Search

Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

Category

shortstory

The Bottom Smacking Machine

There was just the merest space between the bookshelf and the chest of drawers. Just enough to slide a few sheets of paper between them.
Or wedge in a ruler.

She called it her Bottom Smacking Machine.
Though that name did somewhat overstate its complexity.
Bottom Smacking Contrivance would have been more accurate, if much less catchy.

She’d thought it strange when he’d first instructed her to search her house for a narrow gap between two heavy objects. The gap had to be narrow enough to hold in place a few sheaves of paper, and have space to stand either side of it. And two sides of the gap had to be more or less flush with each other.

Eventually she found one.
When she reported back, he instructed her to wedge her plastic ruler into the gap – just up to the 8 centimetre mark, and leave the rest jutting out.
And put it just below waist height.
Suddenly, his intentions became very clear.

She had been so very, very naughty.
And he was such a long, long way away.
Some means of discipline would have to improvised.
Or standards would slip. And that would be just unacceptable.

One night alone, her phone chirped.
A new message.
From him: pronouncing her sentence.
A visit to her bottom smacking machine. 30 whacks on each cheek.
She cursed his strictness, but wished he was here to discipline her himself.

She was well rehearsed with her punishment protocol by now and began to make her preparations.
First, she had to decide on a setting, and dress accordingly.
She had considered donning her pyjamas, and acting out a bedtime spanking before being put to bed. She also thought of wearing her skinniest thong bikini, and pretending to be a Roman galley slave, being whipped under a merciless sun.

In the end though, she decided to wear her school uniform, and to imagine herself reporting for after-school detention to find her teacher holding a ruler. She lay on her bed, a hand inside her panties, imagining all the details. Joining the back of the queue, she would watch her classmates being called forward, one by one, to pull down their knickers.

In her mind’s eye she’d look on timorously – but fascinatedly – as they yelped in response to the ruler’s slaps. Then, skirt up, knickers still down, each girl would be sent to sit down, wincing as her sore bare bottom met the cold hard wood of the desk benches. Her dedication to fleshing out her fantasy was commendable.

She opened her eyes, looking across her room to stare at the ruler, now hanging in the air beside the bookcase. She closed her eyes, and found herself standing at the front of the queue. There was only one desk in the detention room still empty: hers. Her rubbing quickened, knowing it was her turn next. Behind her eyelids she heard her name being called. She managed to stop rubbing – just in time – and rose from the bed feeling every inch the naughty schoolgirl, a throbby, achy unresolved heat inside her knickers.

Her legs were trembling as she walked towards her appointment with the ruler.
She stood in front of it, continuing to play out her punishment fantasy.
“Oh no sir! Please don’t spank me! Not on the bare!” she pleaded, to her empty room.
But there was no one to hear, no one to grant her reprieve.

She turned around. She could almost see her pink bottomed classmates in front of her, sitting uncomfortably on those crude wooden benches, each girl so wanting to rub her sore bottom but with their hands cruelly occupied by writing lines instead.

She reached down to her hem and raised her skirt, tucking it into her waist.
“Oh sir…” she whined, “not on my bare bottom!”
She let her fingers linger inside her knicker elastic. With no disciplinarian to keep waiting, she could enjoy the skin-tingling sensation of slowly lowering her panties as they slid down her legs. Once fully exposed, she started to bend over, shuffling backwards until she felt the cool plastic on her bum.

In her fantasy classroom, she imagined him scolding her.
“Disgraceful behaviour! 60 whacks for you, girl…”

She reached back, pulling the plastic ruler away from her.
She felt its tension building on her fingertips.
By now, she knew just how much to bend it.
Too little, and she’d receive an avuncular pat.
Too much, and the ruler would snap.
Just enough gave a delicious slap.

She imagined him, standing behind her, poised with his ruler, about to strike.
She felt the ache between her legs.
She let the ruler slip from her fingers…
It sprang back in an instant, delivering a smack that made her bottom quiver.

“Ooooo! I’m sorry, sir” she whispered.
She pulled the ruler back a bit further this time, her fingers trembling.
The ruler sprang back again, smacking the spot where the first blow had landed.
She yelped, feeling her bottom smart.
Bending over fully, she touched her toes, savouring the fiery pain until it ebbed into a warm tingle.
She shuffled slightly, so the next blow would strike a different spot.
“Oh, sir…” she whispered as she reached behind again, “I’ve been such a naughty girl…”
The ruler twanged again, and again; she gasped as it corrected her.

Soon, the dispassionate ruler had turned one of her cheeks pink.
Her instructions were unequivocal.
She turned around, and stood on the other side of the ruler, shuffling until she felt the cool plastic on her unspanked buttock.
“Oh please sir, I promise I’ll be good…” she begged, but her pleas fell on no ears at all.

She reached behind her with her other hand, pulling the ruler back.
The smack made her mew in pain, but she showed herself no mercy.
He had sent her to the bottom smacking machine to be punished because he cared, and she had deserved it.
The ruler twanged again and again, until her whole bottom was pink.

