Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears



The Caning Emporium

A story about imagining


In the dark castle of your imagination are many rooms

You could spend a lifetime roaming its stark alluring corridors

Peeping through the keyholes

To be aroused and thrilled

By sights unseen

* * 1 * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few bold girls duly obliged, some raising their hands proudly, others tentatively displaying their palms at shoulder height. Each palm emboldening its neighbours, as the more timid girls realised not only did everyone else seem to be having these naughty thoughts, but even worse, if they kept their hands down their teacher might pick them out, to publicly chide them: “Really, young lady? No fantasies…? Ever?”

So fifteen seconds after he’d spoken, a forest of hands swayed in front of him. He waved them down, and then directed his next question to one of his class. She was sitting in the front row of desks, one of the first to raise her hand. He lowered his eyes to address her.

“Have you ever written down any of your fantasies?”

Her body answered before her mouth could, provoking her to shake her head before adding: “No Sir”.

“That’s a shame”, he replied, “Because in a few years’ time you’ll have forgotten all about them. All that will remain will be a vague recollection, an afterglow of a once fiery inferno.”

“But why are your erotic thoughts important?”, he asked provocatively.

There was a pause as the assembled class digested his question. There was the obvious answer of course, that naughty thoughts got you off, but that seemed rather crass to say out loud. But eventually a couple of hands did tentatively rise to his challenge. He pointed to a girl with short black hair near the back of the class.  

“They’re important because they’re are ours, Sir”, she answered. He nodded, a flutter of his hand encouraged her to elaborate.

She coughed nervously before continuing.

“Er. Because if we don’t cherish our own thoughts, we’ll fill our minds with someone else’s. We’ll become consumers rather than creators”

“An excellent point. Very well made”, he nodded. “We all know there’s plenty of sexual content out there…”

That provoked an outbreak of coy smiles and a nervous giggles.

“… but all those pictures, all those videos, they’re other peoples’ view of sex. Not yours. Erotic writing is about expressing your own sexual identity.”

His gaze returned to the girl in the front row.

“So -”

“- Yuuna”

“So Yuuna, why haven’t you committed your fantasies to words?”

“Er…”, she squirmed awkwardly in her seat, “Um… I wouldn’t know where to start, Sir.”

“Ah. Well, you’ve come to the right class then…”

More giggles. She looked to the floor and smiled, her cheeks blushing.

“Interesting insights”, he observed, before looking up and addressing the whole class again. “How many of you know how to write a diary?”

Almost as one, everyone in the room raised a hand.

“And how many know how to write up an event, for say, a school newsletter?”

Everyone could remember writing something like that in English classes, so all the hands remained upright.

“Now how many know how to write a short story?”

Now arms began to wobble with uncertainty, and over half the hands disappeared.

“And how many would feel able to write a novel?”

At that, the remaining hands suddenly wilted, leaving only two self-confident palms hovering in the air.

“Ah! So what does that tell us?”, he asked rhetorically.

“You already know how to write. You just need to start from something familiar. Don’t intimidate yourself. Don’t write a novel. Well, not unless you want to…”

The pair who’d kept their arms raised exchanged glances and smiled, he waved their hands down.

“So, start simple. You could pretend you’re writing a diary. Everyone knows how to write a diary. The events of one day, written looking back. For example… someone shout out a fantasy…”

The room filled with nervous giggles again.

“Strict headmistress!”, called a voice to his right, provoking a short burst of laughter.

“That’s good! OK, so imagine you’ve just started at a new boarding school. What happened on your first day? You don’t need to specify plot or characters, it’s just like your first day anywhere, you’ve barely met anyone yet…”

“Perhaps you’ve only just encountered the headmistress, you don’t know anything about her yet. Maybe she gave an introductory address to the new pupils. What was it about her makes you think she’s strict? Did she mention school rules? Or punishments? How did she dress? Is her air of authority intimidating – or erotic?”

“Then, when you’ve finished, start writing the 2nd day. After that write the 3rd. Start elaborating. Start introducing elements of your fantasy. Perhaps you’ve heard rumours about what happens to rule-breakers. What goes on behind her office door? Is it true she conducts late night inspections in the dormitories? Whatever lights your candles.”

“What’s her backstory? What did she fantasise about when she was young age? Was she strict growing up too? Did she like to play spanking games? What were her formative sexual experiences?”

“Isn’t that simple?”, he announced, opening his palms like a magician at the denouement of a magic trick.

“Everyone can write a diary. No fancy plot gimmicks, just you, imagining a story unfold day by day. Everyone should be able to do that. Call out if you disagree.”

No one demurred. He turned to the blackboard again, the chalk squeaked and scribbled.

You already know how to write

“Our textbook has a story called ‘Cosmopolitan’, part-written the style of a magazine article, for those wanting to read an example of that kind of storytelling, and who’d like explore more.”

He paused and surveyed the classroom for evidence of furrowed brows, “Any questions?”

A girl in the centre of the class raised her hand.

“How do I turn an idea into a story?”, she asked.

“A good question”, he acknowledged.

