go even more

Stricture @20:57: Start rubbing your slit through your panties

AliceWonderland @21:00: this is so so naughty but feels incredible

Stricture @21:01: Keep rubbing. The heat of your spanked bottom on the cold seat must be exciting

AliceWonderland @21:03: god yes. I’m soaked. may I please pull down my panties Sir?

Stricture @21:04: No you may not. Keep rubbing your clit

AliceWonderland @21:06: ooo! I’m going to come or pee or both!

Stricture @21:07: Keep rubbing, young lady

AliceWonderland @21:09: please can’t hold it in

Stricture @21:10: You must be squeezing your plug so hard…

(Penny stopped and gasped, barely believing what she was reading. She looked at the timestamps, there were no messages for almost twenty minutes, then came Alice’s final response…)

AliceWonderland @21:29: Wow! That was incredible 😀

I rubbed like you told me, trying to hold myself back, then suddenly I felt a hot wet patch within my punishment panties. I think I peed a tiny bit, it felt simultaneously so so embarrassing but amazing. I tried to stop and clench, but I wanted to come so badly. At that point I put my phone down and put both hands between my legs, one rubbing, one cupping my crotch trying to hold back the inevitable.

Then I came I think and the dam burst. I felt a hot flow flood my tight panties, gushing out between my ineffective fingers. Suddenly the thin tight strip of material between my legs was burning hot. I was so ashamed! I was a naughty little girl with a spanked bum peeing her panties. But it felt so so so good. I’ve cleaned myself up now, but my legs are still quivering! Thank you for my discipline Sir 🙂


Penny gulped. She could feel her heart hammering inside her chest.

Did she really just read that?

Her friend spanking herself with a hairbrush at his command, then wanking on the loo until she wet herself. She re-read it.

Oh. My. Goodness, she thought. That is twisted. But very arousing.

She wondered who Alice’s correspondent was; given the dates, almost certainly Patrick. Quiet types, always the kinkiest.

Penny’s mind was racing, imagining what it must have been like to submit to such humiliations. Certainly unsettling, definitely arousing, maybe even exhilarating. A wistful fantasy crept into her mind, if only her own boyfriend would stumble across something like this, if only she had a magic spell that would unleash his inner kinkiness. She smiled at the thought. She was a smart girl, she’d just been given a stack of incredible new ideas, she’d contrive something.

Almost without thinking Penny reached behind herself, entering the gap between her shirt and jeans to finger the waist of her panties. She began to tug them upwards. What a naughty girl I’ve been, she thought, spying on my best friend’s most private activities – and getting so turned on. She continued to tug up her panties, feeling the familiar slide as they slipped between her slit.

Ever since that extraordinary night at Firecrest Manor she’d reserved her punishment panties for times when she’d felt the naughtiest. She’d strip to her knickers, pulling them up until they were painfully tight, then kneel on her bed and spank her bum with the slipper she hid under the bed.

Afterwards, if she was alone, she’d sometimes keep her panties on, still pulled up as tight as possible, as she went to sleep. Her reward would be to wake, insatiably horny, as dawn’s early light seeped through her curtains. But what a treat it was to pull down her punishment panties, to feel them slip out from between her exquisitely tender swollen lips – and then to ride her fingers or her toys to a series of astonishing climaxes. Then afterwards, she’d tumble into deep slumber of ambrosian satisfaction.

Another favourite activity was to go to the first floor landing, stand on her tiptoes with her back to the bannister and tie her panties to it. Sometimes she’d use the bannisters on the stairs, suddenly dropping one step downwards, suspending herself in exquisite agony as her toes searched urgently for the floor.

She’d often fantasised about getting caught, imagining her boyfriend unexpectedly returning home, hearing his key scraping in the lock, a surge of panic, urgently trying to untie herself – but failing, the door swinging open, and his expression as he looked up the stairs to see her virtually naked, suspended by her underwear…

She grimaced, men did have a propensity to over-react, maybe something more subtle.

She’d never yet had the courage to reveal her own secret. Clearly Alice had though – and she seemed to be having outrageous fun. Perhaps, she mused, she really should get herself caught.

So many ways to get discovered. A few bottles of wine and two truths and a lie. A few filthy browser windows accidentally left open. Maybe a well-spanked bottom, pink and sore… a revealing selfie… a misplaced email…

But first, she would have to be punished for her snooping.

“I’m such a naughty girl”, she whispered.

She tugged her panties higher, feeling them heat the base of her crotch.

“A very naughty girl”, she repeated, louder this time.

She pulled her panties tighter still, feeling them deep between her moistening lips.

“I deserve to be put in punishment panties…”

She jumped to her feet, yanking her waistband higher, moaning as the narrow band dug deeper, scraping into her bottom hole.

“… and a good hard spanking…”

She dashed to Alice’s room, and its glorious antique brass bedstead, her trembling fingers urgently unbuttoning her jeans.

“… on my bare bottom…”

And out of the corner of her eye, she spied a hairbrush.


– – – – –

@spankingtheatre 2013 (spankingtheatre AT gmail dot com)

Dedicated to the memory of Iain Banks (1954-2013), a master storyteller of family secrets. Greatly missed.

Originally published at You’re welcome to share.


The schoolgirls wearily traipsed through time. They’d begun in ancient Assyria, bright-eyed and fizzing with eagerness, gazing upward with wonder at the monumental winged bulls at the entrance to the British Museum. They call them Lamassu, their teacher explained, sixteen tons of alabaster, hewn almost three thousand years ago, and exquisitely sculpted into a fantastical creatures. They had been buried for millennia, as mighty empires rose, fought and crumbled on the sands above them. Now a new empire had uncovered and claimed the statues, and its unimaginable modern magic had transported the immense monuments over land and sea to the imperial metropolis of London.

The girls continued their meander through history, passing the spooky sarcophagi and cryptic carvings of ancient Egypt. Then on to stare at cases of the slightly more comprehensible domestic pottery of ancient Greece. Now the grey-skirted stream of girls had ebbed into Roman times, feet scuffing, heels dragging. Behind teacher’s back, yawns were being stifled, and outbreaks of sniggers and nudges were beginning when artifacts with willies were sighted.

Yet through the dozy fug of her torpor, something caught Jenny’s eye. She stopped and squinted into the brightly lit case as her classmates milled past her. Inside was what looked like a thin leather strap, discoloured black and desiccated by age. Had the object been intact it would have been as long as her forearm, but instead it lay broken in 4 unequal lengths.

Curiosity piqued, her eyes scanned the caption card beside it.

Leather (likely goat hide)  ~140 BC.
Found: Tiburi (now Tivoli), central Italy, 1855.
“Believed to be a flogging whip, intended for the purification and fertility rites of the festival of Lupercalia. Celebrated annually, beginning on the Ides (the 13th) and climaxing on the 15th of February, these purgative rituals held such significance in the Roman calendar that the month of Februarius was named after them. Although Lupercalia was a fertility rite, scholars believe its proximity to the contemporary St Valentine’s Day (the 14th) is purely coincidental.”

Jenny quivered. Recently, she’d become a reluctant expert on the subject of flogging. Only yesterday she’d neglected to do her Latin homework, and been kept behind after school to finish it. And the school rules were very clear, pupils who missed an assignment would find themselves completing it – whilst sitting on a sore spanked bottom…

And so it was, that after the final school bell had rung yesterday, she’d trudged back to Room 12 and knocked on its antique-looking door. Three brass letters glowed dully at eye height, XII, this was her Latin Master’s room, after all.

“Veni!” shouted the voice behind the door.
She understood that instruction well enough and entered apologetically, wondering if she was to be scolded in Latin too. It might be less awkward, so much easier to ignore anyway.

Depositing her Latin books on a table at the front of the class, she tentatively approached his desk. There she stood, hands clasped demurely in front of skirt, as he droned on – in English, unfortunately – about her shocking laziness, the virtue of diligence, and the continuing relevance of Latin in the modern world. She silently disagreed with practically every word he said, all the while nodding earnestly.