—-

Faraway, inside his jacket pocket, his phone cheeped.
A new message.
A photo.
Of her.
Her bottom glowing.
Her hands on her head.
Her school skirt still raised.
Panties around her ankles.
She stood astride the ruler, its edge just parting her pussy lips.
She’d even included a message.
“Thank you, sir, for disciplining me.”

Her obedience made him smile. Standards did have to be maintained.
On her next infraction, maybe he’d have her replace the ruler with a whippy cane.

“Good news?” asked his dinner companion.
He pocketed his phone, smiling back, “The best.”

@spankingtheatre 2012

Cosmopolitan


I saw it on the coffee table in my gyno’s waiting room.
It was half-covered, almost buried by other magazines, but the stern-looking lady on the cover caught my eye. She stared out authoritatively, dressed in a black school-gown and mortarboard. And in her hands, she was flexing a cane.

A copy of Cosmo, with a headmistress holding a cane on the cover.
Why?
I felt myself needing to know. I didn’t recognise her, perhaps there was some celebrity on the hidden side of the cover. Perhaps the cover story featured the celebrity talking about their schooldays, paying tribute to some strict school-teacher whose discipline helped steer a wayward child towards hard work, fame and fortune.

Except… the lady with the cane didn’t look like a singing or acting coach. In fact, she looked decidedly kinky. And dominant. Erotic even. She gave the camera an underlook that seemed to say: I’ve had quite enough of your misbehaviour, young lady, now bend over.
My imagination began to buzz with possibilities.

I looked around the room as casually as I could manage. Three other ladies shared the room, each a polite distance apart. I wondered if they’d seen what I’d seen. One was engrossed in her own glossy magazine. The other two were gazing aimlessly around the room, as if telepathically playing a game of Eye Spy. If I reached for the magazine, would they notice? Would I reveal my darkest secret? Would they exchange knowing glances? Look at her, the one with Cosmo, she gets turned on by bottoms being smacked.

I had to know. Perhaps the cover was entirely innocent. Your Top Fifty Fancy Dress Outfits! Or something equally lame. I chided myself for being so silly. I got up, reached over, and extricated  the magazine from the pile – and revealed the full front cover for the first time.

YOU’RE A VERY NAUGHTY GIRL!
read the headline
and underneath, in smaller type
Are YOU ADVENTUROUS ENOUGH to go on a KINKY ROLE-PLAYING WEEKEND?

Now I could see the cane-wielding school-mistress was beside two petite young women, both with the flawless, almost artificial, good looks of magazine cover models. They were dressed as schoolgirls, with ties and long skirts – nothing slutty – in what looked like an archaic schoolroom of high bookshelves and chunky wooden desks. One was frozen in a childish pose, head bowed, with fingers in her mouth, as if she’d just been reprimanded. The other had her hands behind her, as if instinctively covering her bottom. The scene needed little interpretation; rules had been broken, bottoms were going to be sore.

I gawped dumbly, my mouth dry.
I daren’t look up, the others in the room would no doubt be staring at me. I opened the magazine as casually as I could manage, laying it over my lap to hide the front cover, I quickly located the recipe section. I hoped they all could see me now, looking at a recipe for quinoa salad. Completely innocent. Nothing to see here at all. I’ll give it a few minutes, I thought, and they’d lose interest in me. I started reading about Moroccan mint-roasted vegetables, nodding occasionally.

My eyes reached the end of the page, I’d finished reading about tagine cookery, now I longed to find the cover story. I was convinced everyone would still be looking at me, but when I chanced a glance around the room, their eyes were elsewhere. Emboldened, I slowly lifted up the magazine so no one could see what I was reading. I turned to the index, and I flipped eagerly to the cover story.

And I began reading:

* * * * *

Cosmopolitan June 2013

YOU’RE A VERY NAUGHTY GIRL

What do you fancy doing in your next holiday?
Basking on a beach? Scuba diving? Trekking? Partying the night away?
Or how about dressing up as a schoolgirl and having your bare bottom smacked?
Susan James investigates the extraordinary new adult role play holiday that not only breaks the rules, but is sent to see the headmistress afterwards.

– – –

Suddenly, spanking is chic.
Celebrity submissives are tumbling out of the closet, OTK has entered the popular lexicon, and slipper sales are at a 20 year high. And all it took was a movie, naturally.

The movie in question is, of course, ‘Playing Games’, the smash-hit British erotic romantic comedy starring Jude Law and Carey Mulligan. They play an uptight couple whose passionless relationship is floundering, only to be rescued by their previously unbeknownst shared interest in kinky games.

After taking £60 million at the UK box office, it was released in the US to a storm of controversy. The nation’s self-appointed moral watchdogs condemned it as “depraved filth” and “perverted”, and churches nationwide urged their congregations to boycott it. The ensuing media circus and word-of-mouth recommendations combined to propel the film to the number one spot, and change the meaning of term ‘flushed cheeks’ forever.

The movie followed in the footsteps of last year’s ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’, the erotic New York Times bestseller, which unexpectedly brought kinky whippings and bondage to supermarket bookshelves for the first time. Although the Fifty Shades movie, due out later this year, will be much less racy, having been reimagined as a PG-13 romantic comedy.