“Your challenge, as a writer, is to turn an initial idea that you might be able to express in a few sentences, into a story that’s hundreds, or potentially thousands, of sentences long. But no one can keep that amount of detail in their heads. Instead, what you can do is initially write your story out in note form.”

“For instance: say you have a scene in a restaurant, the idea might be they flirt, tamely at first, then ever more outrageously, until they finally fuck each other senseless.“

He spoke unselfconsciously, he did not expect anyone present to be offended by his choice of language. In the scenario he imagined, fucking was the perfect term to describe the resulting crescendo, the finale to some unstoppable escalation of desire. Choosing the right words was important.

“So, how would you go about expanding that idea into notes? Just break it down. First the couple. Write 5 things you could say about them. Next the restaurant or their reason for being there, again 5 things. It doesn’t matter if they’re underwhelming, just get writing, you don’t need to use everything.”

“Do the same for the initial flirting and the outrageous misbehaviour parts. Perhaps they start by surreptitiously exchanging naughty notes, and by the end, he’s telling her to go to the ladies and bring back her underwear. Finally do the same for the wham-bam ending. That’s 5 notes for each of the 5 subparts – and bingo! Your initial idea has now been expanded to 25 lines.”

“Then, if you want, you can go back and refine each of those 25 points until the story has the level of detail you want. Finally, you’ll elaborate each point you’ve sketched out into prose, into proper sentences – and that’s your story!”

“And here’s a tip: write down the ending, or at least the idea of how the tale will end, before you write the story itself. A story needs a destination, if the destination isn’t worth reaching, the story isn’t worth writing. Telling a story is like telling a joke. It’s moving towards a punchline.”

“You’re going to be practicing expanding an idea into a story in this week’s homework assignment…”

He paused, and looked back at his desk, where a time-worn top hat sat rather incongruously. Beneath the table top, what looked like sturdy brass handles glinted.

“That was a good question. Who’s next?”

He pointed to one of the raised hands, floating in front of him.

“Why are kisses harder to write than penetration, kink and orgasms?”

“Oh! That is a good question. A marvellous one, in fact.”

“Perhaps it’s because a kiss is so familiar, we think we know it. We miss its subtleties, how it involves each one of our senses, in the time it takes for lips to meet. Have you ever thought how it starts? A glance, that bounces between the lovers’ eyes like two reflecting mirrors, faster and faster as the gap between the lips near.”

Too often, stories focus on the events of sex, not the senses of sex. The scents. The sounds

The tastes. The touches…”

“Let me give you an example”

He walked to the nearby bookshelf, scanning the spines until he found what he was after. He plucked a thick paperback, and quickly located the dog-eared page of interest.

“This description of a kiss is from the novel ‘Daughter of Smoke and Bone’ by Laini Taylor.”

“… She tastes like nectar and salt. Nectar and salt and apples. Pollen and stars and hinges. She tastes like fairy tales. Swan maiden at midnight. Cream on the tip of a fox’s tongue. She tastes like hope.”

He paused afterwards, replacing the book, and letting his audience render what he’d read aloud in their own minds.

“That, is how you describe a kiss. Sensually. A kiss is not an event, not a news report. It is a transient sensation, an emotion. The worlds of two characters intimately coming together for a moment, to share a scent, a touch and a taste…”

“A great question. Who’s next?”

“How do you write authentically about a scenario you’ve not (yet) experienced yourself?”

“Yes. Good! That’s a question that gets to the heart of creative writing. If we only ever wrote about personal experiences, the fiction section would be a small and tedious place. Shakespeare was not a king, Agatha Christie never killed anyone. And certainly no sci-fi author has ever been into space!”

“Creation is about using your imagination, going beyond what you’ve physically experienced. If you’d like to practice making things up, then I’d highly recommend Ms Goldstein’s after-school improv drama classes.”


“I worry that what I write won’t be stimulating, Sir.”

That question provoked both embarrassed chuckles and hums of agreement.

“Don’t worry whether what you write stimulates others. If it stimulates you. That’s enough. Because a writer writes because there’s a story to tell. Because if it isn’t told, the story dies and is lost forever. And if it arouses you, it will arouse others. Because there’s plenty of people out there who think the same way as you. Across the whole of humanity, we’ve more in common than our differences.”

The room was now full of raised arms as the class warmed to his challenge, and the questions were becoming much bolder in nature too.

“Sir? Is it alright to touch yourself, in, um… those… places.. while you’re writing…?”

* * 2 * *

Later that evening, Yuuna was in her bedroom, working on her writing assignment. Earlier, before the class had ended, their teacher had toured the classroom with a old top hat, inviting each of them to pick a card from it. Each card had a single sentence written on it, a writing prompt, a rudimentary story idea. Their challenge was to expand what was written on their card to 5 notions, and then refine each notion into 5 sub-parts.

Her hand had rummaged around inside the hat, feeling its soft silky inner lining and the pointy edges of the remaining cards pricking her palm. Her fingers quickly closed around one, which she pulled it out and read to herself: “A character goes shopping for a sex toy”.

