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agalmatophilia

Playing Dolls: part 1

spankingtheatre:

A new story of statuesque submissiveness

One particular fairy-tale from my childhood has always haunted my dreams.

You may roam around my home,

He said, go anywhere you please.

Except the library in the tower

What a most peculiar tease.


One day bored, she disobeyed.

Sneaking up the twisty stairs, and there,

On a plinth beneath the steepling shelves

A tome awaiting one who dared.


Curiosity overtook the impetuous girl,

Heaving open the hefty umber book

She knelt amid the misty sunbeams,

And consumed it in a single look.


But disobedience has consequence

The minx had read an enchanted scrawl

Now high in the clouds she’s petrifying,

Slowly transforming… into a doll.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be one of my dolls. Not permanently, of course, that would quickly become very tiresome. Maybe just a hour or two. Long enough for someone to play with me, to stroke my cheeks and comb my hair.

Please, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not a narcissist, but I do know I’m beautiful. I see heads turn when I pass by, long leering looks as strangers admire me. I watch as their eyes rove across my pretty face, quickly, trying to avoid the awkwardness of accidental eye contact. As if my own eyes were too bright for mere mortals to behold, and they risked staring into the centre of the sun. Then, their gaze will usually drop, to my slender neck, to linger lewdly on the small round mounds of my breasts.

I notice when others appreciate my slender body, the hourglass curves of my torso and waist. I know those who pass behind me will glance furtively backwards, trying to catch a glimpse of my perfect pert bottom. I often wonder: is this how a statue feels? To be an object of rare and graceful beauty, somehow contrived from the disorder of the universe, existing to enrich all those who gaze upon it.

And when I think of myself as a statue, or a doll, as an object that arouses others – it excites me.

One of the happiest moments of my life was when my hungry mind began devouring Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Quite unexpectedly, I turned the page and stumbled across the story of Pygmalion and Galatea. That day I wept tears of joy, which trickled down my cheeks to splatter silently on his precious words. Across two millennia, this exquisite Roman poet taught me that I wasn’t weird. That I wasn’t alone, that the ancients also adored and eroticised the beautiful figures they crafted from stone.

Soon I learned there was a name for it too: Agalmatophilia – a sexual attraction to a statue, doll, mannequin or other immobile figure, and the sexual arousal of such transformations too. I began to think of myself as Galatea, the beautiful statue etched from marble by the sculptor Pygmalion, the outcome of his magnificent labour of love.

Yet, despite all I’ve learned since about the wonders of sex, still nothing turns me on more than the thought of becoming a doll…

Keep reading

With the concluding part now posted, here’s a reminder of part one…

Enjoy!

Playing Dolls: part 2

This is the concluding part of a two-part story, read the first part here.


The next morning you wake me with a chime, as a golden light spills through the open window like a luminously syrupy waterfall.

You bring me into the bathroom and sit me on the toilet. Then we shower, or at least I stand obediently as you lather me in warm foamy perfumed suds. A quick once-over with the razor to ensure everywhere is presentably smooth and flawless. After all, I’m going to be on display to the public today.

You dry me off, and clean my teeth, then lead me back to bedroom to dress me. You’ve chosen an adorable little outfit, a vintage Edwardian girl’s dress, powder blue, woven from the finest wool. You put my underwear on first, lifting my arms for my silk camisole, then stepping me into its matching half-slip, which you pull up to my waist. You repeat the same manoeuvre with my snow white lace-fringed petticoat. In the mirror, my ghostly reflection resembles something Wilkie Collins might have described.

Fortunately my charming little one-piece dress provides a splash of welcome colour, it’s knee length, with embroidered trimmings embellishing the side and around the skirt. You hoist it up to my chest, before feeding my hands through its armholes. I marvel at myself in the mirror, resplendent in a dress that’s over a hundred years old, wondering if the mother who bought it would ever be able to comprehend how it would eventually be worn.

I feel you moving behind me, buttoning me up at the back. After that, there’s just one final garment, a one-sided frilly pinafore with a high collar that covers my neck and extends down just as far as my nipped-in waist.

You sit me down by the dressing table to complete the look, plaiting my hair into a single braid, then applying a touch of white face powder, and a brush of rouge to my cheeks. When you’ve finished, I see you in the mirror, standing behind me, admiring me. You call me beautiful. And inside, unseen, I feel I might burst with pride.

I sit patiently at the dressing table, watching glimpses of you in the mirror as you put on your own costume. I see you’ve chosen your colonial era white linen suit, another vintage item that you’ve had tailored, so the double-breasted jacket perfectly fits your tall athletic frame. Your decide against the waistcoat, just a simple white shirt with a small butterfly collar, and a thin blood red tie. Then you appear in the mirror behind me, running gel through your hair before slicking it back with a comb.

Your own preparations complete, you place your hand on my shoulder as we pose together. We look magnificent, like travellers from the age of H.G Wells. Perhaps all you ever needed to travel through time was a fully committed imagination.

You walk over to the singing bowl on the bedside table, and strike it with the little mallet. I feel energy surge through my own muscles again. You ask me to stand and join you, I walk over to your outstretched arm smoothly and suavely. I can do anything when the bowl rings, as long as you’ve told me to do it first.

We leave our room, arm in arm, and stride down the chandelier-lit hallway to breakfast, to join the congregation of the dolls…


* * 4 * *

Our fellow guests are all couples. Some dolls are male, for whom popular looks are the Victorian sailor boy and the Dickensian waif. I can also glimpse several cabin boys and schoolboys, and those with outfits from further back in antiquity, like Roman togas and even loincloths, a choice seemingly made so the doll’s owner can slather oil over their boy’s extravagantly glistening muscles.

It goes without saying some couples share the same sex, and there’s some gender-bending costuming too. There’s plenty of variety in ages too, with several elegantly dressed men and women chaperoning much younger companions. I can spy several austere-looking governesses.

You seat me in a fine chair in the dining room, I don’t have a plate so I sit in the waiting posture I’ve been taught. My back straight, with my elbows tucked closely to my sides and my hands folded neatly in my lap. You greet the other guests as they take their seats nearby, I simply watch as they admire me.

Soon breakfast is served, and conversation strikes up between neighbouring owners. I do not join in, of course, but merely drink in the scene around me, observing every detail of my fellow dolls, many of whom I’ve met before. Many rather intimately. Heads still, we acknowledge each other with subtle glances, almost telepathically.

Sitting opposite me is a pale gamine young lady, her blonde hair cut short, into an almost boyish mop. She’s wearing an open-shouldered top, those thin horizontal white and navy stripes the epitome of ‘50s chic. Beneath, she’s wearing loose faded jeans, rolled up to expose her slender alabaster calves. Her mundane clothes contrast with her beautiful face. She looks achingly cool, like Jean Seberg in ‘À bout de souffle’. I can easily imagine her, sitting cross-legged on a stool in a trendy Parisian jazz club.

Beside the chic femme is a young woman made up as a Barbie doll. Her skin is shiny, with the weird sheen of polished plastic, and her long blonde hair flows flawlessly over her shoulders. Somewhat incongruously for breakfast, she’s wearing a one-piece swimsuit, the intention clearly being to reveal the effort that’s gone into making her look like a toy.

The Barbie has thin black elastic bands around every joint on her body, around her neck, at the top of her arms, at her elbows and her wrist. She has pencil thin lines drawn across the joints of her fingers. The bands separate her shiny skin in segments, artfully providing the illusion that the young lady opposite is actually entirely artificial, a life-sized assembly of articulated plastic.

On the table before us is a glossy colour programme, which welcomes us and lists all the different scenes we guests can play. We’re staying in the southern half of the chateau, and it seems all the rooms in the northern half have been specially decorated in some kind of scene. Some rooms even have special guest appearances by famous doms and dominatrices. It’s like attending a music festival, where you can’t be everywhere, and you’ll going to have to make some excruciating choices.