His droning must have stopped, it was the sound of a drawer opening that shook Jenny from her reverie.

He had a mud-brown leather strap in his hand. They’d both been through this little ritual before, there was little need for explanations.

“Pull down your panties.”

Arguing was pointless, and from painful experience only likely to earn her a longer spanking, or another visit to the headmistress to hop and prance in her birthday suit under her cruel cane. And most likely, both.

Jenny’s wilful nature had already resulted in one visit to her headmistress. That time, Jenny had complained her tutor had told her to pull down her panties, expecting to hear her rebuke her colleague for his outrageous impropriety. But Miss’s response was unexpected and alarmingly blunt. Every girl in the school’s long and noble history had been spanked on her bare bottom, she’d said, something special about you, girl?

Miss had made it perfectly clear that what Jenny needed was a good lesson in humility. As she’d refused to bare her bottom when told, she’d now be baring everything. So despite her pleas, Jenny had soon found herself completely undressed and touching her toes. Miss had, of course, “seen it all before”, but that didn’t make it any less embarrassing as Miss altered Jenny’s stance to her satisfaction, her hands parting Jenny’s legs before a finger delicately spread apart her labia like wings of a butterfly.

And Miss was quite right about baring everything. As she was caned, Jenny’s lips parted wider and wider, until she couldn’t help revealing the slick little hole in her most secret place.

Even worse was to come. After her caning, Jenny was told to remain bending over whilst Miss inspected her, her fingers tracing each hot mark on her cheeks and every moist fold between her legs.

“I see being disciplined excites you, Jenny”, said her headmistress, as her fingertips gently stroked the glistening wetness where Jenny’s most intimate lips met.

“No Miss!” was all she could splutter in reply.

“Now be a good girl, and thank me for your correction.”

“I was… very naughty Miss”, Jenny whispered, embarrassment making her bare toes curl underneath her, “Thank you for my caning.”

Afterwards Miss had insisted on dressing Jenny in her discarded uniform. It was as if time was running backwards, as she made Jenny step into her panties, slowly pulling them up her thighs, up over her tender bottom to her waist, before finally tugging them to ensure they were snug around her damp crotch.

Then it was arms up to receive her little bra, which Miss fastened between her shoulders. Same again for her blouse, which Miss adjusted meticulously before doing up the buttons from waist to throat. Her skirt was wrapped around her waist and fastened, its hem tugged down to an appropriate level, and her socks pulled over her feet and up above her calves. Miss even put her shoes on, and tied her laces, which made Jenny feel like a clumsy child with a smacked bum, which just made her cheeks burn even brighter with shame.

Eventually only one item remained, her black and amber school tie. There was something about the way Miss handled it that made Jenny shiver, like it was about to be used to blindfold her, or to tie her hands behind her back. She was slightly disappointed when Miss just draped it around her neck and began tying a windsor knot; a pang that was wholly unexpected and disturbingly exciting.

Once dressed, Miss escorted Jenny back to the detention room, where – in an excruciating coda to the afternoon – she had to bend over once more and pull down her panties to reveal her newly acquired red stripes to her history teacher. He murmured approvingly, and then executed her original sentence, spanking her earnestly under the headmistress’s watchful eye until her bottom throbbed. Sitting down on one of the classroom’s hard benches after all that was just agony.

The lesson had been learned, and Jenny had taken her subsequent punishments more pragmatically. Standing alone in front of her Latin tutor, she dutifully reached under her skirt for the waistband of her underwear, slowly pulling her panties down to her ankles, in a motion that was as humiliating as it was unaccountably arousing.

“Bend over.”

On cue, she lowered her hands towards the floor, clasping her ankles just above where her white panties had gathered. There was a damp spot in the gusset, barely visible, but glaringly obvious if you knew it was there. There was just something about spankings that made her feel funny. She stared into the amber-coloured planks of the classroom floor, feeling her face blush hot. She looked back between her legs to see her tutor stand, and walk behind her.

Moments later, the hem of her knee-length grey serge skirt began to rise, accompanied by a cool draught that made the newly exposed skin of her thighs prickle. And just like that, her bottom was bare, bared and ready to be spanked. Instinctively she clenched her buttocks, hoping she wasn’t revealing too much of herself.

Then, a pause, as he tucked her hem into her waistband, ensuring that when she returned to her seat, it would be to sit on her newly spanked cheeks. Moments later, without warning, a loud slap echoed through the classroom, and Jenny felt a strip of her bottom sting and glow hot.

“Oooo… unus…” she gasped, remembering her duty to count out each whack, in the appropriate language, of course. She hoped she’d enunciated that word correctly, to her, it sounded like ‘anus’, which made Jenny even more self-conscious of her bottom hole, and compelled her to clench her legs together even tighter.

Another whack landed, this time on her other cheek “Duo!”

“Ah… tres… Ooo… quattuor… Ow… quinque!”

Her teacher spanked forcefully, as if channelling his displeasure into every stroke.

“Ooo… s-e-x…” she pronounced that number slowly, taking a whole breath to say it, letting it linger in the air, naughtily. Just saying that word was enough to spark a tingling between her legs, and make her start thinking about what would happen were she to unclench her legs and reveal what good girls shouldn’t.

“Septus!” she gasped. That earned a quick corrective slap and an admonishment. “SeptEM!”

“Oooo… octo! Novem! Ow! Decem!” The subsequent whacks were even harder, landing on alternate cheeks, painting pink the bottom of her bum and the tops of her thighs. He was clearly keen to ensure her discomfort when she was eventually sent to her seat to begin her homework.

By the time her counting had reached viginti she had abandoned any pretense of keeping her legs closed, and was now swaying and hopping from foot to foot after every slap of the strap, providing her disciplinarian with tantalising flashes of her puffy pink slit.

“Ow! Triginta!!” The spanking ceased on the thirtieth whack, with Jenny’s poor bottom hot, tender and aching. She stood up gingerly, resisting the temptation to break the rules and try and rub the heat away. Instead, with her panties still around her ankles, she hobbled miserably to the desk where she’d put her books, stifling a gasp as her sore spanked bottom was pressed down onto the unforgivingly hard wooden bench.

Jenny opened her Latin books, and began work on her translation exercise, something tedious about a girl named Claudia and her visit to a temple.

Her bottom glowed and tingled underneath her, the persistent hot stinging ache a reminder of her disgrace. She squirmed on her soreness, acutely aware of her little pea peeping out between her puffy lips, aching for attention, and the damp patch of dew she was making on the varnished wooden seat.

Meanwhile her tutor had returned to his desk, and was now engrossed in marking homework jotters, the ones that had been handed in on time. She wished he would go away and leave her alone, even if it was just for five minutes. She imagined that under his gown, his cock was painfully stiff, and any moment now he’d make some lame excuse and hurry from the room, down the corridor to the loos to relieve himself. The dirty old man.

She yearned to be able to reach down and rub: rubbing round and round, faster and faster, until the cruel burning was transformed into crashing waves of eye-rolling pleasure, reducing her to a shuddering, moaning mess, slumped over her desk, pink-faced and panting.

Instead, her pen scribbled drearily as she stewed in her own frustration.
As her bottom smoldered painfully beneath her.
Stupid language, she fumed.

After an hour of monotonous scrawling, Jenny had finished her assignment. She was promptly summoned towards her tutor’s desk, where she stood with her back to him, hands on her head, skirt still lifted, panties still bunched around her ankles, and most embarrassingly of all, with her bright pink bottom on display.

Jenny couldn’t tell if her almost interminable wait in front of his desk was due to the number of errors she’d made as he marked her work, or whether he was just enjoying staring at her round pink globes. Eventually, her work was deemed sufficient, and she was permitted to pull her panties up over her smarting cheeks, and was sent on her way.