Yuuna had contemplated the possibilities of this prompt during her walk home. One notion was obvious, the shopper. She imagined the shopper entering a shop – wouldn’t it be lovely if it was quirky and well-decorated, more like a boutique than a supermarket. Then her shopper would begin browsing, and perhaps try out what she was buying, and then take it home.

But what would her character buy? Something phallic seemed crude, and too obvious. If Yuuna was going shopping, she imagined being lured towards the cabinet of beautiful butt-plugs, but they weren’t really the kind of items you could try out in store, that wouldn’t make much of a story.

Yuuna contemplated the 5 parts of her putative story. There would have to be a shopper, and a shop. The shopper would browse, and then try out an item she liked. And then she would purchase it.

Shopper. Shop. Browsing. Trying. Buying. The five parts. That was easy! she thought with a smile. Now she just needed to refine them. To do what her teacher had advised, and  improvise.

Her hands hovered over the small black squares of her keyboard, close enough to feel the device’s warm breath blow across her fingertips. She began to type her first heading.


Its big bold capitals glowed on her screen, as if she had just inscribed a series of magic runes, some mystic enchantment capable of summoning the character into her imagination. Yuuna closed her eyes, and it didn’t take long for the imagery to emerge; her protagonist would be a professional lady, someone who wouldn’t be embarrassed by her intended purchase. The more she thought about her, the more details Yuuna could see: what she was wearing, her hair, her face, even what had motivated her to go shopping. This was good stuff! Her fingers landed gently on the warm flat plastic keys, and she began to tap out her imaginings to her screen, as she dictated her thoughts to herself under her breath.

“1 … she’s a professional lady, confident and uninhibited”

“2 … Christmas is coming, and she intends to surprise him”

“3 … he liked telling her what a naughty girl she was, and she liked hearing it”

“4 … she enjoyed feeling the heavy slap of his hand on her arse, and fantasised about receiving something stronger, something to take her breath away”

“5 … one day after work, she decides to go shopping for a cane in a hip area of town”

And that was the 5 points. Her story now had its protagonist; Yuuna felt like she’d just been introduced, that she’d felt the soft touch of her handshake, exchanged smalltalk and learnt a bit about her. Wasn’t it funny how putting what she’d imagined into words made it seem even more real? She tapped the return key a few times, held shift down and tapped eight more keys in quick succession.


Yuuna closed her eyes again, and began to picture a street, a strand of glinting shop windows and distressed rosy brown bricks. This was an area of town once rundown, but now reclaimed, gentrified, safe to explore. A place of quirky stores, artisans and boutiques. It smelt of delis, baked pastries and flower baskets. One never knew what one might find here, and that was what lured its visitors. Her fingers began their keyboard ballet again.

“1 … she wanders down a quiet mews, windows filled with cashmere, cafetieres and kaftans”

“2 … and then, a window where the mannequins are dressed quite differently, maids and schoolgirls, amongst figures dressed in barely anything at all”  

“3 … tummy fluttering, she pushes the door, a small bell welcomes her”

“4 … inside is laid out like a small boutique, simple, uncluttered, just a desk with a few canes adorning the wall behind”

“5 … a smartly dressed gentleman appears and greets her, and asks if she’d prefer to talk to a male or female assistant, she says she’s happy to talk to him”

Her writing was quickening now, as her mind began to flow. She paused to imagine the interaction that might take place, would she be sheepish, or know exactly how to ask for what she wanted? Yuuna would have been mortified to be placed in her protagonist’s shoes, but this was her fiction, and she was in complete control, she could write it as she wanted it to be. She continued typing.


Now, thought Yuuna. How would one go about buying a cane, if the customer service was as attentive as those in a prestigious boutique?

“1 … she states what she’s interested in: a cane for her, for bedroom use”

“2 … he talks her through the options, explaining difference between whippy and thuddy canes, illustrated using pictures within a leather-bound folio”

“3 … this one produces thin stripes, he says, pointing to a glossy photo of a girl bending over a desk in a vintage schoolroom, rows of thin pink lines clearly visible on her bare bottom”

“4 … this one gives a more all-over blush, he explains, turning to a page showing a lady standing in the corner of a mahogany-panelled library, her bottom glowing a bright radiant pink”

“5 … the idea of thin stingy stripes makes her heart pound and her mouth dry”

Imagining the consequences of a proper caning had got Yuuna’s pulse racing. When she lifted her hands from the keyboard she could feel the moistness of her palms. But she couldn’t stop now, she was flowing, a cascade of ideas and imagery tumbling through her mind, and she found herself typing rapidly in an attempt to capture it all.


Now Yuuna’s imagination demanded her character experience the cane for herself.

“1 … he selects a couple of canes and asks her if she’d like a demonstration, she gasps in surprise, but finds herself nodding, he invites her to follow him”

“2 … they enter a small side room, four metres square, decorated like a miniature classroom, maps and pictures on the walls, a blackboard and a teacher’s desk at front”

“3 … ‘Please remove your skirt, Ma’am, and bend over’, he says”

“4 … she experiences whacks of increasing force, then tugs up her panties to feel them on her bare cheeks”

“5 … being caned by a stranger feels outrageous, but so exhilarating!”