Because today is the day the owners play with their dolls. Undressing and redressing them in new costumes, and taking them to all kinds of themed rooms. There might be a regency ballroom, a pirate ship cabin, realistic castle dungeons, old-fashioned schoolrooms, even suburban bedroom sleepovers.

Some scenes are erotic dioramas, static scenes of great eroticism or aesthetic beauty. Others are more interactive, featuring roleplaying that’s orchestrated by our owners. We dolls may not be able to move, but our sexual responsiveness is unaffected. It’s not uncommon for us to become highly aroused during a scene, seeping silently. And when we drip, we rely on our owners to wipe us.

I can’t move my eyes to read, so you flick through the programme, reading out what piques your interest. I can not talk, so this is not a discussion. I will accept whatever you decide is best for me, as always. I know here, I’m barely even a person anymore, just a soft malleable plaything, something to be controlled and molded.

Your voice fills my mind as I imagine what you describe to me.

The Stables. With ponies for the dolls to ride, led by their owners around the chateau grounds. A wide range of whips and crops available, as well as dildoes for the saddles.”

A pony-ride with both holes filled? I like the sound of that.

Tickle-torment. A room full of devious contraptions with moving feathers, apply them to every part of your doll’s anatomy, as they tremble, unable to move.”

That sounds awful! I think I’d burst!

The Clinic. Detailed intimate examinations, performed by our medically qualified nursing team.”

Oooh, speculums and enemas, and the snap of rubber gloves. I do like inspections.

The Spa. Experience our soothing baths and bubbling waters, and wash your charge clean again.”

That sounds absolutely delightful. I wish I could nod my head vigorously.

A Visit to Uncle Montagu. Step back in time to this meticulously recreated 1950s household, where naughty boys and girls can expect the slipper.”

I suspect you’re giving this serious consideration, given your preference for scenes with the best bottom-warming possibilities.

Ballet School. Visit the gymnasium to have your doll tutored by our renowned ballet teacher.”

That could be fun, I bet the tutor believes in smacking bottoms.

The Royal Court. Taking place in the gilded splendour of the Great Hall. Attend this opulent scene as aristocrat or commoner.”

That sounds like one of the dressing up scenes, an excuse to don exotic costumery and look generally fabulous.

The Studio. Pose your charge in a diorama, and have them painted by our world-class artist.”

I do love posing for pictures. But it does tend to involve a lot of waiting around. Orgy scenes can be fun though.

Rape in the Woods. Let us hide your doll in the woods. Owners will be supplied with a map. Dolls will wait in suspense, until their owner surprises them – or someone else does.”

Gosh. That does sound scary.

The Sanatorium. Hot and flustered? Enemas and cold showers should bring your charge’s temperature down”

If I could frown, I’d definitely make clear my aversion to going there.

The Nursery. Nappy facilities available, along with lots of toys.”

Hmmm, there won’t be much sexual stimulation once the nappies go on.

The Shibari Cellar. Our rope bondage masters will assist you in binding and suspending your doll in beautiful contortions.”

I do love being tied up, even if it is rather superfluous for a doll.

The Libertine’s Bedchamber. Watch as your charge is expertly fucked by our quixotic and masterful lover.”

Wow. I often fantasise about being taken by another man whilst you watch. Maybe you can both fuck me at once, the libertine standing behind you, putting his long thick cock between your legs to fill my cunt as you plunge into my bottom.

Statues in the Fountain. Visit the courtyard, and add another statue to our marvellous display. Let streams of tingling water run across your charge’s body.”

That sounds like a lovely way to end the day.

Chores for Cinderella. Dress your doll as a maid, and we’ll put them to work cleaning the chateau.”

Compared to the hedonistic delights of the previous settings, this sounds horrible. I came here hoping we’d enjoy ourselves, not for hours of drudgery as a scullery maid.

The Medieval Dungeon. Slap your wench in chains, and commit them to the stocks. Watch or aid our skilled team as they administer a myriad erotic torments.”

Despite the fact I can’t move, hearing that description induced a cold shiver. I could feel myself tremble. I’ve been a doll in the dungeon before, sitting on the cruel edge of the wooden pony, having my slit splayed open as I watch the erotic suffering of others, awaiting my own turn.

Instructed by the Governess. Let our professional domme teach your charge how to behave with proper decorum, with lessons in manners, cleanliness and good posture.”

Again, that doesn’t sound much fun. Walking up and down a line with my head still and my back straight, getting my bottom smacked for the tiniest deviation.

Picnic in the Park, au naturel. Shed your clothes and join us to bask in the fresh air. Parasols, cold drinks and delicious treats provided.”

That might be a nice way to unwind, though I suspect you’d initially be keen on something more ‘interactive’.

The Geisha Lounge. Our make-up experts will transform your charge into a beautiful white-faced Japanese doll.”

How intriguing that might be.

The Headmaster’s Office. Appointments available for naughty dolls. Bottoms will be bared and thoroughly caned.”

I think you’d like that. Dressing me up as a schoolgirl, and watching a cruel headmaster pulling down my panties before whacking my poor bottom.

The Pirate’s Cabin. Watch on as our crew of lovable ruffians abducts and violates your most treasured possession.”

Goodness me. That sounds scary. And here’s me all dressed up like the prim Governor’s daughter. The possibilities were disturbingly arousing.

The Salon of Whores. For those who believe in sharing. Leave your doll here to be fucked, whilst you enjoy the charms of others.”

These rooms are such fun, like a selection box of lovers!

The Bucolic Glade. Let us transform you and your charge into fauns and satyrs, then come frolic in our enchanted wood.”

That sounds idyllic. Fauns can be so randy sometimes.

The Classroom. Watch from the back of our authentically recreated school room as your doll is tutored by one of our team of experienced headmistresses. Misbehaviour will be punished…”

You pause, looking into my impassive face, seeking any flicker of reaction. I feel a slight dampness in my eyes, I wonder if you that makes them appear to sparkle. Oh yes, you know I’m no stranger to playing in a classroom…


* * 5 * *

I’ve played school scenes many times before, dressed in an authentic old school uniform, and positioned at the front of a lovingly recreated old classroom. An environment of wood panels and antique maps, blackboards and the smell of chalk dust. The last time I sat with five other girls, each of us on the flat wooden bench attached to our little desks.

You were sitting a couple of rows behind me, along with the masters of all the other dolls. Our scenes might seem to play out slowly to an outsider, but to we dolls, each is a hyper-realistic experience. Freed from the responsibility of consciously controlling our own bodies, our imagination expands, claiming our idle mind’s vast capacity, constructing a reality of exhilarating intensity.

The door had swung open and our teacher had entered with a dramatic flourish, a tall pretty lady with a stern countenance, all wrapped up in a long black gown. I could already feel my apprehension growing, knowing it was almost inevitable that soon I’d be bending over before her, getting my bare bottom whacked. It was a relief to hear my chime as our masters animated us, temporarily granting us the ability to move so we could respectfully stand.

I respond to your singing water bowl, but other owners use different devices: little bells, tiny flutes, exotic chimes. It results in a tinkling, playful cacophony when all sounded together.

Every now and then, you’d strike my bowl, restoring my agency for a few precious moments, animating me enough to answer my teacher’s question, or write notes, or even to risk dipping my hand beneath my desk to rub my aching slit. It wasn’t long before I could feel the wet fabric of my underwear clinging tight, the result of watching several of my classmates being called to the front of the class, to be bend over and bared, and spanked right in front of my eyes. You might not know this, but when you’re unable to move, one’s entire consciousness becomes deeply fixated. I can barely do justice to the intensity of witnessing a spanking whilst being so immersed and utterly focussed.

But if I do chance a rubbing I must be sure not to linger, lest I fall still with my hand between my legs. The girl on my right has already been caught red-handed that way, earning herself 20 whacks with the long wooden ruler. Miss has rolled up the girl’s skirt and confiscated her panties, so now she’s sitting on her bright pink bottom. I could see her wetness, a sticky little puddle on her varnished wooden seat.