“Full frontal nudity. Masturbation. Anal sex… What was once taboo is now familiar, as new generations make their own minds up and fail to see what all the fuss is about” says sociologist Dr Laura Rose. “Spanking and bondage used to be seen as weird activities that occurred in creepy dungeons. Now Shibari [an artistic way of tying up your lover] lessons are advertised on community notice boards and you can buy canes and paddles on the high street.”

– – –

In 2007, a management consultant called Sara Bergson resigned from a well-paid job to start her own business. By the end of that year, Playscape Ltd had 10 employees and was already breaking even. Its business was supplying fantasy books and props to the UK’s burgeoning ‘adult toy’ market.

By 2008, Playscape was already the UK’s biggest supplier and had begun to diversify. Aware of the ignorance and embarrassment surrounding its products – and the marketing power of tupperware party – the company began running informal chats on how to build a better bedroom fantasy life. It wasn’t long before these chats became vocational, whisking students away to act out and explore their own fantasies in a safe, mediated environment.

Almost by accident, Playscape had discovered a hidden market for adult entertainment: the Role Play Weekend. Replacing the bland seminar rooms with theatrical quality costumes, sets and props, and steered by staff with a talent for improvisation, the scenarios became ever more convincing and immersive.

By the summer of 2009, there was sufficient demand for Playscape to run a fantasy event every weekend. A typical event would see between 6 and 10 professional women become naughty schoolgirls for a weekend, with a strict professional dominatrix in charge. They would be whisked away to an isolated country mansion, which had been rented by the organisers and fitted out to resemble an 1930s era boarding school, complete with classrooms, dormitories and a forbidding private study for the headmistress.

Each weekend would be a unique mixture of story and improvisation, the narrative being tailored by what each participant had revealed about their secret selves. As part of their application, each lady had completed a questionnaire, and then met a member of the organising team, who’d assess their personality to ensure that not only were all participants well-adjusted individuals, but they were all willing to play along too.

On Friday evening the participants would assemble at a designated hotel, providing a chance to meet each other and unwind from the working week. And in each hotel room, folded neatly on their bed, they’d find their school uniform.

Accompanying their uniform, was a sealed envelope with their instructions. Each lady was given a schoolgirl name, so they could step into character and leave their self-consciousness behind. Each character came with a comprehensive backstory, a mini-biography covering everything from where they lived, to how strict their parents were, to what hobbies they liked. Each biography would also throw in some secrets, to add some intrigue.

The biography also revealed her age. During the interview, each participant was asked what age they’d like to play. The desired ages varied widely, from young children to mature teenagers. The organisers would then group applicants together according to their desired age. Punishments would, of course, subsequently be meted out to anyone deemed to be “not acting their age”.

Each participant was also asked to choose – and keep secret – one of the archetypal roles, which would determine how they’d play the weekend.
For instance, she might choose to be a swot, to behave studiously and try to keep out of trouble.
Or she might be a minx, a rebellious troublemaker with taste for pranks.
Or a siren, a sexually precocious young lady, most likely to be wearing skimpy underwear in blatant contravention of the school regulations.
Or a provocateur, who’ll do anything she can to get her fellow pupils into trouble, so she can watch their bare bottoms redden.
Or a princess, who wants to be top girl, the centre of attention.
Or a bully, who wants to be mean, and have others fear her.
Or a wallflower, meekly hoping no-one notices her, especially the headmistress.
Or a thief, who’s on a mission to steal possessions from her fellow pupils without being rumbled.
Or one of a dozen others…

And so, on Saturday morning, the ladies would assemble for breakfast in character in their new school uniforms. An authentically ancient school bus would then take them from the hotel to their school; several miles, and seventy years away.

Each weekend is always different. With each lady choosing a different role, a unique story always unfolds, with the headmistress there to steer the tale. Being a school, of course, there are classes to take, with inattentiveness and ignorance often earning offenders a trip to the front of the class to have their skirts raised.

Over the course of the day there is usually some intrigue, such as a whodunnit that develops when something is stolen, or a conspiracy to cheat in the upcoming class test. Or sometimes elaborate pranks are played, and their perpetrators must be found and punished.

Saturday night is spent in the dorms, offering further scope for mischief and highjinks. It is rare indeed that any participant does not go to bed rubbing a sore bottom.

Sunday brings the emerging intrigues to a climax, and is typically accompanied by several pairs of knickers being lowered and swishes of the cane. By the end of Sunday evening, many new friendships have been formed, and the participants return home with red bottoms, big smiles, their new uniform, and bagfuls of Playscape branded merchandise for their partners to try.

And when the movie came, demand just soared.

– – –

The headquarters of Playscape is a modern office building in London’s West End. Colourful abstract prints rather than canes adorn the walls, and Sara notices my surprise.

“We used to have visitors expecting to find us above a sex shop in Soho” she jokes, “But we’ve always been a serious business.”

And indeed Sara’s office could be that of any managing director in the country. Beyond a glass partition, her staff beaver away at their workstations, processing customer applications for upcoming events, and orchestrating the logististics.

I begin by asking her, what is the attraction of role-playing?

She waves her hands, as if casting a spell.
“Remember when you were little, you used to be so playful. Once we could spend days just exploring, playing games and having fun. Then life got all serious!”