As she typed, she let her left hand stray to her lap, reaching under the hem of her uniform skirt. Her crotch was hot to the touch, her lips tender and slick with arousal.


Yuuna fingers skittered across her keyboard, transcribing what her mind’s-eye could now see so vividly.

“1 … she enjoys one cane especially, it makes her bum sting and her clit throb”

“2 … sensing the sale, he closes the deal with six quick strokes, she calls ‘I’ll take it!’ on the sixth, back at the shop counter, she has the cane put in a tall thin box and gift-wrapped”

“3 … she sits squirming on her stinging bottom on the train home, imagining the erotic possibilities of their new toy”

Yuuna paused to contemplate too. The outline of her story was almost complete, she wanted to end it with some strong imagery, something that suggested the story would continue after her words had ceased. Something that would be elaborated by her readers’ imaginations to their own satisfaction…

“4 … maybe she’d borrow it, she imagines coming home from work, bending over the sofa or ottoman, maybe with a vibe inside, ipad in front of her, a kinky story slowly scrolling, and occasionally reaching back to give herself a well deserved whack”

“5 … somewhere under a christmas tree, a long thin box lies inconspicuously among the boxes wrapped in snowflakes and fat jolly robins. It was going to be a very merry christmas…”

And that was it, one line turned into twenty-five. Her assignment complete.

She’d left space at the top of the page for a title. She pondered it for a moment, then it fell into her mind like a plummeting fruit.

“The Caning Emporium”

Suddenly, the story came alive in her mind. She could imagine it as a book, with a moody ambiguous monochrome cover. Like a pair of knickers around feminine ankles. Perhaps they might be the underwear of someone being caned. Or perhaps they belonged to a reader masturbating as she imagined it.

Yuuna read what she’d written back to herself with quiet satisfaction. Homework done, she locked her bedroom door and laid back on her bed. What a good girl I am, she thought. I deserve a treat.

She wondered what her own classmates were writing about right now. And how many were are aroused as she was. Her friend Jane had pulled “A character is tied up and left” from the hat. Her friend Talia had pulled “Kisses in the countryside”.

As for Yuuna, images of canes and canings dominated her thoughts.

She laid back on her bed, and as her fingers strayed, her mind wandered.

* * 3 * *  

Yuuna finds herself in the warren of hip alleyways she’d imagined, with the smell of freshly baked croissants filling her nostrils. She is walking with purpose, after all, there’s one particular store she is eager to find.

She turns a corner, and there it is, The Caning Emporium. It’s wide windows uncluttered, merely revealing glimpses of the bare brick walls within. Yuuna strides quickly to the door, which opens with a welcoming tinkle.

Yuuna surveys the canes of varying lengths adorn the walls, each resting on little brass hooks protruding from the vintage brickwork. Canes to arouse, canes to smack, canes to fear and canes to whack.

Her reverie is interrupted by the assistant, an immaculately dressed gentleman, in an eye-catchingly iridescent blue silk waistcoat. She recognises him immediately as her teacher, Mr Bowman.

His deep eloquent voice welcomes her, then informs her she’s late for her appointment. Something in his voice suggests there will be consequences for her tardiness, but what kind of shop would punish you for being late?

Follow me please Madam, he requests.

Yuuna complies, without ever even asking what her appointment is actually for.

He stops by the wall, pausing to regard the row of canes illuminated by the elegant downlighter, before plucking one from its holders. He swishes it experimentally, causing a whistling whoosh that makes Yuuna’s slit ache.

Satisfied, he continues walking with the rod he has chosen, which to Yuuna now seems increasingly likely to be destined for her own bare bottom. But rather than turn and run, she follows her tutor obediently, to whatever he has planned for her.

They stop in front of a door, which he opens, before ushering her inside.

Somehow Yuuna steps into Mr Bowman’s familiar classroom, his meticulous writing from today’s lesson still legible on the blackboard. To her considerable relief, the room is empty.

He walks towards the bulky wooden desk on the low raised stage at the front of the class, laying the cane reverently on the tabletop. Come here please, he says. Yuuna shuffled forward as instructed.

Perhaps you’ve noticed the special feature of this fine old Edwardian school desk?

These brass hoops at the front aren’t what you think. They’re not handles, there are no drawers on the side that faces the classroom.

Let me introduce you to the tethering rails.

Undo your tie please, then take it off and give it to me.

Yuuna does as she is told, and handing her teacher her thin black school tie, which he passes through one of the brass hoops, forming a knot to fix it tight, so its free end dangles down towards the floor.

Stand in front of the hoop please.

Pull down your panties.

Yuuna feels her legs tremble at his instruction. This is how naughty girls get spanked, isn’t it, their bottoms bared.

She complies without complaint, reaching underneath her skirt to locate the elastic of her underwear, then pulling it down towards her knees.

Legs wide apart, he tells her, and then – to Yuuna’s genuine surprise, he reaches between her thighs to fetch the end of the dangling tie, pulling it back through her legs so it rests on the panties stretched between her knees.