So when you next granted me freedom to move I tried to write a note to the girl on my left, alerting her to our classmate’s shame. Alas! I wasn’t quick enough, I felt my muscles stiffening just as I deposited the note on my classmate’s lap. Teacher turned round to see me, catching me with my incriminating note between my fingers. You rang my bowl, and I was summoned to the front of the class, where Miss made me read out what I’d written.

“Look how wet Veronique is! Getting spanked must really turn her on!”

It was such a childish thing to say. I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment as I read it aloud.

My teacher ensured my punishment fitted my crime. Reaching to my waist to undo my skirt, letting it fall to the floor before she tugged down my sodden underwear. Normally, my hands would have fled to cover my mound, but paralysed by the trance, I could only stand exposed in front of the class, as my stern-faced teacher placed her fingers between the lips of my slit. When she withdrew them, her fingers were coated with a sticky string of goo, which she held up for all the class to see.

“Look how wet she is!” she announced mockingly.

“Watching spankings must really turn her on!”

At that point, several owners sounded their instruments, and moments later, the classroom filled with raucous, teasing laughter.

Eventually, the mirth subsided, and my classmates became immobile again. Now I looked back to see the smiles frozen on their faces, and how their eyes were sparkling.

Then, I was positioned.

There is an fine art to positioning dolls. We are simply objects in a life-sized diorama, a 3-dimensional still image. We exist for our owners’ entertainment, so during each scene they’ll often intervene, tweaking our postures.

The most skillful owners are masters of suggestion, of engineering the erotic. Perhaps by tilting a doll’s head to reveal a salacious glance, or altering a doll’s stance to offer an unexpected glimpse of intimate flesh that might only be visible from one particular angle as the audience move around the scene. There might be one pupil not wearing panties, a revelation only visible to one sitting at the teacher’s desk. Or the flange of a butt plug barely visible as contours on a tight cocktail dress.

But there was little subtlety in my own punishment. I was lifted onto teacher’s desk, my feet dangling helplessly above the floor, before I was made to lie back. And so I found myself staring at the ceiling whilst my bare wet slit became my most prominent feature.

I heard the shrill peep of a whistle, and the tinkle of a tiny cymbal. Two of my classmates were summoned to stand either side of me. Then my legs were raised into the air, so my position resembled a V, with my bare bottom and my most intimate areas at its base. Each girl beside me was given one of my ankles to hold, and their own heads were angled downwards, so each appeared to be looking with studied fascination down the length of my legs to the glistening lips of my own swollen cunt. All the while I seeped and dripped, forming little gooey icicles of my own excitement on the edge of the desk beneath.

I sensed someone grasping my flaccid arms, which they folded behind my head, raising my viewpoint so I could look down between my breasts and out over my mound. Now I could see the ruler in the schoolmistress’s hand, and cruelly, behind her in the distance, one of my classmates, her hand sneaking beneath her desk and under her skirt.

The first whack landed on the lowest part of my bottom, just above the top of my thighs. The trance only impedes my ability to move, I can still feel every sensation perfectly, and my poor bum was immediately sore and stinging. But I can not wince or squirm, or cry or shudder. I took my punishment like a good girl, stoically and silently.

Occasionally Miss stops to dab her fingers between my legs, holding up a string of sticky goo to the whole class, just in case there was any doubt as to how wet my spanking was making me.

Sometimes my fellow dolls were allowed to move too, and in those periods I can hear them tittering at my shame and discomfort. I alone can see that the girl at the back of the class uses her spell of liberty to rub her clit in fast urgent circles, but she never quite gets there before her muscles freeze again. Despite my predicament I find her denial incredibly arousing. I resolve to get her into trouble when my own whacking is finished, to reverse our positions and make her witness my climax as I wank to her spanking.

It turned out to be a wonderful day at school.

When we returned to our room later that night, you had me kneel on the bed as you inspected my marks. Then you slid your cock into my needy wet slit, whispering into my ear everything that you’d witnessed, replaying the scene, plunging into me as you described the bits you enjoyed the most. I knelt impassively, pushed towards orgasm by your reminiscences, and your deep powerful thrusts against my poor sore bottom. But what actually pushed me over the edge was when you told me: I was your doll. Your perfect plaything.


* * 6 * *

You continue to read through the glossary programme as we eat our breakfast. Or more accurately, as you eat yours, and you feed me mine.  

As I’m still in the trance, so I’m completely reliant on you to feed me. There are empty spaces on the table where dolls sit, no plates, no cutlery. We are fed from our owner’s plates, looking down hungrily but impotently at the delicious dishes you’re served.

I watch as you impale a succulent strawberry with your fork, and dip it in a blob of thick cream, salivating at its imagined juiciness. You raise your fork, and my heart skips a beat when you pause to open my mouth, before gently pushing the morsel inside. Then you push my jaw almost shut, so you can withdraw the fork and leave the fruit behind.

I savour it, the sweet juice seeping onto my tongue. Until at last you give me permission to chew, unfreezing my jaw for just a minute, I chew slowly, enjoying every sensation, as if these are the last flavours I’ll ever experience. Then I start to petrify again, I feel my jaw muscles freeze. Swallowing is a reflex, so that’s never affected, and I feel the warm creamy mass slip down my throat – it feels like when you come in my mouth. Then I’m completely still again. Your obedient doll, utterly under your control again.

One by one, the masters decide on rooms they’ll take their dolls to first. They stand, playing a note on the instrument that permits their charges to move, and one by one the dolls follow their masters out of the hall, towards whatever adventure has been chosen for them.

I see you pick up the water bowl and stand. Before the high ringing chime floods my ears, my body felt like a cartoon drawing, flat and two-dimensional, but after the chime, my body feels real and responsive again. I stand and follow you out of the room, my mind already racing. It’s entirely possible that in a matter of minutes, a stranger might be undressing me, I might be moments away from being laid out upon a bed to be used. I can feel my tummy swirling, but I can’t tell if it’s anxiety or expectation.

We walk for several minutes along a plush hall before halting outside an open door, the numerals 11 in the little wooden frame on the wall outside. We’re greeted by a well-dressed gentleman, wearing one of the gold lapel pins the organisers of this event wear. After being welcomed inside, you join the man out of my earshot for a whispered conversation. When you return, you escort me to a nearby wheelchair. I sit apprehensively, unsure what will happen next, as this doesn’t seem like any of the scenarios you read out to me.

Then, to my considerable surprise, you pull a blindfold over my face. Everything goes dark. I feel straps fasten around my wrists and ankles, binding me to the wheelchair. Moments later, I’m in motion, the sensation beneath the rolling wheels changes as I trundle over the hall’s plush deep carpet. I don’t even know if you’re pushing me. The thought of being separated from you terrifies me. I want to call out to you, but in my trance, I’m mute and helpless.

Soon the hubbub of nearby voices recedes, I feel the heat of sunshine on my face and I know I’m outside. There’s a rumble from the wheels beneath me as we travel over uneven ground. I can hear the chirping of crickets and the warbles of birdsong. Now I can smell the heady scent of cut grass.

On we trundle, I can hear the crunch of a single pair of footsteps, but I still don’t know who’s pushing me. I can no longer hear any other voices. I can feel the temperature drop, and goosebumps prickle on my skin. The chair rocks from side to side as our path becomes rough and rutted. I soon begin to smell the sap of trees.

And then we abruptly stop. I feel the straps that kept my limbs from flailing being loosened, and someone helps me out of the chair. I’m still hoping it’s you, but something seems different. Then, I feel hands on my body positioning me. At last, my blindfold is removed, by whom, I do not know. They walk away behind me, a faint accompanying rumble suggesting they’re pushing the empty wheelchair. But I can’t turn around to see them.

All I can do is blink as a dim light returns to my eyes. I see I’m in a forest clearing, surrounded by tall broad-leaved trees. Underfoot is ankle-high grass, not the trampled-flat grass of a footpath or bridleway. I’ve been taken well off the beaten track. There are several fallen trunks nearby, some of considerable girth. It feels like I’m deep in this forest, and lost.