By the time she’d got home, her bottom had stopped throbbing, which was an agonising missed opportunity. All the best orgasms she’d ever experienced had come soon after good hard whackings. She particularly enjoyed summer holiday visits to stay with strict Uncle Rupert. What a treat it was to have her pyjama bottoms pulled down, and be slippered and put to bed early. And then be able to spend the evening exploring under the covers with her fingers, rubbing and savouring her hot stinginess, and the delightfully musky slippiness it inspired.

Jenny was one of those girls blessed with a wonderfully creative imagination. Her favourite way to play was to lie back and replay her most cherished fantasy in her minds’ eye: imagining herself being stripped naked, tied up, and spanked until she came.

She’d clutch her sore bottom and impale herself, imagining the shuddering of each whack when her fingers were at their deepest. Deeper and harder, deeper and harder, until the throbbing of her spanking merged sensationally with the quivering of her climax.

Yesterday, she’d hurried up to her room and stripped off as soon as she’d got home. The pink patches on her bum were still warm to the touch, but quickly fading. Nevertheless the urge to play had now become a craving. She dived onto her bed and spread her legs apart.

And from behind her closed door there were the sounds of springs squeaking and little moans.

All of which might explain Jenny’s fascination as she peered into the case at the museum. She studied the timeworn leather fragments like a detective might hover over evidence at a crime scene, pondering the clues.
What’s your story, leather strap? she thought.
How many bottoms did you smack?
Were they naughty girls or naughty boys?
Did you ever spank a girl until she came?

“Jenny! Jenny Willis! Don’t dawdle girl!”

The headmistress was calling her. By now, her classmates had all drifted around the corner, ebbing into Anglo-Saxon Britain whilst she stood transfixed before the case, still mesmerised by a two thousand year old strip of goat hide, and all the stories it could never tell.

*   *   *   *   *

Two thousand years earlier, on the last day of Lupercalia, wolves were roaming the village of Tiburi.

Young women scattered as the wolves came into sight, shrieking and scampering away to hide. But the wolves proved relentless, prowling the streets, clambering trees, scouring the fields, the vineyards and the olive groves in search of their quarry.

The family of consul Gaius Claudius Maecenas had a Gods’ eye view from the balcony of the temple at the top of the hill. Far below them, a young woman in an indigo tunic could be seen scampering along the stony path beside a tilled field. She crouched behind a low hedgerow, hoping she’d be sufficiently concealed from the stalking wolves.

But from their vantage point, they could see the wolf run down the track towards her, long before she became aware of the approaching scuffing and pounding of his footsteps, and the panting of his breath. Too late, she glimpsed the wolf’s head towering above the hedgerows, its dead stare and vicious fangs, and instinctively took flight like a startled bird.

Shrieking shrilly, she fled down the track. Heart pounding, breath burning, now light-headed from the thrill of pursuit. Her sandals were impractical for running, and her barefoot pursuer was soon close enough to hear her gasps.

The chasing wolf was Marcus. He knew his quarry well: he’d grown up with her, played with her, and lusted after her. It had been a tremendous honour for Marcus to be selected to take part in The Chase. For the occasion, seven of the town’s fastest runners had removed their togas and donned wolfskins. The wolf’s head worn above their own like some macabre helmet, its fur covering their backs, but leaving the masculinity of their chests and loins uncovered.

In his hand, each wolf carried a long leather strap: a Februa, which had been cut from the hide of the sacrificial goat yesterday. As they roamed the town, some women would call to them, beckoning them over, staring coyly at their rippling physiques, and what dangled so enticingly between their athletic thighs.

Some would extend the palms of their hands to be whipped, others would lift their dresses or tunics and bend over. Some believed a short flogging on their bare bottoms would make them more fecund, others that it would bless them with greater satisfaction during the sexual act.

And some, like Cordelia, the field-girl dressed in indigo, ran. Some ran through fear, others ran out of the thrill of being pursued, to desire to be chased until every breath was like a fire in their chest, to be finally run to ground like prey and then be overwhelmed.

This chase, which had spanned the length the town, featuring numerous twists and turns along the way, did not have much further to run. She was tiring now, and there just weren’t enough good hiding places in the open fields.

And then he spotted her, crouching at the end of the track trying to recover her breath, near a high wooden gate. He howled, and began to sprint towards her, legs and arms flowing in blur of motion, his whip cracking through the air. Startled, she tried to spring off her feet, and scramble over the slats of the gate.

Just as she was about to fling herself over the gate’s highest beam, a hand grasped her ankle. She screamed in protest, begging to be freed, but her assailant was relentless, grunting as he ripped the shoulder from her pretty indigo tunic, before tearing the whole garment from her and  throwing it to the ground in a crumpled heap.

Cordelia lay bent over the gate helplessly as Marcus’ thick fingers roamed across her naked body. He pulled her legs apart, growling as he explored her hot crevice, before his hands moved upwards to grasp and pinch her nipples. There was no warning when the first lash of the whip burned across her bare backside, she yelled, wiggling, struggling to escape, but he pinned her over the gate easily.

True to character, he didn’t say a word as he lashed her, instead only grunts and growls accompanied the relentless cracking of the strap. It wasn’t long before Cordelia’s legs left the gate and were dancing in the air, her cries diminishing as her fatigue overwhelmed her, as she slowly submitted to her indignity.

And then she felt something hot, moist and stiff poking her between her stinging whipped buttocks. She pushed back her hips in response.

Far away, high on the temple hill, they heard him howl.

*   *   *   *   *

Claudia, the consul’s eldest daughter, watched the two small figures gyrating by the gate from the brow of hill. She had a vague idea of what she was watching, something to do with the icky differences between men and women, and how babies are made, but she was still rather naive when it came to the details. Which was what had brought her to the temple, on today of all days. As the consul’s daughter, she had been afforded a rare privilege: to take part in the Rite of the Satyr, the ceremony of coming of age, a rite that would herald her entry to womanhood.

And then there was someone holding her hand. A young fair-haired priestess in an almost translucent peach-coloured robe.

“Venire…”, whispered the priestess, smiling coyly and glancing at the temple, as if trying to tempt Claudia into some secret conspiracy. Claudia opened her mouth, about to tell her parents where she was going, but a shake of the head from the priestess kept her quiet. The deep, earnest look the priestess gave her seemed to say: No, no need to seek permission; you’re not a child anymore.

Whilst her family’s attention was occupied by the scene at the gate, Claudia and the priestess drifted unnoticed towards the temple. It was a modest structure of creamy travertine stone, built not to glorify the Gods, or those who communed with them, but as an intimate space, a genius loci whose very nature might dissipate the mystical barrier between Gods and mortals.

Passing through the temple’s simple, cylindrical columns, the priestess led Claudia by the hand to a small antechamber where steam, lavender and woodsmoke wafted into her nostrils. On the floor fauns and nymphs frolicked sensually in an intricate mosaic, around a small round pool that was steaming invitingly. High above, sunbeams from tall open windows glimmered through the fragrant mist.

Claudia disrobed without being told and slipped into the hot steamy bath. The pool was deep, allowing her to stretch out and feel her tense muscles soften. When she closed her eyes and submerged herself completely, the world outside disappeared, just the water’s warm embrace and the surreal sound of it sloshing against her ears.

After bathing, the priestess helped Claudia from the pool and dried her with a linen towel, before encouraging her to recline on a long stone platform nearby, which turned out to be warm to the touch, and surprisingly comfortable to lie on. With comforting glances, the priestess parted Claudia’s legs and massaged a slippy oil into her crotch. Then she delicately shaved Claudia with a small razor until her lips were bare and smooth, and only a small neat triangle of her pubic bush remained, its apex pointing down to the hood of her clit.

The massage that followed was unlike anything Claudia had ever experienced. It began normally enough, Claudia turning over to lie on her front and being slathered with warm fruity, spicy fragrant oils. The priestess began at the tips of her toes, roaming the soles her feet, before sliding up the backs of calves.

Further up, the rubbing became slower, more sensual, the thumbs of the priestess lingering on her sensitive inner thighs, caressing every curve of her buttocks, then gently spreading her cheeks apart until her pink crinkled hole was revealed. The slick skillful fingers slid across the exquisitely sensitive skin of Claudia’s freshly shaved perineum. And then her little moans turned to gasps as the fingers strayed upwards. Her masseur shushed her, continuing to circle round and around, round and around, as if casting a magical incantation, an enchantment to open her tight little hole.