Bend over.

His command makes Yuuna’s clit throb.

She does as instructed, stretching over the desk, nervously feeling the cool breeze beneath her skirt as it edges up her thighs, teasing her tingling slit.

Any moment now, she thinks, he’ll lift my skirt and lay the cane against my poor bare bottom.

Except, he doesn’t. He surprises her by grasping the free end of the tie and tugging up upwards, so she suddenly feels it rubbing against her slit. He feeds the end of the tie underneath the waistband of her skirt, tugging it tight until she could feel it intruding between her lips.

Then, a further surprise, as he pulls her panties up, before tying the loose end of her school tie into the waist of her panties. And in a final flourish, he flips up Yuuna’s skirt, and tugs up the edges of her panties between her buttocks so her cheeks are exposed.

There, young lady, he announces with some satisfaction. Consider yourself tethered.

When this desk was made, he explains, it was customary to leave those about to be caned in this position, with their own school tie tight between their legs.

Yuuna was now excruciatingly aware how her own tie was intruding between her wet lips, and the growing heat as it rubbed against her bottom hole as she squirmed. Yet frustratingly, the tie was just at the wrong angle to touch her clitoris, no matter how much she tried to grind against it.

Place your hands behind you please, on either side of your hips, palms upwards.

When she does as she is told, he takes the cane off the desk and places it on her fingertips, adjusting it so Yuuna could feel the cool rattan rod against her own bared buttocks.

I’ll be back later to cane you, young lady. You’ll find it an exquisitely tormenting experience. The whacks you’ll receive will make you squirm against your tether. Rubbing on what will be, by then, a soaking wet and highly sensitised vulva.

And with that, he leaves her.

The door closes, and she is alone.




And yearning.

In her bedroom, Yuuna lay across the beam at the bottom of her bed. Aching to visit the Caning Emporium she had so vividly imagined.

Her school tie undone, one end tied to the beam, one end tied into the waist of her panties. Tightly tethered, just like all naughty girls should be.

She rocked her hips, grinding her tender slit against her tether.

Anticipating the moment her tutor would return.

Imagining canings.

Beautiful, hard, strict canings.

Beautiful, hard, strict canings on her bare bottom.

Imagining canings.

Until she came.




@spankingtheatre 2018

Carrot and Stick



It all began with a half-stifled gasp.

Stepping quietly down the hall, he’d been on his way to bed when he’d heard the tell-tale rustling from behind her bedroom door. The barely audible rhythmic creaking, and those little moans that can’t be muffled.

Or, thought of another way, it all began earlier that day, as she’d been kept behind for after-school detention. Later that night, as she lay in bed, memories of the experience bubbled back into her empty mind. She recalled how she’d childishly provoked Miss Summers by facetiously scrawling her detention essay in the style of a cranky 7 year old. In response, the normally mild-mannered Miss Summers had taken her completely by surprise by putting her over her knee and tugging down her panties. Miss had then applied the ruler to her bare bottom until she really was acting like a silly little girl, crying and kicking and pleading.

Yet she had found the whole experience unexpectedly, unexplainably, unaccountably erotic. And in the darkness, as she lay stroking her tender cheeks, replaying what had happened, an itch had started. She knew she wasn’t allowed to play with herself on a school night, but the itch had escalated into a throb. I’ll never get to sleep like this! she thought. Suddenly, rubbing became the lesser of two evils. Just as long as she wasn’t caught, of course.

Meanwhile, he lingered outside, silently listening.

Her reluctance to sit down on returning from school had prompted him to decree a bottom inspection, and he’d seen first-hand what a good job her teacher had done. Naturally, she’d have to be punished again at home for misbehaving at school, but he decided that could wait until her soreness faded.

The little gasps were quicker now; whilst she could stifle her delight, she couldn’t stifle her breathing. Not that the sounds from behind her door came as any surprise. In his experience, every girl who got her bottom spanked would pleasure herself afterwards. It was a natural law, a universal principle, energy can not be created or destroyed, only transformed; and so the erotic energy delivered to a spanked bottom would have to be expressed somehow.

Some couldn’t wait, immediately dashing to the loo to try and rub the pain away. Whilst some waited until they were in bed later that night, savouring their discomfort, feeling the warmth in their bottom ebb between their legs. Whilst others would wait even longer, ruminating on the shame and embarrassment for days, even weeks, before finally releasing themselves volcanically when they could bear it no more…

Keep reading

For those of you who are into the following, I strongly suggest reading this story by @spankingtheatre.

  • There’s a naughty girl who thinks she’s so clever in deceiving her Sir, but of course she is found out.
  • Spankings, canings
  • Being exposed/watched
  • Secretive masturbation
  • Inspections
  • Anal play (fingers, toys, cock)
  • Discipline, chastisement

I cannot emphasize how much this story turned me on. It’s literally perfect to me. I couldn’t help it, while reading, I had to touch myself. I had to. It’s long, but by the time I got halfway I was already aching. By the time I was to the bedroom scene I was dripping. Just, go read it, with something in your bottom.