I console myself with the thought that I’ve been brought here for a reason. That all this is something you’ve intended. As I wait, I imagine the circumstances that might have led me here. I’m an impetuous young lady who’s taken a shortcut. I’d been warned about these woods before, and the ruffians that lurk in them. But I’m a big girl now, I thought I knew better, but now I’m in trouble. Hopelessly lost.

I must look so out of place here, in my adorable little blue Edwardian dress. An outfit more befitting tea with the vicar, than a daring excursion into the wilderness.

I must have been waiting for several minutes before I became aware of a completely new and disturbing sound, the pad of approaching footsteps. A strange man appears, walking around me like I’m an exhibit in a gallery. He does not wear a lapel pin, and I do not recognise him.

He scolds me, admonishing me for getting lost, for endangering myself. I can not verbally defend myself, of course, so I accept his criticisms meekly and mutely.

Your Daddy would smack your bottom, he observes.

He’s undeniably right. If I did wander into the woods and got lost, I would expect a good hard spanking if I ever got back home. A caning in front of my siblings would be a distinct possibility, a warning to us all not to stray into such dangerous places. Almost certainly on the bare too, with my nightie lifted, so I’d be sent to bed with a dozen stinging stripes. Only if I was very lucky would Daddy punish me in the privacy of my own bedroom, put over his knee for a thorough spanking with his big strong hand.

The stranger takes my hand, and leads me towards a fallen tree. He sits on its trunk, and lifts the hem of my dress and my petticoat to my waist. Then he pulls down my silk undergarments to my ankles, I can do nothing but stand obediently beside him as this stranger admires my bare mound.

Oh Daddy! Please save me. I’ve been such a silly little girl.

The stranger pulls me across his knee, and folds the back of my dress up so my bare bottom remains exposed. Then he begins to spank me with his big heavy hand. Tears begin to pool in my eyes, not because it’s particularly sore, but because I know I disobeyed Daddy, and now I’m getting what naughty girls deserve.

Oh where are you, Daddy? I plead silently. Why haven’t you rescued me from my folly?

Or are you lurking, watching in the woods as I’m disciplined? Is this stranger a friend of yours, or just the one who found me first?

My spanking is long and hard, each smack of the stranger’s strong wide palms leaving a stinging imprint that’s quickly reinforced by the next. I feel humiliated feeling his hand smack my bottom, only Daddy ever spanks me this way.

And yet, even when my spanking ends, I’ve one final degradation to suffer. As tears seep from my reddened eyes, I feel the stranger’s big hands splay apart my sore pink cheeks. I want to scream in protest, to kick my legs and squirm off his lap. But I am a doll, so accept his intrusion without a peep.

He places one thick thumb on my bottom hole, and the other fingers of that hand on the small of my back. His other thumb rests against my vagina, with the fingers of that hand between my thighs. He begins to rub in slow circles, redistributing some my wetness to my bottom hole. And that’s when I realise he means to violate me.

Oh Daddy! Oh Daddy! Save me please!

The stranger begins to push both of his thumbs inside me, stretching my bottom hole and sliding slowly in and out of my vagina. I don’t want to come, not like this, over a ruffian’s lap, but I am a doll, and it is my fate to be used. He synchronises his thrusts, so his thick thumbs fill both my holes simultaneously, before sliding them out, but never fully withdrawing.

I hold back for as long as I can, but that just makes my orgasm stronger.

I come silently screaming for Daddy, in a climactic surge of awesome intensity. And then, who knows? I black out.


When I awake, I find myself sprawled over the tree trunk. My dress is still lifted, and my underwear is still bunched around my ankles. My bare bottom is exposed, stinging from its spanking and throbbing from its intrusion. My slit and inner thighs are sticky from my violation.

Had I not been in the trance I’d have leapt to my feet, pulling up my underwear and straightening my dress, desperate to regain some remnants of my modesty, indignant at my molestation. But I am a doll. I know I am a plaything to be used. So I stay in position, feeling my wetness tingling on my open holes.

I wonder who’ll find me next. Perhaps the next one to stumble across me will fuck me. Perhaps that’s the scene we’re playing, what was it called? Rape in the Woods.

Oh Daddy! Save me please!

Time passes in a daze, until I realise I’m no longer alone. I’m aware of movement behind me, but I can’t look backwards to see its source. I wait on tenterhooks, expecting to hear the sound of a zip opening and trousers being lowered. And if I’m lucky, the crinkle of a condom packet being torn open.

Because this is what happens to silly girls who get themselves lost in the woods.

I feel something soft between my legs.

Something comfortably familiar. A handkerchief wiping me clean, gently cleansing my sticky mess from my intimate places.

My heart soars. Only one man in the world has ever treated me that way.

You.

My one and only Pygmalion.

You help me to my feet and pull up my underwear, straightening my dress and arranging my dishevelled hair. You dry my face of my tears, and make me perfect again.

You look me in the eye and smile. And for a moment, it’s as if I we can read each other’s minds. A recognition of our love. That I love you so much I’ll surrender my body entirely. That I’m even willing to give up my own free-will to the trance.

You extend a hand, grasping mine, pushing the pressure point that grants me permission to move again.

Beyond this dark copse, light is streaming through the wood’s canopy, I can see a path ahead, illuminated by the sunbeams.

You lean and whisper into my ear:

“Come with me, my love.”

We clasp hands, and break into a run.

“Come. And I’ll take you where your imagination has always longed to go…”

.

.

.

@spankingtheatre 2017

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.

You’re welcome to reblog and share.

A new story for the still and silent

The first part of a brand new two-part story, Playing Dolls, is now posted!

I think this tale will appeal to those who enjoy the mental side of submissiveness, of being denied and immobile, and completely under the whim of another. And especially those who fantasise about being spanked, whilst not being allowed to move, or make a sound.

And here’s a bit of background reading on the fetish that inspired it, for my most diligent and erudite students…

Playing Dolls: part 1

A new story of statuesque submissiveness

One particular fairy-tale from my childhood has always haunted my dreams.

You may roam around my home,

He said, go anywhere you please.

Except the library in the tower

What a most peculiar tease.


One day bored, she disobeyed.

Sneaking up the twisty stairs, and there,

On a plinth beneath the steepling shelves

A tome awaiting one who dared.


Curiosity overtook the impetuous girl,

Heaving open the hefty umber book

She knelt amid the misty sunbeams,

And consumed it in a single look.


But disobedience has consequence

The minx had read an enchanted scrawl

Now high in the clouds she’s petrifying,

Slowly transforming… into a doll.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be one of my dolls. Not permanently, of course, that would quickly become very tiresome. Maybe just a hour or two. Long enough for someone to play with me, to stroke my cheeks and comb my hair.

Please, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not a narcissist, but I do know I’m beautiful. I see heads turn when I pass by, long leering looks as strangers admire me. I watch as their eyes rove across my pretty face, quickly, trying to avoid the awkwardness of accidental eye contact. As if my own eyes were too bright for mere mortals to behold, and they risked staring into the centre of the sun. Then, their gaze will usually drop, to my slender neck, to linger lewdly on the small round mounds of my breasts.

I notice when others appreciate my slender body, the hourglass curves of my torso and waist. I know those who pass behind me will glance furtively backwards, trying to catch a glimpse of my perfect pert bottom. I often wonder: is this how a statue feels? To be an object of rare and graceful beauty, somehow contrived from the disorder of the universe, existing to enrich all those who gaze upon it.

And when I think of myself as a statue, or a doll, as an object that arouses others – it excites me.

One of the happiest moments of my life was when my hungry mind began devouring Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Quite unexpectedly, I turned the page and stumbled across the story of Pygmalion and Galatea. That day I wept tears of joy, which trickled down my cheeks to splatter silently on his precious words. Across two millennia, this exquisite Roman poet taught me that I wasn’t weird. That I wasn’t alone, that the ancients also adored and eroticised the beautiful figures they crafted from stone.