When the priestess did eventually sink her oily finger deep into her bottom, what shocked Claudia most was not the illicit nature of the invasion, but how pleasurable it felt.
Something about it made her feel naughty. So very naughty. It made her feel like she should be the one bending over that gate, that she should be the one having her buttocks whipped.

Much to Claudia’s sorrow, the priestess did not linger, withdrawing her finger and continuing the massage in long sweeps from her shoulders to her waist, soothing every muscle in her back and neck until Claudia’s fingers and toes tingled. Once she’d finished teasing her scalp and the lobes of her ears, she turned Claudia onto her back. She began by massaging the crown of her head, before moving downward to delicately rub her forehead, below her eyes, and then her throat, before her slick hands cupped Claudia’s small firm breasts.

From behind closed eyelids, Claudia felt fingers exploring the contours of her chest, rubbing her small pink nipples, and gently tugging them. No one had ever touched her in that way before, it made her acutely aware of her nipples, as if the rest of her body had become ephemeral, and the delightful feelings emanating from her breasts were the only sensations she could feel.

The oily fingers continued their journey, sliding down her tummy, circling the little triangle on her mound and tracing the regions of freshly shaved skin. Sometimes the fingers departed from their lazy circles, slipping down between her lips, finding them wider and fuller, and wetter, on every subsequent visit.

Claudia couldn’t help but spread her legs wider, basking in these delicious new sensations. She’d played with herself before, of course, but her immature explorations were ludicrously clumsy compared to this woman’s skillful manipulations. She felt hot breath on her little pearl, and then a kiss, warm moist lips gently skimming and sucking her most sensitive folds.

The priestess’s magical prestidigitations soon opened Claudia like the petals of a glistening flower. Her finger touched the entrance of her small pink slit, gently at first, rubbing, sliding through the girl’s own wetness. Then she probed deeper, just entering inside her vagina, feeling her tightness squeeze her fingertip. She poured more warm oil on her mound, letting it seep and dribble into her folds, massaging it into her slowly widening hole, as she gently slid in and out.

Her finger had penetrated to her knuckle when she felt a springy little obstruction in the smooth passage, and Claudia flinched. Some girls who took the Rite had no hymens, but that wasn’t important. For those who believed in the Way of the Fawn, virginity was a state of inexperience rather than innocence. A state of mind, that you had either embraced your sexuality, or you hadn’t. The meaning of the Rite wasn’t the deflowerment of young women, but their empowerment. Those fortunate enough to take part would have a memorable first sexual experience, far better than the uncomfortable fumblings in the dark that happened after one too many amphora of wine.

There was one last lingering kiss from the priestess between Claudia’s legs, and then she helped the woozy girl to her feet, and escorted her towards the sound of drums.

*   *   *   *   *

The ceremonial chamber was at the back of the temple, and entered through what looked like a fissure in bare rock. Carved into stone above its entrance were six words:
“Speluncam ire times… Aurea quaeris est.”
In the cave you fear to enter… lies the gold you seek.

Drumming reverberated around the small intimate chamber, a slow, processional, almost martial beat, thumped out by players elsewhere. The chamber was unoccupied and surprisingly sparse, without statues, tapestries or sacred adornments. Its walls were hidden by darkness; the space being illuminated by three large bronze mirrors angled towards a hole in the far wall, through which the afternoon sun streamed in impressive crepuscular beams, which were thrown by the mirrors down onto a single spot in the middle of the room.

On the floor, in the centre of this pool of light, was a long slab of white marble. Its base was only ankle high, and a foot length’s wide, and in its centre the stone had been sculpted into life-sized phallus. It had been sculpted erect, its bulbous head pointing towards the heavens, its oiled surface glistening with a golden hue in the reflected light.

The priestess lead Claudia by the hand towards the phallus, and as she entered the pool of light she could feel the sun’s warmth tickle her skin. Kneel here… the priestess suggested, pointing out the two hollows on each side of the slab where she should place her knees. Claudia did as she was instructed, sinking to her knees, so that her wet lips hovered just above the head of the marble phallus. Despite being just an inanimate shaft of stone, Claudia looked between her legs and could almost sense the cock’s eerie intention; it meant to penetrate her. It made her feel rather light-headed.

Claudia turned to the priestess, seeking reassurance, and noticed the woman had a leather thong in her hands. Without explanation, she looped the thong around Claudia’s wrists, tying them together, before pulling the thong through the iron ring fixed into the floor, just in front of her. Claudia was tugged forward until her elbows rested on the ground, and her raised bottom became her highest point, as if she was grovelling before a mighty king. Now she was very aware of the smooth slick tip of the phallus between her intimate lips. She raised and lowered her hips slightly, and could feel the cool hard protrusion slide up and down inside her slit.

The drumming was getting louder and quicker, a tempo of expectancy. As she waited, trying to imagine what might happen next, Claudia was acutely aware of the cool stone dildo just below her wet puffy lips. At any moment, she could plunge down on top of it, impale herself, cross the threshold – but something made her hesitate. Perhaps it was a wariness of opening a door without permission, or not quite knowing how the latch worked, or where the door went.

A shrill flute note somewhere in the darkness interrupted her thoughts, followed by the approaching clatter of what sounded like hooves on the stone temple floor. Claudia pulled at her bonds, suddenly scared; if a horse ran amok here, with her almost prone on the ground, she’d be surely be trampled.

Her eyes urgently searched the gloom beyond the light. Another long flute note sounded. Now she could make out a silhouette approaching, with arms and legs. And horns.

The Satyr revealed himself; a tall muscular man. The first thing Claudia noticed about him were the two curled goat horns on the sides of his head, which seemed to sprout out from his shaggy brown hair. The second was his complete nakedness, his bare chest, his bare limbs – and his bare crotch. Her eyes were drawn like magnets between his legs, he was remarkably well endowed, and his thick cock was already partially swollen. Which made Claudia even more acutely aware of her own nudity.

She forced herself to look elsewhere, noticing his legs were covered in wiry fur, and his feet, each clad in some sort of cloven-foot clog. The abiding impression was of someone half man, half goat.

He stopped in front of her, unashamed of his nakedness, in fact, almost encouraging her to stare at his stiffening cock. She’d seen plenty of naked men and boys before, her native climate was hot, and it was natural to undress whilst bathing, sunbathing and swimming. But she had never been so close to an erection, a spectacle she and her friends had long giggled about.

The Satyr held a wooden flute, and began to play a slow languid melody that silenced the distant drum beats. Now Claudia was aware of someone else at the edge of the light, a smaller, thinner figure, her limbs outstretched as she danced. She too was naked, save for a crown of moss and flowers woven into her auburn hair, and vines of small leaves and petals that seemed to cling to her body like ivy on tree. A Nymph, a nature spirit, a daughter of the forest.

The nymph danced around Claudia, as if introducing herself, whilst Claudia blushed to be seen in such a compromising position by such a beautiful creature.

The Satyr continued his musical seduction, a beautiful tune that seemed to say, come with me, and I’ll make your heart dance. In response, the Nymph orbited him, sometimes dropping to the ground, sometimes athletically leaping into the air, as if demonstrating her lithe vitality, her youthful fecundity, or her melodic submissiveness.

The sensuality of her dancing was obvious, even to someone as naive as Claudia. The way she presented her breasts, and arched her back, and spread her legs. A primal mating dance that she innately recognised despite her inexperience.

The Nymph’s fingers began to glide over the Satyr’s bare flesh. Tracing the contours of his muscles, his chin, his hips, running her fingers through his unkempt hair. Then she cupped his sac, caressing and cradling its precious contents, before beginning to tug and massage his swollen cock.