“We grow up and invent layers. We all have a mask that we wear in public, but it’s boring. It’s what we keep underneath that really brings us pleasure.”

I hope I don’t blush as I nod at her last sentence.

“At school our drama teacher got us to analyse Macbeth. He had this public persona: a brave soldier, a loyal servant of the King. Under that mask, he saw himself as a passionate husband, an earthy comrade-in-arms and the Lord of his castle. But underneath this facade was ambition, ruthlessness and moral weakness. Our teacher taught us that public personas are dull portraits, and that it’s the deeper levels that make for compelling drama.”

So she brings out the inner actress in everyone? I ask.

“Acting sounds so inauthentic. What we do is get our ladies to express what’s deep within. In the modern world, everyone has a public persona. It defines our public duties, status and responsibilities: how we dress, work and present ourselves. We’re all familiar what happens when our public persona bubbles rub together at parties – dreary smalltalk!”

“Beneath our public mask is how we like to think of ourselves. It defines our normal day-to-day behaviour and commitments. We let our closest friends see us this way. When we communicate at this level, the result is conversation.”

Sara is quite animated now, I’m being to see the enthusiastic expressiveness of a drama teacher beneath her sensible business suit. She continues:

“And at at the kernel of our being is our private persona, this is what brings us satisfaction. This is our engine of playfulness, our treasure chest of memories, emotions and dreams. It makes people interesting and fun to be around. Without it, we’d be obligation machines, slaves to the roles society has dictated. It’s the core of our being, what makes art a joy, and what makes dreams a thrill. It’s where our fantasies are born.”

“That’s why we get our ladies to play schoolgirls. We take them back to a time before they invented their modern identity, give them a new name, tell them to forget the outside world and give them permission to run wild!”

At this she keeps eye contact; I wonder if that’s just her inner confidence, or whether she’s trying to peer behind my own scrupulously constructed mask. What secrets she’d see. I hide my thoughts as best I can by smiling in agreement, and then ask her about the motivation for founding Playscape.

“A few years after I married, I realised I’d lost touch with that inner spontaneousness. My husband and I were going through the same old sexual ritual, and doing it less and less. And then I realised we were wearing masks, playing roles: the professional couple. We no longer saw that inner fire deep within each other, the connection that had made our early days so passionate.”

“Initially I was just looking for ways to spice up our love life. But along the way I stumbled something much more interesting: the invigorating, restorative, energising power of our inner fantasies. Needless to say, after discovering that, I couldn’t go back to writing reports on corporate strategy. And so I founded this company, with the goal of bringing our fantasies out of the closet and back into the bedroom!”

She eyes me curiously. “Have you been on one of our weekends?”

Now I really do blush like a schoolgirl caught passing a note in class.

“Oh, you must!“ she insists, “In the name of research, of course”, she adds conspiratorially…



* * * * *


Far away, I’m dimly aware of my name being shouted.
And again.
I’m shaken out of my reverie and back to reality. The receptionist is calling my name. In a room of four people, everyone has turned to stare at me – the one engrossed in her magazine, as if in a trance. I feel myself blushing as I snap the magazine closed and half-bury it amongst the pile of other magazines on the table. Oh, so that’s why I found that Cosmo so haphazardly buried, I realise as I hurry out of the room towards my appointment. Someone else must have got carried away by it too.


On the way home, I call at several newsagents. Agonisingly, they’re all sold out.
Finally, mercifully, I find a copy of the Cosmo to buy for myself.
I take it home and consume it voraciously.


I’ve read the article 5 times now. It’s filled my mind, I can see the accompanying photos when I close my eyes. I can vividly imagine the adventures of a weekend away. It’s a mental itch, an obsession.

I visited the Playscape site immediately. It’s a classy, minimalist affair of whites and greys, as if daring my imagination to colour it in. The online brochure was seductive, showing a fabulous country house with immaculately tended grounds. The sepia-toned classrooms were ominously atmospheric, and dorms made me nostalgic for the sisterhood of my teenage years, when friends were closer, and we shared each others’ lives.

I applied to join, without hesitation.

Now I’m staring at my laptop screen, and my mouth has gone dry. I sip my wine. A question floats in front of me, matter-of-factly. I’m filling in the application form for a role-playing weekend, and I’m being asked about my deepest secrets.

Have you ever been spanked?

My laptop is my confessor. What I’m about to tell it, no-one in the world knows. Not a soul. My screen glows dispassionately, waiting for my answer. It’s not pushy. I know it won’t judge me. It just waits. Have you ever been spanked?

I take a deep breath, and a gulp of wine.
I tick the box labelled “Yes, I’ve been spanked before”

A new question appears: Do you prefer to be spanked by men, women, or either?

I close my eyes and I’m 9 again. I’m standing in my pyjamas. About to follow my cousin Amy over my auntie’s knee. I’m staring in front of me, at Amy’s yellow pyjama bottoms, now gathered around her ankles. I can hardly bear to look at Amy’s bottom, which is being painted pink with each slap of auntie’s slipper.