If I ever publish this story as a paperback, this lovely testimonial by @littlemisssubshine is going on the back cover!

You heard her readers – read it, with something in your bottom!

How to set up a whacking rod

A reader recently wrote in to say that they liked the self-administered whacking rod described in the story Carrot and Stick, but was having trouble picturing how it worked in practice, and asked for a diagram.

To recap, a whacking rod is thin springy rod that you can use to give yourself a good spanking. As their cross-section is much smaller, they’re much quieter and discreet than slippers and hairbrushes – an important consideration if you’ve family or housemates nearby.

You need a rod springy enough to place
against your bottom, which then can be pulled back and released to
deliver a hard enough whack. Fibre-glass is springier than rattan, so
better for self-spanking. Online sex toy companies sell good fibre-glass
canes and riding crops. But for a cheaper option, you can also buy
smooth round-section fibre-glass and carbon-fibre rods from well-stocked
craft and model shops. Try googling, you’ll see what’s sold. Various
diameters are available, the wider the rod, the stingier the whack will be. Why
not try before you buy, just pull the rod back a little and let it smack into
your palm.

Once you have your rod, find somewhere to position
it. You want to wedge one end of the rod into a little gap at just below
waist height, and perpendicular to the gap, so you can bend over in front of it. This is the arrangement described towards the end of Carrot and Stick.

And yes, thanks to your fellow readers’ generosity, I do have some pictures to illustrate good positioning. The first pair come from the marvellously ingenious @never-been-spanked, who demonstrates how to place a thin riding crop (available from most good adult stores) in the gap of a closet/cupboard door:


key is finding the right position for the rod, it should be wedged
tight and shouldn’t rattle. The best way to do this is to wrap the cane
with something like a flannel or a t-shirt, which will wedge it firmly in place. If
you’ve done it right, it should be virtually silent, with just a lovely
faint swicking sound when you pull it back and release it.

Once the rod is firmly held, then you can pull the rod back like this:


See how much it bends back?

Now all you need to do is bend over in front of the rod (imagine
yourself on the left hand side of the image above). Then reach behind,
pull the rod backwards, and let go… 

The gap between an interior door and the jamb (its frame) is also a good location.
If the rod is too thick to allow the door to close, you can always prop
the door with a heavy item like a chair so the door doesn’t move. As seen in the following picture, generously donated by @littlemisssubshine:


Here the leather frond of the crop
is poked through the crack of the open door, with the fatter handle placed in the crack between door and frame. The door can then be closed so the crop is jammed in position. As the door isn’t fully closed, she used some weights to hold the door
in place, so it would hold steady and keep the grip the crop. If you do adopt this method, be aware that door frames tend to be made of softer wood, so wedging something in the gap might leave a dent. To avoid this, best wrap the handle with a towel of something similar.

For best results, you should spend some time getting into the mood for your spanking, and imagine the circumstances of your punishment. Several
of my friends have related how they like to dress up in school uniform
and watch videos of classroom canings, before its time to take their own turn.
Bending over in front of their own cane, lifting their skirts and
pulling down their panties, feeling the cane resting against their bare
bottoms. Then pulling it back, letting go, and a moment later – feeling
the whack, and a stinging stripe across their cheeks.

I know many readers crave the satisfaction of a warm, stinging, well-smacked
bottom, but lack someone to give it to them. If you want to experiment with spanking, a whacking rod that you can conceal, and
quickly set up in the privacy of your own bedroom, might be just the
implement you need…

What are you waiting for?

Bend over.

I’ve always wanted to try something like this but I live with my parents. Is there any such thing as an effective but quiet implement?

The general rule of thumb is that the sound of the smack is proportional to
the surface area of the implement. So hairbrushes, slippers and paddles
tend to produce a satisfying – but conspicuously loud – smack on impact.

But if nearby family or housemates mean you need
to be discreet, you’ll want something with a much smaller cross
section, like a thin rod or cane. Something springy enough to place
against your bottom, which then can be pulled back and released, in order to
deliver a hard enough whack.

Fibre-glass is springier than rattan, so
better for self-spanking. Online sex toy companies sell good fibre-glass
canes and riding crops. But for a cheaper option, you can also buy
smooth round-section fibre-glass and carbon-fibre rods from well-stocked
craft and model shops. Try googling, you’ll see what’s sold. Various
diameters are available, the wider the rod, the stingier the whack will be. Why
not try before you buy, just pull the rod back a little and let it smack into
your palm.

Once you have your rod, find somewhere to position
it. You want to wedge one end of the rod into a little gap at just below
waist level, and perpendicular, so you can bend over in front of it. A
technique described towards the end of the story Carrot and Stick.

key is finding the right position for the rod, it should be wedged
tight and shouldn’t rattle. The best way to do this is to wrap the cane
with something like a flannel or a t-shirt, which will wedge it firmly in place. If
you’ve done it right, it should be virtually silent, with just a lovely
faint swicking sound when you pull it back and release it.