From footsteps away, Claudia looked upwards, spellbound. She never would have thought watching strangers behaving so intimately would be so arousing. It looked like play, an exciting, secret game, one she really wanted to join in. It made her insides ache, in ways that had never ached before, and she slipped slightly further onto the protrusion below.

He soon succumbed to the Nymph’s enchantment, his cock was rigid now, just like the one she knelt astride. As the Satyr stood playing his flute, the Nymph knelt beside him, taking the tip of his cock between her lips, as if it was her own flute, her fingers dancing along its length mimicking each note he played. Slowly she took more of him into her mouth, sucking and licking until his music began to falter. It wasn’t long before he set his flute down on the ground.

The Satyr knelt beside the Nymph, face to face. He looked deeply into her eyes, almost mesmerising her, before lunging forward, sweeping her up into a tight embrace. She clenched her legs, squeezing his cock between her thighs as they shared a deep passionate kiss. In a blur, he shifted his weight like a wrestler, rolling them both to the ground, so she now lay on her back as he loomed above her.

Claudia stared, enraptured by what was happening. They were almost side-on to her, and would have been within touching distance had her hands not been bound. So she could clearly see him pushing his thick middle finger between the Nymph’s legs, all the way in, and then sliding it in and out. The Nymph moaned in response, and they sounded like good moans, delighted moans, yes please, keep doing that moans.

A drum beat. Then another. From somewhere unseen, a slow rhythmic thumping started. The Satyr was almost on top of the Nymph now, his stiff cock teasing the folds between her legs, his arms supporting her as he licked and nibbled her breasts. The inevitability of what was going to happen next made Claudia’s heart race with excitement. She was going to see It. A man and a woman loving each other.

Slowly. Inexorably. Effortlessly. His cock entered her, as if drawn inside by some natural law.
He penetrated her deeply, pushing all the way in, holding her midway up her back as she arched and moaned. Claudia gasped, amazed, wondering where his huge organ had gone. Her own hole felt tight and tiny, there was surely no way she could accommodate an intrusion like that. She looked down at the stone phallus still pointing up between her legs, it was just as big.

The drumming quickened as he slid in and out of his lover. His motions were unpredictable, short thrusts, deep lingering plunges, rapid moan-inducing oscillations. At times the drumbeats slowed, and he responded by moving within her slowly and tenderly. Then the beat would suddenly quicken, and he’d thrust faster, and faster, until he began to ravish her in a noisy, wild, almost feral manner.

Claudia too found the beat irresistible, and began to gyrate her hips in time with his thrusts, feeling the bulbous head of the phallus slip in and out of her own wet hole. It was a very pleasurable sensation indeed.

A hot stinging slap suddenly seared Claudia’s bottom. She looked over her shoulder in shock, and could just see the priestess standing behind her, holding a long leather strap in her hand. After four more drumbeats, another lash landed. Claudia looked back imploringly, but was unable to catch her eye. Another lash. Again she recoiled from it, pushing down just a bit further onto the phallus. Her bottom was stinging now, it felt just like when she was spanked for being a naughty girl.

Claudia watched him fuck the beautiful Nymph in time to the drums, the faint clatter of his hooves on the stone floor part of a symphony of pants, squelches and moans. On every his fourth thrust, the whip would sting Claudia’s bottom. Yet she started to anticipate each lash, even looking forward to it, as an encouragement to ride her stone dildo a little deeper.

Claudia could feel a deep ache now, a new sensation, a yearning to be filled. It felt like she was taking the phallus as deep as she could, but knew it was possible to go deeper, like there was an unscratchable itch a full cock-length inside her. The whip stung again, and as she impaled herself in response, she could feel the phallus push against a tender spot, as if she’d played too recklessly and bruised herself inside.

Not every girl who participated in this ceremony deflowered herself. For some there was no desire, or they simply were not ready, the discomfort of penetration outweighing their urge for fulfillment. But Claudia was desperate to come. Her bottom was sore and smoldering, and watching the fucking was making her giddy and breathlessly excited. She pulled at her bonds, wishing she had just one hand free, so she could rub her secret pearl as she did when alone in bed to take her aches away.

There was movement in front of her. The Satyr rolling onto his back, and the Nymph moving to sit astride him. The Nymph faced Claudia, just an arm’s reach away, and looked deeply into her eyes as she sat astride the Satyr’s cock. She flashed a coy smile at her, before letting herself slide slowly down it, until she’d impaled herself fully.

Claudia could see the lust in the Nymph’s sparkling green eyes, and the escalating excitement in her movements. She began to match the Nymph’s ups and downs, pushing further and further, timing each plunge so each stinging whack on her bum coincided with the ache of the phallus against her tender spot.

Thump. Thump. Thump… The drums beat faster and faster, louder and louder, approaching an almost frenzied tempo as the two lovers approached their tumultuous finale.

Over the noise, the Nymph mouthed something to Claudia.
“Venire mecum. Venire mecum. Venire mecum.”; come with me.

And then the Nymph’s eyes closed. She arched her back, impaling herself deeply and crying out to the heavens in a delirious gyrating dance.

Claudia could bear it no longer. She felt her legs tremble, knowing in moments the whip would sear her bottom, and she would follow the Nymph to the bottom of her own cock.

A heat suddenly burned inside her, and then she was plunging down, deeper than she’d ever gone before. She felt the phallus push into her unscratchable itch –  again, and again, and again, filling her completely, until she was caught up in an unstoppable excitement. A euphoric spasm reverberated within her groin, squeezing the stone dildo tight like a clenching fist, until she was overwhelmed by a wave of writhing, shuddering pleasure that seemed to make her whole skin tingle.

Claudia sat exhausted on the stone slab, her hot pink bum resting on the cool white marble. She watched her juices dribble down the base of the phallus shaft, the protrusion still rigid inside her, which she could feel herself squeeze as little quivers and after-shudders rippled through her.

Through her daze, Claudia realised the drumming had ceased. She looked back at the Nymph, and the beautiful woman smiled back at her knowingly, which made Claudia feel like one too.

A deep contentedness settled over Claudia. Smiles and exhausted breathing filled the silence, as time itself appeared to stand still. It felt like this moment of ecstasy in the warm golden sunlight should last forever.

Yet a thousand years hence the temple would be gone: torn down, and its stones used to erect a new church in its place. Where the marble slab now stood, a priest who’d never known love would stand and lecture his congregation on the perils of lust. Sexual delight was now sinful, a pernicious disruptive force, a temptation that would lure his flock from the path the Almighty intended for them.

A new age would have dawned, the rituals of Claudia’s time now dismissed as wild animalistic antics, replaced by a new era of divine enlightenment. Chastity and purity were now sacrosanct, a virgin’s innocence was a valuable commodity, a virtue to be competed for, a property to be bought and owned. In the pursuit of sanctity, her descendents would enslave themselves.

But this was of no concern to Claudia, she and her heirs would be dust by then. She would live out her years as the owner of her own body, true to her own spirit, sharing joy and living a life that made her happy.

Centuries later, the temple would be sacked by a barbarian horde, and the phallus Claudia had ridden was broken off and lost. After a bizarre sequence of events and bequests across dozens of generations, the shaft of perfect marble eventually found its way into the hands of a sculptor, who carved it into a chess piece. The stone’s bulbous head was sculpted into the crown of the white queen, becoming the most eye-catching item of the Lord of Verona’s chess set. Generations of boys, knights, warlords and dukes would pick up the smooth marble shaft, quite unaware of its intimate history, and the thousands of women who had begun lifetimes of sexual adventure impaled upon it.

The priestess gave Claudia the whip that had lashed her. She kept it in her bedroom in a small decorated clay urn, a very personal memento of her entry to womanhood. After a long, happy life, the pot was buried with her, and survived mostly intact until workers digging foundations stumbled across it.

Years later, the archaeologist who excavated the urn died, and willed his discovery to the Roman collection at the British Museum. Some say the difference between an antique and an artifact is an artifact continues to echo through eternity, subtly affecting the fates of those who encounter it. Most visitors to the museum tended to walk past those unremarkable blackened fragments of leather. But something had made Jenny stop, and stopping there would change her life.