Amy is trying not to cry, perhaps her own small act of resistance, or perhaps she doesn’t want to cry in front of me. A bright pink circle now adorns each of Amy’s small buttocks, making them resemble the rosy cheeks of her wooden dolls. The whacking stops. Her mother, my aunt, lifts her up onto her lap and cradles her. She scolds Amy for her day of mischief, for her reckless misbehaviour. Then she tells her that she loves her.

I click the box labelled “I prefer to be spanked by women”.

Another question appears in its place: Do you enjoy being spanked?
Now my options are:
“Yes, I love being spanked, the harder the better”
“Yes, I enjoy being spanked”
“No, I don’t enjoy being spanked, but I’m turned on by it”
“No, I hate being spanked, but I’m fascinated by it”

I close my eyes and I’m 9 again. Amy has been sent to face the wall, I stare at the round pink circles on her bottom. In a moment, I’ll be beckoned forward. I will feel auntie’s fingers on my waist, and my pyjamas will be tugged down. A strong hand on my back will push me over her lap. And I’ll receive my first ever spanking.
It doesn’t hurt as much as I feared.
And later that night, in bed, as my hands rub and knead and soothe my throbbing bottom, I’ll make another discovery that will change my life.

I tick the box labelled “Yes, I enjoy being spanked”



* * * * *



Epilogue

I signed up for the role-playing weekend.
I was given the name Verity Crawford.
I felt exhilaratingly naughty in my school uniform.
I choose to be a provocateur.
I got us all into trouble, just like I’d led Amy astray, all those years ago.
I thoroughly deserved all my punishments.
I can’t wait to go again.

 

 

@SpankingTheatre 2012

Message in a Bottle

I woke as dawn painted the bedroom amber, to find an envelope on the bedside table.

On the front your handwriting admonished me:

“Don’t open this until I tell you”.

You knew it would pique my curiosity; I turned the envelope over to see if any gaps in the seal would provide the opportunity to peek. But any plans for mischief were halted by your unequivocal message on the back: “I mean it, naughty!”
I actually giggled.

But what was inside? The growing tingle of anticipation somehow made the morning’s routine business meetings seem much more exciting. Then, at lunchtime, I received a text. From you. It simply said: “Open it now”.
My trembling fingertips tore the envelope open.
I blushed as I read the contents:

“Before the 8 bells toll.
Undress.
Unlock the door.
Stand in the hallway.
Face away from the door.
Plug your ears.
Don a blindfold.
Bind your hands.
Wait.”

I couldn’t wait for the day to end.


And so it was that at 8pm I came to be standing in the hallway with my back to the unlocked door. I was utterly naked, save a blindfold, earplugs and a pair of velcro handcuffs that bound my hands, which I rested on my head.

Now unable to see, I felt thrillingly vulnerable. Lurid fantasies began to spring into my empty mind. What if someone was delivering catalogues and the door swung open? They could be silently staring at me right now! I widened my stance, allowing my invisible audience a better view; then shocked myself at the thought of being discovered by one of the neighbours.
How would I ever explain that?

Suddenly, warm breath prickled the back of my neck.

In an instant I felt the warmth of someone slide across my cheek from behind. I knew it was you, I smelt you. Gently but deliberately you cupped my chin in your hand and tipped my head slightly back, deftly applying my swimming noseclip across my nostrils. Instinctively, my lips parted and I drew a sharp breath as it pinched my nose closed.

What was this? What were you doing? My mind raced in pointless circles.
You’d already proved yourself to be far too imaginative to be second guessed.

I felt the pressure change, followed by sudden rush of noise as you plucked out one of the ear plugs. Now I could hear you breathing in my ear. “Good girl”

I heard you take a step back, I bet you were admiring what you’d made me do. I hoped you were pleased with me. I felt you pull at my cuffs, ripping open the velcro fastenings to tug them more firmly into place. Despite my blindfold I was in no doubt that I was being heavily scrutinised, which made my skin crawl with a heady mixture of pleasure and shame.

“Now…” you said, your voice tight with arousal, “stay there”, before wedging the ear plug back into place. I felt two hard parting smacks on my bottom, to me unusual muffled thumps rather than ringing slaps, then faintly felt you marching off heavily down the hallway.

I stood there – how long for I didn’t know.

At first my skin tingled with anticipation. At any moment, I expected to feel my cheeks being roughly pulled apart, and something pushed inside. I slouched slightly, pushing my bottom out, inviting you, willing you. But nothing. I was alone in darkness, listening to the roar of my blood in my ears. A growing sense of uncertainty started to well up in my stomach. Where were you? What were you doing? I stood lost in the hallway, deprived of my senses, only feeling the scratch of velcro bindings on my wrists, my own weight on my feet, and the two warm patches on my bum.

Just when I could resist the urge to call your name no longer, I felt the light touch of your fingertips cupping my breast. It startled me, and I jumped one step backwards – an involuntary yelp escaping my lips. I heard you laugh dully through my ear plugs and my cheeks flushed hotly. How long had you been standing there, observing me?

Suddenly the ear plugs were plucked away – a rush of sound invaded my head, and I felt your strong hands on my shoulders.

“So young lady…” you mused. “You thought you were pretty funny last night, making fun of my appreciation of a good wine, didn’t you?”