Soon I learned there was a name for it too: Agalmatophilia – a sexual attraction to a statue, doll, mannequin or other immobile figure, and the sexual arousal of such transformations too. I began to think of myself as Galatea, the beautiful statue etched from marble by the sculptor Pygmalion, the outcome of his magnificent labour of love.

Yet, despite all I’ve learned since about the wonders of sex, still nothing turns me on more than the thought of becoming a doll…


* * 1 * *

As the years passed, my juvenile fantasy became much more elaborate. I began to incorporate imagery from the books I’d voraciously consumed. The tower in the clouds became a location in its own right, I liked to imagine I’d been sent away for the summer to stay in the sprawling castle of some mysterious gentleman. He was very kind and understanding, but had laid down just a single rule, not to visit the library at the top of the soaring gothic tower.

My headstrong imaginary self had, naturally enough, found this one restriction frustratingly irresistible. Perhaps my mischief would earn me a trip over the gentleman’s knee. That was what happened to naughty girls, wasn’t it? A spanking! Just imagine! That would be both mortifyingly appalling and thrillingly exciting!

So I imagined breaking his silly rule, climbing the exhausting steep creaky stairs to the top of the tower, then wandering among the vertiginous shelves of his illicit library. Eventually, I’d stumble across a low plinth, with heavy archaic-looking book resting upon it. There was a little velvet cushion just in front, allowing me to kneel reverently before it. I’d heave open its heavy studded leather cover, and gasp as it fell open at a page filled by jagged archaic words. I’d check guiltily over my shoulder, half expecting to see my angry host scowling at me, a riding whip already in his hand.

But I was still alone, so as the dust-motes glowed and tumbled in the sunbeams, I began reading. Somehow I knew how to pronounce these strange contorted characters, I’d feel my tongue warm, as I spat the coarse profane syllables from my snarling lips.

How could I have known that I was reading from a spellbook? That the abyssal-black scrawl on the ancient vellum page contained an enchantment that would transform me. That this was a trap, that the book would always fall open at the same page in an intruder’s hands. How could I have known the high price of my curiosity?

Then it happened. I began to feel my muscles freeze. Alarmed, I tried to rise and run, but some strange force had petrified me, as if I’d been ossified by Medusa’s terrible stare. I looked down at my hands, my flesh still pink and supple, fortunately not yet turned to stone. But I could no longer move, my mind now trapped, alert and racing inside my abruptly frozen body.

Eventually the gentleman wizard came looking for me. He found me, perfectly still and silent, kneeling beside his precious priceless spellbook. How awful it was to be caught so flagrantly, yet be unable to speak, to explain myself and profusely apologise.

I felt his hand upon the top of my head, he pushed gently downwards, until my face hovered just above the elegant tapestries that covered the floor. Now my bottom was my highest point, protruding proudly in the air. He reached behind me, lifting my dress and parting my bloomers, baring my buttocks, and all my secrets in between. Oh Sir! I wanted to shriek, but I was literally under his spell, completely at the mercy of my new Master’s hand.

Like a conjurer, he suddenly produced a thin foot-long stick from within his robes, from where previously – surely – no such item had existed. This, he informed me, was his wand, and was more than just a facilitator of sorcery. It was also perfect for smacking the bottoms of wayward young ladies who act like delinquent little girls.

He stood behind me, and I felt the warm wood of his wand rest against my upturned cheeks. Then, he spanked me. A succession of firm, hard whacks. I wasn’t able to protest, or squirm. But I’d still feel the hot stinging impact of each smack upon my poor bare bum. I must admit, it wasn’t long before I also felt a little rivulet of wetness, dribbling down my thigh.

This was the fantasy that defined my nascent sexuality. To be closeted in a faraway castle of marble halls, the guest of a wizard, the willing subject of his erotic bewitching powers. He knew the immobility spell charmed me most, and I’d beg him to use it on me. My gentleman wizard would graciously indulge my wish, happily transforming me into a living doll. Then he’d undress me. My cheeks would burn with shame as he tugged the lace around my waist, the one that made my bloomers tumble down around my feet, before rising my idle arms and pulling my camisole off over my head.

I’d imagine standing before him naked, instinctively wanting to move my hands to cover my crotch. I always kept myself bare and smooth, just how a doll might be. I liked to lie on my bed and open my legs, imagining him inspecting me. When I was a doll, I’d never move, and never ever touch myself. I’d just close my eyes and picture his roving eyes appreciating me.

I also liked to stand motionless in the middle of my bedroom, in the pose I imagined he might select for me. I might be naked, or my Master might decide to dress me up. I might be put in my best bikini, or wrap a sheet around me like a toga, or be meticulously presented in my old school uniform. I’d glance at myself in my full-length mirror, and swell with pride, so gorgeous and alluring.

Of course, sometimes my Master might decide I’d have to be punished, as my misdemeanours were never truly hidden from his enchanted spying eyes. I’d dress in the costume he’d laid out for me, then bare my bottom and spank myself with my slipper, or the wooden spatula I’d borrowed from the kitchen. Then I’d stand with my pink cheeks on display, immobile and obedient in his chosen pose, unable to rub away the ache that simmered between my legs.

Only later that night, as I lay on my back, naked underneath my cool satin sheets, would I finally allow myself to rest a solitary fingertip against my clitoris. I’d lie there, as motionless as I could possibly manage, feeling the weight of my finger pressing against my most sensitive spot. The tug of Gravity alone stimulating me, the attractive force of every atom on the planet. A primal part of me would want to rub, but my logical self was stronger willed. I’d continually remind myself that good dolls never get to move. I often fell asleep that way, my hand resting upon my mound, into deliriously exciting dreams.   


* * 2 * *

Despite my physical attractiveness, sexual relationships were always awkward for me. I had plenty of attention, but I wanted to be passive. I didn’t want to make love like all the other girls, throwing my arms around my lover and writhing around in an orgamsic frenzy. Blossoming trysts withered as new lovers came to think of me as cold, passionless and disinterested. If only they’d asked and delved a bit deeper, if only they’d enquired why I always laid so still and silent as they fucked me. And so no one ever suspected that being a doll was what really turned me on.

Until finally I met a mind as unique and kinky as my own.

To my surprise he actually liked it when I laid back on the bed and closed my eyes. He liked to undress me and caress me, to run his fingertips over my skin, until I was dimpled with goose-bumps. He liked to inspect me, to hold my folds apart and examine me, as if I was the most intriguing puzzle in the universe. Which in a way, I suppose, I am.

He liked to spoon with me, his cock stiffening against my buttocks as I lay motionless, until his shaft was ready to slip between them. Most of all, he loved to spank me. He loved to put me over his knee, or arrange me atop a pile of pillows. He loved putting me on display afterwards, as he admired the pink patches and the glistening lips that resulted from his handiwork. And I loved standing still as he admired me, feeling my stinging cheeks aglow.

Afterwards, he would always ask me if I liked it. And I would smile and nod appreciatively. It began to seem as if we understood each other.

Eventually, one year after we’d first met, I gave him a very special present. I finally trusted him with my most cherished secret, one I’d never shared with anyone else. That I wanted to be a doll, a beautiful object for the enjoyment of others.

I was thrilled when he said he understood me and my strange desires. He had recognised my passivity as a profound sexual submissiveness, something that had chimed with his own personal fantasies: to be a Puppet-Master. Doll, statue, mannequin, puppet. What did it matter what we called it? We locked eyes, and I asked him to own me, to love and protect me. And joyously, he agreed.

Somehow, fate had matched me with you, my Pygmalion.


We began to travel, roaming the museums and galleries of the world. Every day we’d fall in love with another beautiful statue. Whilst fellow visitors would merely stay for a minute, folding their arms and nodding appreciatively before sauntering off to the next exhibit, we’d find a sculpture we loved, then stay and linger. We’d keep the statue company, sitting on a nearby bench to admire it. Our minds would clear, and we’d mediate, ignoring the busy footsteps of passers-by to commune with the stone, and through it, the spirit of its creator.