*   *   *   *   *

The hand of her headmistress shaking her shoulder woke Jenny from her day-dreaming.

“What’s Lupercalia, Miss?”, asked Jenny.

Her headmistress looked past her, into the case, scrutinising the leather fragments within.
Ah, The Rite.
Jenny couldn’t have seen her small wry smile.

“Report to my study after classes tomorrow, Jenny”, her headmistress instructed, “And I’ll teach you everything…”

@spankingtheatre 15th Feb 2013


A single glimpse was enough to doom me.

Yet all I did was tiptoe across the drifts of yellow fallen leaves, towards the inviting glow of hospitable light, and peek through a house’s window. 

My glimpse lasted no longer than a heartbeat.
I saw her standing beside a roaring fireplace, her hair braided in golden plaits, glimmering in the fire light, tumbling over the shoulders of her loose white nightshirt.
Then I saw her bum; captivating, beautiful, pert pink globes – with a crook-handled cane wedged between her cheeks, hitching up her nightie, exposing her to my prying eyes.

It was only the merest glance. Sudden movement drew my eye: a menacing black blur, advancing quickly. Startled, I recoiled from the window, acutely conscious I’d just seen something I was not supposed to see.

Instinctively, I turned and ran.

That fateful day, I’d been walking home through the woods. Autumn’s touch had ignited a silent forest fire, I wandered through an impression of burning trees, sizzling reds and blazing yellows of every hue dancing on their swaying branches like boughs of flame. Whilst all around, mist billowed and swirled in the wind like smoke, choking every winding path.

In the nebulous gray gloom I must have wandered right past the landmark gnarly old oak tree – veering left rather than right, down a path I’d never explored before. This untrodden trail narrowed into a avenue of orange-leaved sycamores, guiding me, almost funnelling me.

I smelt the presence of the house well before I saw it. A seductively sweet aroma, resin-rich logs on a roaring fire, congenial and welcoming. A striking gothic house began to emerge incrementally from the mist, as if someone was describing it. First its steep pitched roof, clusters of stubby chimneys, then ornamental arches, archaic turrets and dark brick walls, before I saw the planked veranda, and a glowing window that radiated an aura of golden light into the mist outside.

Lest you think me some kind of voyeur, I’m not normally in the habit of peering into strangers’ windows. But here, that warm, inviting glow enticed me closer. The cloud of gold in the murky gloom seduced me, as if it was the reflected gleam from a cache of treasure. So I crept up to the window, and peeped inside.

And that’s when I saw her.
Just a glance. The merest glimpse.
Stolen in the blink of an eye.
Yet enough to sear the scene into my memory.

A fireplace.
A golden haired maiden.
A cane between her cheeks.
So still, as if frozen in time.
And someone else.
A dark figure.
Rushing forward.

A chill ran through me, a sudden recognition that I didn’t belong here.
Instinctively, I turned and ran, hurtling through the mist, leaves and twigs crunching underfoot, barrelling down the narrow avenue of sycamores – until I almost collided with the old oak tree. I stared back into the haze, heart racing, half-expecting a dark shadow to rush at me from the mist.
But nothing followed.
With a sigh of relief, I turned right, walking quickly towards the sanctuary of home, looking over my shoulder with every step.

* * * * *

That night, as I lay awake in bed, that one glimpse came to dominate my thoughts. It began as curiosity, who was she? I’d never seen her walking along the track that ran through the woods. Had they lived there long? How strange that I’d lived in this wood all this time, and never even known there was a house down there.

The wind rattled my windows, blowing in a draught that made my bedside candle flicker. I shivered and snuggled underneath my blankets, and in my mind’s eye, I recalled her nakedness.

She had been a naughty girl, and she was about to be caned – on her bare bottom too. I began to wonder what misdemeanour could deserve such punishment. Had she neglected to do her chores? Perhaps she’d brought home a letter detailing her misbehavior at school? Or maybe she’d been caught playing show-me-yours in a forest den?

My glimpse had lasted no longer than a heartbeat before the sudden pouncing movement in the corner of my eye had spooked me and forced me to recoil from the window. Now I bitterly regretted my lack of courage. I began to imagine what I would have seen had I stayed.

The figure in black could have been her dowager aunt, nothing sinister, just a widow still dressed in the colour of mourning. She would have taken the cane from between her young charge’s cheeks, telling her to grasp the mantelpiece and push her bottom out. Then I would have seen a glint, as the varnished cane was raised into the light, then a soundless swish, and a muffled cry. And just beyond the window I would stare, rapt – eyes locked on her beautiful bottom, now pushed out expectantly again, newly adorned with a thin pink line.

Outside the wind howled, and a forceful gust whistled through the rafters, extinguishing my candle. It shames me to admit that as I lay there in the dark, my hand began to wander beneath my sheets, and my mind began to sour with darker thoughts.

In my fantasy, I returned to the strange gothic house. In my mind’s eye the mist had lifted, and the woods glowed gold and scarlet in the bright autumn sunshine. I stepped up onto the porch, where a coarse straw-coloured mat bade visitors “Welcome”. Taking a deep breath, I pulled the bell cord, and a faint tinkle sounded beyond.

The door was pulled open by a woman in black, who smiled as she saw me. She was of a similar age to my own mother, her black hair neatly tied back, her black satin dress elegantly attractive rather than morosely sombre.

“Good day!” I imagined myself saying, “I live just down the path, in Bramble Cottage…”
The ensuing doorstep conversation was perfunctory, this was – after all – my fantasy, and the focus of my visit was waiting indoors. So the lady welcomed me enthusiastically, and insisted on inviting me inside.

I entered and followed the lady down the hall into the living room. My imagination furnished it sparsely, just a few airchairs, a low table, some bookcases and some wall hangings. The focal point of the room was the vast granite fireplace, which occupied an entire wall. And beside the fireplace was the golden-haired girl, dressed in a bright white nightie, with a cane between her bottom cheeks.
“This is Freya…” the lady said apologetically, “Freya has been very naughty. I was about to spank her bottom when you called. Oh do sit down, let me get you a nice hot drink.”

I imagined sitting down on one of the armchairs as my host hurried out of the room. I stared ahead at the crackling log fire before my eyes were inevitably drawn to the young woman’s bare bottom. She wore a simple white nightgown, whose hem had been hitched up above her waist by the thin cane between her buttocks. I ensured her hands were clasped in front of her,
allowing my imagination to linger on this glorious sight, whilst my hand worked diligently beneath my sheets.

By now, I was engrossed in my story, oblivious to the wind gusting against my bedroom window. Keen to advance events, I imagined the lady in black returned with a steaming mug of hot chocolate.

“Do forgive me” she told me, “But it’s time Freya was spanked. I hope watching this won’t make you uncomfortable. It’s just how we do things in this house. Come here, Freya.”

The golden girl turned towards me, showing me her face for the first time; as beautiful as I could possibly imagine. Her eyes were downcast as she shuffled slowly into the middle of the room, keeping the cane between her cheeks – until the lady in black plucked it from her. Then, without being asked, Freya turned her back to me, spread her legs and bent over.

I could not have imagined a better view, as the lady’s cane swished and swicked across poor Freya’s pretty little bottom. She took her caning with almost angelic grace, never crying or making a scene, instead mixing her gasps with admissions of how naughty she’d been, and how much she deserved a sore bottom.

I was getting so close now; and somehow, my imagination improvised a final devious twist. I imagined a clock chiming.

“Goodness me! Is that the time?” exclaimed the lady in black, “Dinner will be burned!”

She hurried towards the fireplace, placing the cane on the mantelpiece, before moving back to scrutinise her young charge’s rear. Then she looked across at me expectantly.

“I do hope you don’t mind, but Freya isn’t pink enough yet, would you be so kind and spank her whilst I attend to the oven?”

I tried to imagine responding to her outrageous request with as much dignity as I could manage, nodding my head nobly as if to say: why, of course. Whereas in reality, I would have just gawped back dumbly.