Oh, I remembered now. I tried to suppress my smirk. I had teased you mercilessly over dinner for the way you’d savoured the smell of the expensive wine being proffered by that stiffly dressed waiter. I’d poked my tongue out at you playfully, as you’d warned me sternly with your eyes.

“So… I’m going to teach you to appreciate the smell of a good wine. I have a little test prepared for you, missy. Five fine wines for you to enjoy… with the jeopardy of floggings as accompaniment. Let’s see if we can’t teach your palate to recognise a little bit of culture?”

At that, I smiled to myself. If I had to be punished for my sins, you certainly knew how to sugar coat my penance.

With that you slid round behind me and smacked my bottom several times, each propelling me a few steps further along the hall. Through my blindfold I could sense the intensity of light increase as I stepped under the bright spotlights of the kitchen. I was suddenly acutely aware of my own nakedness, and felt my cheeks blush.

“I do hope you’ve closed the blinds”, I said warily.

“Oh, do you? Well – no doubt you’ll find out after I’ve finished fucking you, won’t you?” you whispered wickedly.
That must have had the desired effect, because then you added:
“You look so good in red, baby. Now sit down.”

You plonked me down on a stool by the breakfast counter and deftly whipped the clip from my nose. I breathed deeply through my nostrils to loosen them, and was instantly hit by the powerful aroma of grapes and spices. Startled I jerked backwards, but you placed your hand behind my head to steady me.

“Your task then. Smell the wine. Then taste it. Then tell me what year it was bottled. Get it right and you’ll win the pleasure of my tongue. But every year you’re out will get you a spanking.”

“Shall we begin?”

* * * * *

And that’s all I have.
A single rumpled A4 page, printed text on both sides, smelling faintly of wine.

I found it inside a wine bottle as I was walking through Hyde Park. Its tinted glass glinted in the sunshine and caught my eye. Somehow it had looked half-hidden, rather than discarded; its cork haphazardly wedged into the top. So I went closer to investigate, and that’s when I saw the sheet of paper rolled up inside.

Who was she?
Who was he?
The page offers no clues, and no explanation of why it’s been discarded.

Perhaps as part of her punishment, he made her write about her experience, and then leave it in public for someone else to stumble across. It reads like a confession – but also an encouragement, the abrupt ending almost daring me to continue the story. Perhaps they left it to be found, chuckling to themselves about inspiring others.

Perhaps the bottle I found contained one of the wines she had to sample. It’s a New Zealand Chardonnay, 2004, I wonder if she guessed right?
In my mind’s eye I can see her, bent over the breakfast bar, hands still bound, eyes still covered. He’s lifted her up slightly, so her feet are off the floor, so she kicks and flails her legs like a naughty child as he spanks her.

I imagine her guesses were wrong by 20 years altogether, earning herself 20 spankings. I hear him tell her for the next few weeks she’ll be bent over the breakfast bar every morning just before she goes to work. She’ll be wearing her work suit, so he’ll lower her elegant skirt and bare her bottom.

Then he’ll cane her, and send her to work with a glowing pink arse, to sit on her stripes.

I wonder how many other bottles have been cast into our urban sea, for others to discover?
I wonder how many more have been found?
I wonder if their discoverers were repelled by their weirdness – or inspired by their inventiveness?

And I wonder, tonight, how many ladies will stand naked and vulnerable in their hallways… waiting for their lover?

Waiting

I’d never been good at waiting.

But his instructions were quite clear: “Stand still, be quiet and don’t turn round”

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

I dimly remember the large wooden cupboard in the corner of the classroom. The one that’s kept locked, like some ancient reliquary, that no student has ever looked in. He must be looking for a suitable implement to punish me with. What will it be? I wonder. The suspense mounts, but I dare not turn round. That would be asking for trouble. But my curiously is an itch that must be scratched. Maybe just a peek, he won’t even notice me.

I can’t hear him, he must be still looking in the cupboard. So I take a chance, quickly turning my head to see him looming over me; his voice chastises me:
“I told you not to turn round”.
His voice was commanding rather than angry, reminiscent of summer sailing holidays and how the skipper would scold me when I was behaving recklessly.

I blush furiously as I try to explain myself.  
“But I…”  
One look from him is all it takes to silence me. Now I know it will be worse. Caught peeking, it’s so childish. I stare at the floor in embarrassment, willing it to open up and swallow me whole.

I await his next instruction in silence. I hear my own shallow breathing and a clock ticking in the distance. A distant door slams, just loud enough to hear above the roar of my own ears. Silence is indeed deafening. And tense. And awkward. And boring. Get on with it, I urge. This waiting is almost worse than punishment.

Out of the silence emerges a soft tapping noise.
“Come here”, I am summoned.
I hesitate before I meekly take two steps forward.  My eyes still gaze at the floor as I dare not meet his stare. In one hand he’s holding something, tapping it against the other.

“Bend over the table”
A finger points at the large, imposing teacher’s table at the front of the room.
I stare at it, not daring to move, like a startled rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.
Now he speaks more loudly.
“I’m waiting. Don’t make this any worse”

I hurry over quickly and hesitate for just a second before bending over the table. The table looks old; its worn, slightly uneven surface is mottled with splots of ink. It also feels old, as I reach over it my fingertips rub across gaps in the grain. And as I lower my head, I can smell its age, its fresh wood smell is long gone, now it smells of old wood polish, like a musty wax.