We’d contemplate the effigy, exquisitely crafted from a block of perfect marble, and see the love the sculptor had invested in it. The ancients did not live long lives, a sculptor might spend a tenth of their working life on a single statue. Imbuing it with grace, and a soul. Why would one make such an investment were they not besotted with it?

Later, in our hotel room, we’d recreate what we had seen. I’d powder my skin white like marble, and drape a sheet upon the little plinth we carried, then stand upon it, adopting the pose of the statue we’d just seen.

You’d then walk around me as I stood motionless, admiring me, your eyes roaming across my whitened skin. In our museum, you gets to touch, running your fingers along my body, as I try not to quiver or flinch.

You like to spank me, don’t you? Smacking my snow-white buttocks slow and hard. Anyone watching might think your smacks land with no effect, the pinkness inflicted by your palm hidden beneath my powder layer. Eventually though, you’ll spank it off, revealing warm pink flesh beneath the stone, as if you’ve magically transformed me into flesh.

Your magic touch can even make a statue seep. That thing you do, when you lube your fingers, and place the middle finger at the entrance to my vagina, and ring finger against my bottom hole. Then you slowly push into me, simultaneously penetrating my two tight holes. In and out, your fingers fucking me, slow and deep, until my legs begin to wobble.

This is how my Pygmalion brings his masterpiece to life. In and out. What once was stone, now is aching, dripping flesh. Your every thrust is pumping me with life. In and out. In and out until I come – and my Master catches me in his arms as I tumble from my plinth.

I experience the warm wet caress of my sculptor’s kiss for the very first time, as you carry me to our bed.

You shed his toga, and then – oh! The irony. I can see a part of you has turned to stone.  

Your Galatea reaches around to hug you, I’m an awakening statue, astonished by the sudden discovery of intimate human flesh.

Then you slide in deep. And fuck my virgin cunt.


Our travels ultimately took us to the roof of the world. We hiked among the Himalayas, climbing high mountain passes as the thin air rasped in our throats, sapping the strength from our limbs until I limped like a puppet with severed strings. We stayed in hillside huts, lodging with welcoming Sherpa shepherds who somehow eked a living from these barren wind-blasted slopes.

Communication was often tricky, an embarrassed exchange of mimes and phrasebook platitudes. But sometimes we did encounter English-speakers, and we’d talk long into the cold dark night, huddled around the tiny glowing fireplace. We found common ground with those who followed Tibetan Buddhism, discussing at length matters of the spirit and the art of mediation. A few mentioned a temple in the region whose monks were famed for exploring altered states of consciousness.

One described a state of being there, but not there. Aware and feeling, yet immobilised. Mind somehow separated from body. It sounded like a kind of hypnotic trance, alert but controlled by another. A few nights later we stayed with a lady whose English was more limited, again we talked of the temple, and what they did there. She looked around her cramped but cosy little hut, trying to explain herself, until her eyes settled upon one of her daughter’s rag dolls. Like that, she pointed, at the temple you learn to be like that.

I met Pygmalion’s gaze, and we knew without exchanging a word we had to find this place. We asked our host to scribble a map, and the very next morning, we turned around in search of it.

We stumbled across the temple three weeks later, materialising out of the evening mist, a fantasy of terracotta and gilded timbers built into the side of a looming mountain. Every surface so delicately carved, a disconsonant oasis of human artistry amid these lifeless rocky peaks. The monks welcomed us like brothers, and nodded sagely when we told them what we were seeking. We were pleasantly surprised by their open-mindedness. We should discovered it was not a hermitage of celibacy.

We donned their saffron robes. We fasted, meditated, and listened. Each night we’d fall asleep huddled together in a wool-packed cot, listening to the savage gales whistling through the mountain crags. Each lesson felt like we were being handed a fragment of a cryptic treasure map.

Bit by bit, the wizened monks revealed the mystery of our minds.

Then they taught us magic spells.


* * 3 * *

We’re back in Europe now. In an old château, beside a deep still lake, concealed by trees and dwarfed by the high alps that tower above us. It is very epitome of seclusion. We do not intend to be disturbed. Nous sommes La Société des Poupées, the Company of Dolls.

We learned of La Société in that mountain temple, a German couple arrived a couple of weeks after us, returning to practice, and learn new hypnotic techniques. We soon recognised them as kindred spirits.

They generously allowed us to watch their own intimate ritual. It would begin by putting her into a deep trance, then her partner would animate her by blowing a shrill note on his tiny bamboo flute. For a few fleeting moments, she’d be able to move again. Sometimes he’d give her instructions, or he’d move alongside and position her like a mannequin into the position he intended. As the last vibrations of the flute faded from our minds, her muscles would freeze, and she would become a doll again.

Over the following months, we slowly mastered the same technique. We found I responded best to the chime of a singing bowl, rather than the whistle of a xun flute or the booms of a tabla.

We kept in touch with the couple, and through them got to know others within La Société. We’d travel the continent, meeting for soirées, becoming dolls, as our Masters played with us.

Now the Company of Dolls is gathering. We don’t know the organisers, or how they came to know of us. But somehow we received an invitation, a map and a QR code that admitted us through a pair of electric gates on the winding private alpine road. We park our hybrid rental car in a gap on the wide gravel drive, looking incongruous between a blood red Ferrari and an Aston Martin that shimmers like a block of molten silver.

As suggested, we’ve arrived the evening before the event, giving us plenty of time to prepare. We’re met on the entrance steps by a smartly dressed gentleman who scans our code before welcoming us effusively. He leads us up the opulent grand staircase to our room, a large luxurious boudoir. Our host explains the weekend schedule, it seems the first gathering of the Company will be over breakfast tomorrow, then the “scenes” will begin. He turns to you: You’ll enjoy meeting your fellow guests, Monsieur, he says, pointedly ignoring me. By then, of course, I’ll be a Doll.

We unpack, and dinner is delivered to our room. We sit at the table on the balcony, looking out over the perfect pink mirror of the nearby lake as the sun sets behind the faraway peaks. I enjoy the autonomy of eating for one last time, because dolls don’t eat, dolls are fed.

As dusk falls, our bodies relaxed by wine and contentment, you take me by the hand, and lead me into the middle of the room. You unzip my dress, and slide it off me. You remove my bra, then pull down my underwear. You unfasten my shoes, and then sweep me off my feet, carrying me over to our extravagant bed. I lie back with a sigh, sinking deep into its soft plushness.

And then we begin the ritual we learned.

Breathing long, deep breaths.

Slower.

And slower.

And slower.

You’re sitting beside me, eyes closed. Matching my breathing. In your hands is the bronze singing bowl, and the little leather-covered mallet.

You strike, and I’m flooded by its chime. It’s not loud, yet I feel the harmonics of the note resonating throughout my body. I feel my mind disengaging, becoming ever more relaxed, the chatter of my internal dialogue diminishing as the ringing fades away.

The intervals between my breaths get longer, as my mind calms, and feels to float free of my body, drifting into a state of intense meditation.

You start with my mouth, kissing, nibbling, then moving down to nuzzle my neck, before continuing down to my breasts. I do not respond, of course. I lie on the bed passively as your lips encounter me. But arousal is not mine to control, and you can see my nipples rising, stiffening.

I’m vaguely aware of your fingertips skimming over my body, but the sensations feel different now, as if you’re no longer touching my body, rather just a body I happen to be connected to.

I sense you inspecting my most intimate regions so closely. Taking the utmost care to scrutinise, touch, and stroke every square millimeter personally. You starting with my perfectly hairless mound, which I had waxed yesterday, so bare and soft and sensitive. I know you’ll approve.

No part of me is private. Especially not from your expert gaze. You adjust the bedside anglepoise light so it shines directly onto my once secret areas, so there’s not a single spot hidden in shadow.

You start with my labia, lubricating your finger with the wetness I’ve produced for you, you move it along my lips and closely inspect them, spreading my juices over them as you cover the entirety of them. From my lips you move on to my clit, first inspecting the hood, rubbing it and examining its every surface, pulling it back and then releasing it to check it’s elasticity and tease my sensitive button. You study my clitoris, feeling its hardness and pulling back the covering folds to get a good look at it.