And so Freya obediently climbed over my lap, submissively placing one hand on the small of her back. I grasped her wrist, pinning her down, and began spanking her, softly and slowly at first. Whereupon the lady in black smiled contently and left us alone.

“Harder! Please. Spank me harder! Please. I’ve been a very naughty girl”, Freya implored.

I quickened the force and tempo of my slaps, until the girl’s supplications were replaced by stifled cries. I spanked until her whole bottom was pink, until my hand began to hurt.
I spanked her until her legs began to flail, and part…

I came in throbbing gasps as I imagined the dew glistening on her slit.

* * *

Exhausted by the vividness of my fantasy, I fell asleep soon afterwards, into a deep, disturbing sleep.

I visited the strange house again in my dreams. But this time I was a spectator, no longer in control of my mysterious visions. For reasons unknown to me, my visit took place at night, yet I carried no lantern, relying on whatever moonlight had struggled through the stormy clouds to light my way. I felt my way tentatively through the darkness, acutely aware of the blackness, and the peril of veering off the path.

Soon, moonlight glinted off the frosty trunks of the avenue of sycamore trees, like some eerie silver colonnade. It was cold, but I did not feel it; only a compulsion to reach the house. I remember approaching the porch, but there was no door, no welcome mat, no bell to ring. The house reflected no moonlight, it seemed blacker than the darkness around it, unable to see, I began edging around the side of its walls, my fingertips probing its slimy bricks for anything that might be an entrance.

I reached the corner of the wall, and saw a dim halo of light ahead. The light seemed to come from the house, but did not illuminate it, a weak puddle of light seeping out of a fissure in a void. It felt like a lure, there to attract rather than enlighten its surroundings. It drew me towards it.

Now I was standing in front of a familiar window. Inside, a prodigious pile of logs burned fiercely but silently in a vast granite fireplace, radiating a surprisingly feeble light. The golden-haired girl was there too, this time facing me; she looks straight at me, with wide, pleading eyes. Without her lips moving I hear her voice in my mind, imploring: Help me.

I became aware of a sinister presence in the room with her. A black cloaked figure without a face. Its weirdness confounded me as I tried to make sense of what I saw, to name and understand it. This fiend, this spectre, this witch – whatever it was – seemingly held the girl captive, and I was her only hope.

Help me, her voice pleaded. Help me.

Her pleas emboldened me. Suddenly I knew it was my duty to protect her. I felt valiant, as if I’d donned a glimmering suit of impervious mail. My heart swelled, I would challenge and banish this wicked witch, and rescue her. Noiselessly, my hands hammered and shook the window, frantically attempting to find a way in.

A roaring gust of wind rattled my bedroom window, startling me awake.

I lay in the dark panting, soaked in sweat, as the details of my disconcerting dream ebbed away like water spilt on sand, until only the memory of the beautiful golden-haired girl remained.

Before I drifted back to sleep, I resolved to revisit the strange house on my way home tomorrow afternoon. I would introduce myself. By happy coincidence, tomorrow was Halloween, and there was a party at the Allen’s house. I could invite her, we could go together.

* * * * *

That afternoon, I hesitated by the gnarly old oak tree. I prevaricated about returning to the mysterious gothic house; perhaps it was the embarrassment of my first furtive visit, or the unnerving indescribable weirdness I’d felt on waking last night, or perhaps more likely still, the dispiriting possibility that she might decline my invitation.

By now the sun was sinking low in the sky, painting the fluffy clouds gold and making the trees around me gleam. The beauty must have seduced me, inspired me; I started walking, turning left, down the path to where she lived.

Today the mist was thinner, just thin wisps that drifted through the yellow and russet branches like arboreal spirits. So now as I approached, the whole house loomed above me in all its gothic imperiousness. Yesterday the mist had concealed its scale, now I could see it was much larger than I’d thought. I walked through a wide clearing of dead dry leaves, noticing how nothing grew any closer than the surrounding wood. It had no garden, no lawns, no bushes, no walls, not even any hedges or ornamental trees. It was as if the house had just, appeared.

I was a stone’s throw from the house now, and could see a glow radiating from a downstairs window. I ignored it, I intended to introduce myself politely this time, and strode up to the porch, mounting the 3 small wooden steps to reach the door.

The door was archaic and unwelcoming, its huge black beams joined together with giant rusted studs. Above the lintel was an etched ebony plaque, a single word in cursive script:

I didn’t recognise the language, I thought it was the house’s name. How I wish I’d known it was the house’s curse.

I puffed myself up, ready to introduce myself, and lifted and dropped the rusty door-knocker. A deep, dull boom resonated through my bones, like a boulder dropping from the sky.

I waited at the porch apprehensively for someone to answer, expecting at any moment to hear a bolt clunk, or hinges creak.
But nothing.
I glanced at the light coming from the window, it seemed impossible anyone could fail to hear that deafening knock; someone must be home.

A dark thought seeped into my mind. What if, right now, the head of the house was busy? Busy administering a caning to the beautiful girl I’d glimpsed by the fireplace. At this very moment, she could be bending over, the cane tapping against her bare cheeks, being scolded for her naughtiness. It shames me to admit this, but my yearning to surreptitiously witness this gratuitous spectacle overwhelmed my better judgement.

So I stepped down from the porch and walked over to the glowing window. I rose on tiptoes and peered inside – but this time, my prying eyes were foiled. The window had misted over, denying me a view of what lay beyond.

Emboldened by my obsession, I crept around the side of the house, looking for another window. That’s when saw the back door. Yesterday I wouldn’t have dreamed of trying the door of a stranger’s home, but now a strange compulsion had overtaken me, and I felt I’d do almost anything for another glimpse of her.

I pressed down the door latch, as subtly as I could. A faint click. It was unlocked.
I nudged it open, praying that it would not betray me with a creak, opening it just wide enough to squeeze through. Now I was in what seemed to be a small pantry, though its shelves were surprisingly barren, with a few small sacks and empty crates strewn casually on the floor. But my attention was immediately drawn to the orange flickering glow underneath the far door. Firelight.

I tiptoed to the door; it had no keyhole, only a round tarnished brass knob, which meant if I wanted to know what lay beyond, I’d have to open it. Hardly daring to breathe, I twisted the doorknob slowly, pulling the door inward slightly, creating enough of a gap to peep through.

And there she was, beside the fireplace, the cane between her bottom, her nightie hitched just so – everything as I’d glimpsed yesterday. It was as if nothing had changed, it’s funny how that didn’t strike me as odd at the time.

I looked around the room nervously, for any sign of another occupant, but it seemed we were alone. Then – suddenly – her head began to turn towards me, perhaps alerted by the draught I’d introduced to the room. I had only an instant to decide what to do. I did not want her to think I was spying on her nakedness, even though I had been; so I stood tall and strode confidently into the room, determined to present a good first impression.

Her face blanched when she saw me, her eyes widening in shock.

I held my palms up, as if to forestall any screaming, adding by way of explanation, “I’m here to help…”

She opened her mouth slowly, as if remembering how to speak.
“You shouldn’t be here…” she said at last.

At the time I thought she meant I shouldn’t be intruding into her home. But in retrospect, her observation was much more profound.

“Why?” I asked dumbly, only realising how idiotic it sounded coming from an interloper after the word had left my lips. Her reply was disturbingly unexpected.

“I sneaked in here too, once. I’ve never been able to leave.”

I still didn’t understand.

“Then I’m here to rescue you!”, I said nobly, transformed in an instant from pathetic skulking prowler to chivalrous hero. I understood now, I was answering a calling, to liberate this beautiful girl from her nefarious captor.

I reached behind her, plucking the cane from between her cheeks. It was seductively warm, just holding it made me feel strange, a weird authoritative confidence, like I had the power of mastery, the ability to bend the wills of others. I set the cane down carefully on the mantelpiece, with the reverence due an arcane artifact.