It is a sturdy table, it would protect me, I wish I could somehow hide underneath it. But it’s too late now; so I just close my eyes and listen to his heavy footsteps, and that soft tap – tap – tapping. Getting louder, and louder…

* * * * *

I approach to within two paces of my prone young student. I see her legs tremble, and I know she is afraid. I know her heart is fluttering, her primal instincts telling her to run away from the imminent discomfort. Yet here she still is, compliant and submissive, lying across my sturdy old oak table, waiting for the spanking that will wipe all her transgressions away. At heart she’s a good girl, sometimes a bit reckless, impulsive even, she’ll benefit from a lesson in patience.

I am scolding now: “I am very disappointed in you, young lady. Your teachers consider you a gifted student, but your casual approach to your studies must be corrected.”

Now my voice softens, as if to emphasise my sadness at her disobedience.
“And I gave you explicit instructions not to turn around, yet you still disobeyed me.”

A meek voice peeps, “I’m sorry, sir.”

But I have punished too many recalcitrant minxes to be sure of her sincerity. At first, most I punish are only really sorry they’ve been caught. But by the time they leave this room, their bottoms glowing, their sorrow tends to be genuine.

“Let us begin. Place your hands on your head.”
She complies without complaint, a good sign.

Next, my fingers grasp the hem of her skirt. She emits a shallow gasp as her upper thighs and panties are exposed. Moments later I’ve folded her skirt and tucked it into her waistband.

She is holding her legs tightly together, clenching her bottom in anticipation of what’s to come. I reach down to correct her stance.
“Legs apart, please. Point your toes inward. I don’t want to see you clenching your bottom.”

Now I can see her globes stretching the material of her white school knickers.

“Good girl. I expect you to take your discipline with grace. No shouting or pleading, or I shall take down your panties. We’ll begin with a session with the leather paddle. Then you’ll discover the special punishment reserved for impatient peepers.”

I begin to rub the paddle over her taught underwear and the bare skin of her upper thighs. It’s less shocking that way. I start spanking slowly and gently, alternating between her cheeks. My spanks increase in force until she begins to wince with every smack. A pink glow begins to develop underneath her panties. Her breath is ragged, as she struggles to keep her composure.
One last flurry of smacks, accompanied by yelps. Then silence.

Now to do something about that peeping, I think I have just the answer.
I walk back to cupboard and retrieve two special items, one is a plastic, mechanical timer, shaped like an egg. I wind it up, twist to set it and it begins ticking: it emits a hollow, metallic clink-clink-clink, like two teaspoons jangling together. She gasps as I pull back her panties, slipping the egg timer between her warm rosy cheeks and onto the gusset of her underwear. I position it carefully, against her perineum, and she begins to feel its ticks.

“Sir?”

“Stand up.” She gingerly eases herself off the desk.
Now I pick up the second item, a black silk scarf.
“This will stop your urge to peep”, I explain.

I place the scarf over her eyes and wind it three times around her head, before tying it in a bow. Once blindfolded, I take her hand and escort her back into her naughty corner.

“Hands on top of your head again, please. Good.”
“Now young lady, what you feel between your legs is an egg timer. You will feel the passage of every second you spend in the corner. But this time you have no distractions, and no way of peeping, so you may spend your time contemplating your behaviour and your sore bottom.”

I save the surprise until last.

“You shall learn patience, and come to appreciate waiting. Because when the egg timer rings, your bare bottom has an appointment across my knee…”

She gasps a syllable of complaint, but manages to stifle it.

I return to my desk, to admire the view.
What are you thinking, I wonder, as you stand silently in the corner, skirt lifted, bottom glowing, a ticklish ticking against your most sensitive spot? Do the tiny vibrations echo through your body,
amplified by your anticipation?

I leave her to wait.

* * * * *

As I stand there in that corner, staring at the blackness of the blindfold and listening to the tick, tick, tick of the egg timer, I imagine myself in another place.  The ticking seems to be getting louder, now a sotto voce rather than a whisper. The vibrations are becoming more insistent – less easy to ignore, they’re almost beginning to feel good.  

My mind runs wild with the possibilities of what will happen when the ticking finally stops.  Will he tell me to pull down my panties? Or will he do it? Will he drag them abruptly whilst scolding me? Or lower them slowly and compassionately? What will he spank me with? His bare hand perhaps, or a wooden ruler?  Will that pink glowing bottom of mine change to a darker shade of red? How will I feel? What if I get excited? My head spins, the scenarios seem endless…

I should be contemplating my bad behaviour and the punishment I have received so far, but I find myself relishing it and wanting more. Why is that egg timer still ticking? Surely, he must want to punish me by now. Is he still watching me? Patience, I tell myself. Soon, all will be revealed.

The tense silence is broken by the din of the school bell. My heightened hearing intuitively locates it on the other side of the wall behind me, in the corridor I’d trudged down to report here. That feels such a long time ago now. The bell rings for 30 seconds, filling my head with noise. The bell signals the end of the school day. The school will be emptying, and here am I, alone with one of my teachers.
About to have my knickers pulled down.
Creepy. 