I remember when you first inspected me. No one had ever taken such interest in me. Previous lovers treated my vulva as a hole to fuck. But you’d happily spend an evening looking at me, stroking me, seeing how my body responded, how my delicate pink petals unfurled. You’d experiment, taking a bobby pin from my dresser, and carefully clipping it over my hood so my clit was exposed. Or wrapping a length of string around my waist, leaving loops dangling over my slit, and clipping my labia to them, so I was spread open, completely.

You realised I liked to be passive. To just lie back and be inspected. You’d tease me, our little game of wits, me trying to stay still, you trying to get me to move. Oh how mean you could be! Sliding a couple of fingers into my vagina, and rubbing my cum spot. Or you’d examine my clit, testing it’s reactions to various stimulus as I tried desperately not to moan and shift, every whimper or tremble earning me a spank on the inside of my thighs.

Once my clit had told you all it could, you’d fetch the speculum and slowly slide it between my swollen lips. And I would lie there, like some gynaecological practice doll, feeling the hard lubed steel bill fill up every inch of me. Then you’d begin to ratchet, stretching my passage open until I was sure you’d be able to peep inside and glimpse my soul.

The speculum wasn’t the only medical device we owned. You liked to tape a photoplethysmograph over my clit and connect it to your phone. It was a photo-electric arousal meter, more commonly found in sexual research labs. As I drifted further from reality, you’d slowly begin to read erotic phrases to me, letting each of them sink into my mind, giving me time to imagine them. The device would tell you how aroused I was. Yet I would stay still, feeling my juices seeping from my open hole.

You enjoyed taking notes, observing my reactions, (or the lack of them). You’d scribble in your notebook, recording my sensitivity and little sketches of my cervix. It was fascinating to hear my progress, how much better I was getting at being your doll.

But tonight, in the boudoir, we don’t have our toys. Just each other, and the meditation techniques we’ve learned.

After a thorough examination of my vulva, you lift my legs and inspect my bottom. I keep them upright, perfectly vertical. You spank me, soft and hard, blushing my skin and examining the marks.

Then you begin to examine my bottom hole, using all your 5 senses: running your finger around it, tasting it, smelling it, listening to the little squelches as your finger penetrates it.

Soon, I feel your fingertip entering my bum as you start to examine me internally, feeling how I squeeze your finger, how my muscles first resist you then admit you. But this is not for my gratification, you are assessing the depth of my trance, how I react to the most intimate stimuli, and so you move slowly – scientifically.

We know it is the conscious mind that resists a bottom-fucking, tightening the anal passage when something intrudes. But when a doll’s mind is empty, there is no such gatekeeper, and soon your thick finger is slipping easily into my arse.

That’s when you know I’m ready to step through the doors of perception, and enter a new kind of consciousness.

You strike the singing bowl again, and I can see myself behind my closed eyelids, as if I’m looking down, outside my body. I see you’ve placed a fingertip between my open legs, just beneath my clitoris.

And then I hear you speak. Deep and magnificent, as if I was listening to the very voice of God. You begin to dictate erotic phrases, slowly and meticulously, letting each one of them sink into my mind.

“Two girls, head-to-toe, eagerly licking each others’ cunts.”

My empty mind is desperate for instructions, so you know I’ll have no choice but to imagine anything you say. In perfect, vivid detail. Something materialises from the blackness, seemingly an elegant but minimally furnished business hotel. Jackets, blouses and skirts lie scattered haphazardly across the room, as if their owners stripped off urgently, each one daring the other to follow.

Two figures writhe naked on the bed.

The lady on top is of oriental appearance, perhaps Korean given the Hangul characters on her necklace. Her buttocks are splattered with faint pink patches. That’s what started it. Her colleague had teased her about a silly mistake at their recent business meeting, and had playfully smacked her bottom. Which had prompted Ms Korea to provocatively drop her skirt, and say: do it properly. Her colleague had happily complied, bending her over, and spanking her bum with several quick, hard slaps of her palm. Then, she’d languidly let her own skirt fall to the floor. After that, things had escalated quickly, long-suppressed desires surfacing at last.

Now I’m watching them pleasure each other. My mind’s eye floats like an invisible video camera behind Ms Korea’s spanked bottom. The other woman, a pretty brunette of Mediterranean appearance, is lying on her back, staring upwards, her puckered lips sucking the small butterfly that’s hidden within her partner’s slit. The tip of her nose is between Ms Korea’s buttocks, crudely nudging against her bottom hole.

I witness everything in hyper-realistic detail. I hear every breath, every squelch. I can smell the hot musk of their excitement. I feel so close I long to reach out and touch, to join in and begin a little orgy. But then I remember I am a doll. I can only watch. I can not move.

Then, I hear something within the room ring. My mental image pans around, instinctively searching for the source. It’s a single long resonating note, that dominates my attention. As the sound grows louder, the scene around me dims, as my vision begins to fade. Oh please! I think. Don’t take me now! Just let me stay and watch them come. But I am under your command, and you’ve struck the bowl to summon me home.

Somewhere, in the world I’ve left behind, you were sensing my arousal peak, feeling the throb of my pulse in my clitoris, watching how my vulva winked and glistened.

Now all is dark again. My mind trapped behind my closed eyelids. My body frozen. The first time I experienced this space I was terrified. I felt like I’d been cast adrift in an endless void. But then I hear your deep rumbling voice, and know you’re out there, somewhere, to keep me safe.

I wait within the Bardo of my own consciousness. It is formless, empty and beautiful.

You’re letting my arousal subside, I hear you say something neutral.

“A sparrow, a small, plump, brown-grey bird, sitting on a branch.”

I wonder if you can see my clit tingle, such is the effect of your voice. I see the bird you describe, his stubby beak parting as he emits a rapid burst of staccato cheeps. I look down to see my own bare feet, I’m standing naked by a hedgerow, on a path that winds between green grassy fields. I can not move, of course. So I remain here, frozen where I stand like some lichen-encrusted rural statue, feeling the warm breeze whisper over my skin, listening to the tiny bird’s chirpy serenade.

I am standing here because separation of mind and body requires full mastery of my desires. When I become a doll nothing everything I experience will be arousing, there will be long periods of waiting and listening to others. And I know those around me will ignore me, just as the little sparrow does.

Some time later, I hear the ring, a rich chime carried on the wind, like the peal of a distant church bell. Everything darkens, as if night had suddenly fallen in a couple of moments. And I’m alone in the dark again.

I wait patiently, until I hear your voice wash over me once more. To my hyper-sensitised imagination, I hear your whispers as a roar, like the surge of stormy seas crashing upon a craggy shore.

“A schoolgirl, just caned, standing facing the corner, quietly sobbing.”

I shouldn’t be aroused by that, that poor girl crying, with such a sore bottom. But it does arouse me, it arouses me very much indeed. I’m sitting at the back of the class, scribbling my assignment. Yet I can’t help looking up from my page, to stare at the young lady standing beside the blackboard with her skirt rolled up and her knickers around her ankles. My eyes continually drawn, almost magnetically, to the six pink horizontal lines across her bare bottom.

I’m finding it difficult to suppress my smirk. But feel like I deserve to stand in her position. She’d been caught reading a note by Sir. Then summoned to the front of the class. He’d made her touch her toes, and lifted her skirt as we, her classmates looked on, awestruck. It’s always shocking when Sir pulls a girl’s panties down, but that’s School Rules.

Six of the Best. On the Bare Bottom.

She never did divulge who the note was from. It was me.

Now she’s got her nose pressed against the chalky surface of the blackboard. Weeping and sniffling. Her hands are resting on the top of her head, so she can’t reach back to cover her bottom, or rub the sting away.

But I know she’s not sobbing because it’s sore. I’ve had much more than six on the bare. No, she’s crying because she was humiliated. The model student, spanked like a silly little girl in front of the whole class.