I looked into her wide blue eyes, and stretched out my hand, but she remained motionless. So I reached forward to grasp hers, only to flinch as we touched. Not only was her skin startlingly cold, but her hand was surprisingly light; it felt bizarrely insubstantial, like if I squeezed it, my own might pass through it.

Something else was wrong, the room had darkened noticeably. The late afternoon sunlight that had been glimmering through the foggy window had vanished. I’d only been indoors for a few minutes, yet now it was dark outside, the oddly noiseless fire now providing the only source of light.

Motion in the corner of the room caught my eye. An antique grandfather clock, its minute hand moving perceptibly, counting off minutes as if they were seconds.

“Time is wrong here”, she observed flatly, in a tone that made me shiver.

It was clear that this was not a place to linger.

“Let’s go!”, I said, pulling her by the hand towards the door I’d entered.

It only took a couple of strides to cross the pantry to the outside door.
I pushed the latch.
The door opened into utter blackness.

There was no moonlight, no wind, no swaying trees.
And there were no leaves on the ground, because there was no ground at all.
I looked over the doorway threshold into a void, and was struck dizzy by a terrifying vertigo.
A primal fear overwhelmed me, and I knew without knowing that I was standing at the edge of an abyss, a bottomless pit.

I staggered backwards, nauseous, crumpling to my knees. My arms flailed frantically, reaching out to clutch a nearby column beam. I clung to it like someone drowning, as if my life depended on it, desperate for the reassurance of something solid.

“W…w…where are we?” I asked, still shaking.

“We are nowhere.” she answered dully, “In Ginnungagap, the yawning void.”

I had no idea what she meant. But some primal part of me understood; that anything that fell into that abyss would fall and fall and fall forever. If I fell, I would die of thirst or fright after several terrifying days of tumbling through the unending darkness.
Even then, my corpse would continue falling.
Eons would pass, and long after my body had disintegrated into dust, I would still be falling.

I crawled away from the open doorway, and the incomprehensibly frightening inky blackness beyond, back towards the reassuring golden glow of the fireplace. I was still getting to my feet when I noticed someone – something – else in the room with me.

It was all over so quickly.
I only had time for a glimpse.
Just enough time to perceive a black presence, the size of a person.
It looked like a hole in reality, as if a void had opened in the middle of the room.  
The edges of the hole flowed, giving it the appearance of a floating black gown.
It had no limbs, no head, no face or teeth.
Just a floating black shape.
It was utterly horrifying.
It hurtled towards me.

I felt myself being enveloped by an oppressive smothering pressure.
Then everything went black.

* * * * *

Sometime later, I was dimly aware of light again.
I was standing by a fireplace.
As my eyes adjusted to the light, I began to scrutinise the grey stone hearth in front of me. Massive ancient granite blocks that looked like they’d been hewn by giants. The fire itself was a towering pile of logs, which burned without roaring or crackling, emitting a unexpectedly feeble heat.

I was freezing cold. I could feel some warmth where I was nearest to the fire, but the heat was weak, like winter sunshine. As sensation slowly returned to my skin I became aware I was only wearing a thin white nightshirt. There was also something between my buttocks; something long, thin, and warm. With horror, I realised it was a cane.

I tried to reach behind me, to throw this violation on the floor in disgust, but my hands remained clasped in front of me. Perhaps the cold had paralysed me, petrifying me like a statue. All I could move were my eyes, scanning across the blocks of the vast fireplace that dominated my vision, watching how small imperfections in the stone cast tiny dancing shadows in the firelight.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her. Just a glimpse, a white blur – but with that unmistakable bonnet of braided golden hair. I strained my eyes to gain a better look, only to experience an excruciating pain, as if I’d strained my eyes trying to stare at the back of my own head. Am I cursed to be frozen here, tantalised and tormented, knowing my obsession is just barely beyond my sight?

* * *

And so I stand and wait, watching the shadows dance. I have had plenty of time to rue my impetuousness, to regret my foolhardy incursion into this infernal place, this trap for the unvirtuous.

Then, just when I think time itself has forgotten me. I hear the grandfather clock behind me chime. Twelve doleful clangs.

I have come to dread the chimes.
When the chimes sound, the Gown appears.

I call it the Gown in an effort to conceal its true horror from my mind.
A faceless, limbless shape, as black as the void beyond, it moves through the room like a stain. When it appears, I can move again. I can look across the fireplace and see the golden-haired girl standing on the other side, her eyes wide with fear.

I can also look around the room, but I do all I can to avoid it. At a glance, my prison appears to be an old-fashioned drawing room, picturesque and homey, elegant furniture, brass fittings, bookcases and ornaments. Yet if I let my eyes linger, the room’s disgusting decrepitude is revealed; I witness the passing of a thousand years in a single glimpse. Hideous black spiders shroud the walls in web. Furnishings tarnish, rust and rot, decaying before my eyes into a foul morass of mold, insects and sawdust. No matter how many times I’ve seen it, the repugnant scene always forces me to recoil in disgust.

So I stare straight ahead, just waiting for my turn.


I hear the voice in my head, not my ears. Sometimes it sounds like a loud authoritative man, other times a sensual domineering woman. Every time it makes me feel like a recalcitrant teen, deserving of discipline for all my past vices.

I obey without question, shuffling into the middle of the room and bending over. I feel the cane being taken from my cheeks, and being tapped against my rear. I look back through my legs to see the cane floating in the air, orchestrated by the limbless Gown. Then the whacking starts. Each stroke is an excruciating fiery lash, making me want to cry out in agony. But cruelly, when I attempt to yell in pain I hear myself exclaiming encouragement instead: “More!” or “Harder!”, “Again, please!”. My infernal disciplinarian is only too willing to oblige.

Eventually, I am sent back to stand beside the fireplace in shame, my bottom streaked with burning, searing marks. But the pain soon fades, and I feel the heat of each fiery whack spreading through my chilled body, warming me in a way the weak firelight never does.

Then it’s her turn. As she bends over, our eyes meet; but just a glimpse. She gaves me the same look every time, I wonder what she is trying to say. I’m sorry for luring you here? We’ll get out of this? Thanks for trying to rescue me? Or, you stupid fool, you’ve damned us both?

The cane dances in the air behind her, swishing and whacking, making her back arch and her knees tremble. I see her delight in the warmth of her discipline, she prances, rising on her toes, stretching her calves, spreading her legs, exulting in each painful stroke, as she enjoys the only sensation she can still feel.

I had always wanted to see her being caned.
Now I’m damned to watch; every night for the rest of eternity.

* * *

Time is indeed wrong here. I’ve been here so long, yet my appearance hasn’t changed, my hair and fingernails do not grow, my skin is still unwrinkled and youthful. I sometimes feel my own pulse throb faintly in my throat, but I’m no longer certain if I’m alive or dead.

We exist in a limbo of perpetual night. The only evidence of time the grandfather clock’s hands circling inexorably towards midnight, and the dull chimes that herald the appearance of our tormentor.

Then, when all hope seems lost, daylight miraculously seeps through the window behind us, illuminating a square on the stones before our eyes. Only then can I hear the outside world again, the wind rustling nearby trees, the short faint chirps of sparrows, and sometimes even the shouts of distant voices. I long to call out to them, to run from this wretched house, but I remain petrified, frozen, cruelly tantalised by a freedom I can never reach.

I’ve begun to notice the sunlight always has the same golden glow, as if we reappear in the world at the same time of year, just before Halloween, when they say the barriers between realities are at their thinnest. Then, all too soon, we vanish back into the eternal night of the void.

Sometimes I swear I can hear distant cries. I wonder how many others have been enticed and entrapped here, held captive in the myriad rooms of this infernal place.

And so here I stand, by the fireplace, trying to keep my heart from freezing, hoping against hope for salvation. Perhaps my pleas will echo in a stranger’s dreams, a saviour more virtuous than I. Someone who’ll stumble across this eldritch place one Halloween, and who’ll think to free us from our curse, rather than spy on our nakedness.
Until then I will be punished, in a house, all alone, in the dark.

@spankingtheatre 2012

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