For best results, engage your imagination and the circumstances of your spanking. Several
of my friends have related how they like to dress up in school uniform
and watch videos of classroom canings, before its time to take their own turn.
Bending over in front of their own cane, lifting their skirts and
pulling down their panties, feeling the cane resting against their bare
bottoms. Then pulling it back, letting go, and a moment later – feeling
the whack, and a stinging stripe across their cheeks.

Of course, the very best time for
spanking is when you’re all alone, when you can fully immerse yourself in a
world of your imagination’s creation. But sometimes, I know many readers
simply crave the instant satisfaction of a well-smacked
bottom, warm and stinging. So a whacking rod that you can conceal, and quickly set up in the privacy of your own bedroom, might be just the implement you’re seeking…

Do experiment, and have fun!

The Sit-Down Dance: part 4

This is the finale of a four part story, start reading the first part here.

When it finally happened, Penny came more intensely than she could ever remember.

Perhaps it was her helplessness, hands tied behind, her legs spread open, her bare wet slit at the mercy of her headmistress’s skillful fingers. Perhaps it was having reached an almost eruptive level of excitement, a state of frenzy stoked by successive inspections, spankings and humiliations. Perhaps it was the heat of the ginger, and the thick nozzle that had stretched open her hot sore bottom hole, and filled her insides with gushes of warm water. Maybe it was all of these factors, coupled with the revelation that she’d just been put in charge of administering the very same punishments she had just endured.

As Penny got close, squirming on her hot squishy rubber cushion, she felt increasingly like she was sitting on a time bomb. She could almost see the little red numbers of the countdown timer when she closed her eyes.

10… 9… 8…

Penny tried to squeeze her legs together, but the ties beneath her knees kept them spread open. She was powerless to prevent her Mistress from fiddling with the detonator, rubbing her clit in firm tight circles.

7… 6… 5…

Penny found her jeopardy thrillingly exciting, she struggled, desperately trying to free her wrists from the ties at the back of the stool. Her frantic urge to escape flooded her body with an intoxicating adrenaline rush, part dread, part dizzying euphoria.  

4… 3…

Only near the end did Penny accept the reality of her plight. Escape was impossible, and the explosion was inevitable. She felt her body suddenly relax, as if all her muscles had been abruptly disconnected.

2… 1…

The moment of detonation wasn’t just the familiar surge of pleasure in her groin, but an eruption deep in her cunt, the blast racing away in every direction, convulsing every muscle in her legs as it sped toward her tingling toes.

Simultaneously the sensation sped upwards, reaching her solar plexus, making it resonate, as if her whole body had been transformed into an enormous bell. Penny could feel her insides tremble, as if the water that filled her had made her a better conductor of her own erotic electricity. The shockwave hurtled through her chest, causing her heart to thunder and her lungs to empty in short ragged gasps. The surge seemed to flash through her neck, before bouncing off the inside of her skull, making every hair on her scalp sizzle, before ricocheting back down her spine, completing the circuit when it ploughed into her clit, setting Penny’s entire body alight.

She had never experienced an orgasm quite like it.

Miss Hastings looked on with quiet satisfaction as Penny bucked wildly on the enema cushion. Her new procedure had been a stunning success, a uniquely different Sit-Down Dance. Not that most naughty girls who found themselves on the cushion would be granted the privilege of climaxing on it, of course. No, they’d be taken to the brink and left there, stewing in their own frustration and embarrassment. Their time bomb disarmed just before it blew.

The headmistress waited until Penny had stopped shaking, then released the ties that had bound her hands and legs. After replacing the little step beneath Penny’s quivering feet, she helped her to stand, encouraging her to clutch the near-empty rubber cushion under her bottom as she rose, then guiding her towards the door of the room’s toilet cubicle. Before closing the door, Penny was left with instructions to clean herself up, and tidy up the room.

Because Miss Hastings had an appointment to keep.

With Alice…

Headmistress Hastings arrived at the door to her office to find Alice waiting for her. Her pupil was sitting casually on one the wooden benches, one leg folded, dreamily staring at the far wall. Alice was amusing herself by imagining how she’d redecorate the place. By the time her headmistress appeared, Alice had decided what this little waiting room really needed was a wall mural.

Why not have a row of young ladies, Alice thought, painted life-sized so they looked like they were kneeling on the benches, each facing the wall with their skirts raised and their panties down. Maybe some could be painted with spanked pink cheeks, those who’d already been summoned into the headmistress’s office for a good hard whacking. Others might be waiting their turn, their bottoms already bared in expectation, trembling in anticipation for the moment when the door was opened, and their name was finally called.

Alice smiled as she visualised it. Oh yes! A mural would be so much better than these drab cream walls. So much more atmospheric. She could imagine a lone girl fidgeting nervously on these cold hard benches, sitting among these figures, her heart racing and slit moistening, unable to tear her eyes away her own fate, depicted in paint on the wall in front of her. All it needed was a bit of imagination, a bit of renegade spirit. Alice’s philosophy was that boring things didn’t have to stay that way, they were only dull because no-one had yet summoned the courage to create something more exciting.

Alice was still day-dreaming when footsteps approached.

“Oh hello Miss!”