That’s why you brought me here, isn’t it? For a lesson in shame, another emotion a true doll must master. When I’m a doll, I know I’ll experience many humiliations, I’ve been spanked, inspected and fucked in public, in front of the eager eyes of dozens of strangers. I know that’s what lies in store for me tomorrow.

Sir looks up from his desk to see me smirking, and calls me to the front of the class. I’m told to touch my toes, and soon he has my bottom bared. I grimace as the six whacks land, each searing a new pink stripe onto the sensitive skin of my soft round cheeks. Then I’m sent to stand in disgrace, so the two of us flank the blackboard. I place my hands on my head, and look across at my friend, her eyes still wet and teary. My broad grin proves contagious, and I see her smile.

Eventually the school bell sounds. One long, continuous ringing note. Soon, everything is blacker than the scruffy blackboard I’ve been facing. And I wait.

Wherever my body is, it no longer feels like my concern. It no longer squirms in response to your provocative scenes, as my mind no longer controls its muscles. The trance does not make me limp like a rag doll, but immobile like a mannequin. My pliant body lies on the bed, for you to use however you please, my mind controlled remotely by just your words.

On tenterhooks, I await your next pronouncement. Then I hear the booming voice of God.

“My big stiff cock, in your tight little pussy.”

My cock. Your pussy. This is the last step. The rejoining of my floating mind with my passive body. Now instead of imagining your words, I will experience them. I’ll see from behind my own eyes again.

Arousal is the door to the trance. Complete sexual submissiveness is the key that unlocks it.

My consciousness rejoins my strangely incapacitated body.

I see you again, watching you undress, realising when you step to one side that even the muscles in my eyes are no longer under my control. But I feel my pupils open, as if by reflex, when I see your stiff cock.

I sense my juices seeping onto the bedding I’m lying on, and my vagina, open and eager to be penetrated.

You put me in several positions as you fuck me. All I have left is my breathing, I gasp with satisfaction, but my paralysed voice emits no sound. From my detached state I sense the frustrated desires of my own body, how it wants to instinctively contort, to plunge onto you and chase its own pleasure. But dolls don’t decide when they come, I must wait until you take me there.

You’re thrusting harder now. How I’d love to lift my legs, to wrap my slender thighs around your hips, and press my calves against your muscular buttocks. All those degrees, all those achievements, and here I am lying silently on my back with my legs open, like some kind of cheap sex doll. I can feel the weight of your athletic torso pushing down on me. You do not kiss me. Or even acknowledge I’m anything other than a tight, wet hole to grip your cock. You’re just using me for your pleasure. And that excites me, tremendously.

You’re grunting now, getting close. Have pity, I plead inside. Some owners never let their dolls climax, careful to never push them over the edge, so they can keep them in a permanent state of mute frustrated excitement. I’ve seen the hunger in their eyes. A thousand-yard stare of those kept in denial, continuously aroused, their last orgasm a distant fading treasured memory.

You wouldn’t do that to me, would you my love? Oh how silly I am! A doll that thinks she’s a lady. A doll who thinks she can come. Who even am I? Geppetto’s latest creation? A semi-sentient sex robot? A pleasure droid being screwed in a tacky neon-red Kabukichō boudoir, dreaming it’s a loving fuck in a remote lakeside château?

Who am I doesn’t matter any more. I am just a hole for fucking, and a pair of open watching eyes. The only part of my body I can feel is my vagina, stretched and filled by your thick cock. Thrusting. Faster. Urgently. Until I feel you spurt inside me, pumping harder and deeper as you wring yourself dry.

That’s when I come hard. Silently – but yelling inside.

After my fucking, you lie alongside me in muted reverie of mutual bliss. Eventually, you strike the singing bowl again, its chime miraculously restoring flexibility to my muscles. Yet I still remain under your full control, waiting for you to tell me to rise from the bed, and follow you to the shower. I stand dumbly under the nozzle as you wash me, a torrent of pleasantly hot water cascading over my face as you wipe off my makeup. It feels so juvenile to have you run your fingers through my wet hair, and lift my arms so you can soap up my armpits.

Your sponge washes my slit with meticulous care, cleansing me of my stickiness. How frustrating it is not to be able to speak, to plead for longer, lingering rubbings, or to be able to grab the nozzle and point its jet towards my clit. A doll must be content with the little rivulets of warmth that trickle down her tummy, tingling as they dribble between her legs.

You embrace me with a warm fluffy towel, enveloping me and drying my now exquisitely soft and sensitive skin. You dry my hair, then brush it, pulling it back into two perfect pigtails. Then, you lead me to the toilet, seating me, opening my legs, and placing your warm hand on my mound to help me go. You watch as your doll piddles in one long gush, just like a real girl!

You help me stand, then wipe me dry, dabbing the soft tissue between my slit. Once I would have been embarrassed by such intimate treatment, but now I’m a doll, I see things differently. I need to be cared for, and I’m grateful. When you guide me to the sink, I see the face of a doll who looks just like me staring back in the bathroom mirror. I see you open her mouth, squeeze toothpaste onto a toothbrush and scrub her teeth. A foamy, minty sweetness fills my mouth, before you raise a glass of water to rinse my mouth.

Finally, you escort me back to the bedroom, to dress me in my frilly pyjamas, ensuring they lie just right on my body. You guide me back to bed, positioning me comfortably where I’ll lie next to you. I won’t squirm or toss overnight, so when we wake in the morning I’ll still be lying exactly how you posed me.

I wait like a good doll as you visit the bathroom to complete your own ablutions, then you climb into bed beside me. You kiss me goodnight, hugging me tight as my heart swells with joy. Then you reach across to the nightstand, and using another hammer, you strike a different note on the singing bowl.

And I abruptly fall into a deep and contented sleep…


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To be continued…

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@spankingtheatre 2017

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.

You’re welcome to reblog and share.

The Doll

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A sneak peek of my latest story… coming soon…



One particular fairy-tale from my childhood has always haunted my dreams. 

You may roam around my home,

He said, go anywhere you please.

Except the library in the tower

What a most peculiar tease.

One day bored, she disobeyed.

Sneaking up the twisty stairs, and there,

On a plinth beneath the steepling shelves

A tome awaiting one who dared.

Curiosity overtook the impetuous girl,

Heaving open the hefty umber book

She knelt amid the misty sunbeams,

And consumed it in a single look.

But disobedience has consequences

The minx had read an enchanted scrawl

Now high in the clouds she’s petrifying,

Slowly transforming… into a doll.

For as long as I could remember, I’d wanted to be one of my dolls. Not permanently, of course, that would quickly become very tiresome. Maybe just a hour or two. Long enough for someone to play with me, to stroke my cheeks and comb my hair.

I’m not a narcissist, but I know I am beautiful. I see heads turn when I pass by, admiring me. I watch their eyes rove across my pretty face, quickly, trying to avoid the awkwardness of eye contact, as if my own eyes were too bright for mere mortals to behold, and they risked staring into the centre of the sun. Then, their gaze drops, to my slender neck, to linger lewdly on the small round mounds of my breasts.

I see them appreciating my slender body, the hourglass curves of my torso and waist. I know those who pass behind me will glance furtively backwards, trying to catch a glimpse of my perfect pert bottom. I often wonder: is this how a statue feels? To be an object of rare and graceful beauty, somehow contrived from the disorder of the universe, existing to enrich all those who gaze upon it.

When I think of myself as a statue, or a doll, as an object that arouses others – it excites me…

I just finished part four of the Sit Down Dance, and I’m utterly, incoherently aroused. Thank you for writing such a beautiful piece of erotica, you’re incredibly skilled at erotic writing and I can’t wait for your future updates.

My pleasure! It was very satisfying to be able to convert the story I’d had
planned in my head (and sketched out in my notebook) for so long, and finally render it into written
words. And best of all, to share it with others at last.

You’ll be pleased to know my next story is already nearing completion, it’s a realisation of an idea I’ve wanted to write for ages.

The subject matter is agalmatophilia.

I think it’ll expand your mind. I think you’ll enjoy it…

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