Exciting.

I allow my mind to wander, imagining I’m feeling a lover’s gentle touch massaging me rather than an egg timer. I absorb every vibration it emits, and slowly feel myself getting more and more aroused.  My spanked bottom no longer aches, but feels like it’s emitting a pleasurable glow. I feel damp between my legs. I feel thrillingly naughty. I long to rub myself, but don’t dare. I sense him still sitting behind me, watching. Being caught touching myself would be so humiliating. But the anticipation of what will happen next slowly eats me up.

Seconds pass, minutes pass, and still the ticking continues. I concentrate on the ticks, trying to mentally amplify the vibrations – but they’re so frustratingly weak. If only they were stronger, I’d come quietly, he’d never know.

The interval between the ticks seems to be getting longer and longer, as my arousal gives way to frustration. When is this infernal ticking going to stop? Surely this is long enough. The vibrations continue and feelings of unfulfillment start to envelop me. More minutes pass. I feel tetchy, I long to move that egg timer but know I’m in enough trouble already.

I think about my pink sore bottom which is still smarting and my frustration turn to that of indignation. Who is he to be doing this to me?  What right did he have to spank me and leave me standing a corner, waiting for him? Does he think he controls me? I am in control, I have every right to walk away if I wish. Maybe I will, that will show him. He’s probably wandered off to another classroom to deal with some other naughty pupil, thinking I’ll still be standing here obediently waiting for him when he returns.

Well, if he thinks he can just make me wait here while he goes off, he’d better think again. I’ll walk away and find some other way of relieving myself. I don’t need him and his silly games.

Feelings of discontent and frustration fill my mind. I’ve lost track of time, it must be at least half an hour. I’ve heard those stories of naive apprentices being sent to the storeroom to fetch A Long Weight. Yes, I bet he’s sitting behind me, reading a paper, waiting for me to catch on. God, I’m a fool! This is silly just standing here.

I can’t stand it any longer. Impulsively, I decide enough is enough. My hands reach back and I feel a bow, it is easy to undo. I half expect to hear his voice scolding me for my indiscipline, but I don’t. So I pull off the blindfold. Light floods my eyes.

Blinking, I look round the room.
There’s no one there.
Just as I suspected, he’s gone and left me! Probably in the staff room, having a cup of tea and good chuckle at my expense. Grrrr! I feel like swearing, but realise the virtue of keeping quiet, and channel my anger into clenched fists instead.

I look about the room, it’s relatively empty. It’s dim, no windows, only skylights. I see the sturdy old desk at the front, his empty chair. The mysterious cupboard – now closed again. There’s three other desks with chairs. There’s a blackboard, now more grey than black, filled with the chalky white swirls of repeated erasings – inside which I can just about read the faded word ‘Detention’. This room’s purpose is obvious. There are also two doors at the front of the room on opposite sides.

A-ha. Escape routes.

I reach down to take the egg timer out of my panties. Through my fingers I feel one side is slightly damp to the touch, raising it for a closer look, I can smell my own arousal. The timer is egg-shaped, with a notched and numbered ring at its widest part that clearly sets its duration. Below a small triangular arrow is the number 6. With a jolt of panic, I realise its significance immediately.
The timer will ring in 6 minutes.
He knows it will ring in 6 minutes.
He will be back within the next 6 minutes.

I don’t have much time, I yank my skirt down with as much dignity as I can manage, the queasy ache of fear spreading from my stomach. I’ve broken the rules again, what awful punishment awaits me now? I need to get away.

Gingerly I place the egg timer on the floor, like I’m setting down a hand grenade. It continues to tick away. Valuable seconds pass as I stop, and briefly consider staying to face the music. Then, somehow, I’ve decided. I’ll make a dash for it. I know I’ve done wrong, but I’m an impetuous girl, and my instinct is to run.

Of the room’s two doors I think I recognise the one I entered. He might be behind the other one, but I didn’t hear him move. Maybe he moved when the school bell rang? If so, I’ll need to be quiet. I take a step forward, stepping ever so lightly, lest a treacherous footboard betray my escape with a squeak. Silence. Another step. Silence. I tread more confidently now, feeling like a burglar as I creep light-footedly towards the door. I take a deep breath and turn the handle. It clanks. It’s locked.

I feel trapped and anxious. Did he lock me in? Or was I mistaken? Did I enter through the other door? No matter, I only have one option left. I walk quietly to the other side of the room, breathe deeply and try the door handle. It’s unlocked. In one quick movement I open it and stride purposefully through it.

I stop after one step.
This is a room, not a corridor.
My jaw drops. Lining all four walls are canes, paddles, whips and straps of every imaginable size, colour and shape. Each on its own tiny hook, like some bizarre cloakroom.
And in the middle:
Him.
Seated on a straight-backed chair.
My eyes widen when I see what he holds in his hand.

He does not seem at all surprised to see me.
“Ah young lady, I’ve been waiting for you.”

* * * * *

Epilogue

As it happened, I took down my own panties.



SpankingTheatre at gmail . com 2012

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