Miss Hastings felt her brow crinkle at Alice’s chirpy welcome. This little space was intended to intimidate, she couldn’t remember anyone sitting here ever greeting her with a cheerful smile before.

“Good afternoon, Alice.” she replied stiffly, “Do come in.”

Alice followed her scowling headmistress inside, almost prancing, hopping from foot to foot with light jaunty steps. Ahead, Miss Hastings stalked across the room slowly, taking her seat behind the large intimidating desk like a curtain dropping on a stage. To her surprise, Alice veered off to collect a high-backed chair from the side of the room.

Without asking for permission, Alice lifted the chair and irreverently placed it in front of her headmistress’s desk. Nor did she wait for her elder’s assent before she sat down. Had a visitor entered the room now, and seen Alice sitting bolt-upright in her immaculately presented shirt, tie and school blazer, they’d be forgiven for thinking they’d interrupted a job interview.

Miss Hastings could only raise an eyebrow at her pupil’s audacity. Well, she thought. two could play at that game. Her plan was to immediately unsettle Alice by confronting her with what she’d learned this afternoon through the confessions of her friends.

“Well Alice…” she began assertively, “I’ve had a little chat with your friends. They’ve each had their bottoms smacked, and had their tongues loosened by a sit-down dance…”

Alice smirked, that must have been fun. Her only regret was that she hadn’t been around to witness it.

Miss H paused for effect, then said slowly and triumphantly:

“… and they have told me everything.”

“Oh! Everything?” replied Alice, with a shocked expression that was executed well enough to appear convincing. It even drew a sly smile from her headmistress.

“I know all about the Red Stripe Gang. What you get up to. Everything!”

“Even the Slide?” asks Alice quizzically.

“The slide?”

“Ah, not everything then!” Alice observed cockily.

The headmistress’s frown deepened, sensing Alice was trying to bluff her, to hide a truth still undiscovered.

“I know all about the chairs you girls use for panty-pulling, the spankings and the bottom inspections. And that you masturbate each other afterwards…”

“Actually, Barbara, afterwards we tend to use our tongues.”

The headmistress was more taken aback by Alice’s use of her first name than her brazen  admission of oral pleasuring. After all, she had to admit that they were all young adults now, and technically there was nothing in the school rulebook against licking your classmate’s pussy in the privacy of your own bedroom. Though some might argue that the rules dated from more genteel times, and had failed to keep pace with with contemporary sexual mores.

Alice noticed the older woman’s hesitancy, and pressed her point further, determined to retain the moral high ground.

“Come on, Barbara. Has this place really become so draconian? Last I checked ‘Having Fun’ wasn’t against school rules.”

The lack of a response just emboldened Alice more, so she went on the offensive, seizing the opportunity to tease her headmistress.

“Did spanking my friends’ bare bottoms get you soaking wet, Miss?”

Miss Hastings felt her jaw drop at Alice’s impertinence, but held her tongue.

“Would you like to relieve yourself Miss? I’ll stay here if you want to pop to the little girls’ room. Or I can stay and watch if you like.”

Alice looked pointedly at the dildo still standing proudly on the desk. Pulling off her own sodden panties and riding that big thick rubbery shaft was, Barbara had to admit, an alluring proposition. But she regained her composure, determined to complete her investigations and get to the bottom of this little mystery. Both figuratively and literally.

“You’re taking the discovery of your most intimate secrets very calmly, Alice. Why?”

“Because, Miss, you’ll never understand the Red Stripe Gang. You could spank our bottoms every day until we leave this school and still not be any closer to what it means.”

“Oh Really?” The headmistress was tempted to take Alice up on her challenge.

“You’ll never know, because even now, you still don’t know the right questions to ask…”

And with that statement, Alice leant forward, holding her headmistress’s gaze comfortably, as if she was about to tell her the time.

“Look, here’s what I’ll do… I’m going to walk out of this office, and you’re going to have a long deep think about what you’ve learned over the last 24 hours. There is a question, a single truly consequential question – and when you work it out, I promise I will answer it, absolutely honestly.”

The two stared across the table for a moment, before Alice concluded.

“And I’ll give you a hint: that question isn’t ‘What is the Red Stripe Gang?’ or anything so trite.”

Alice didn’t wait for an answer, or even say goodbye. As her headmistress pondered what she’d said, Alice simply rose from her chair, lifted it back to where she’d taken it, and walked out of her office unchallenged.

Alice was, at heart, a submissive young lady, but that didn’t make her weak and timid. It just meant Alice enjoyed handing over erotic control to those who could be strict with her. She enjoyed putting herself in the hands of a skilled director. So as Alice closed the office door behind her, she knew exactly what she wanted, and it was time to see if Miss Hastings could work it out.

It was a shame though, thought Alice, as she walked down the corridor and back towards her room. If only I’d stuck around a bit longer, I might at least have got my bottom smacked. Maybe even an inspection too.

Her regret was only exacerbated when her friends told her later about their rides upon their headmistress’s knee. And Alice was almost green with envy when Penny told her about her time upon the enema cushion.

* * 8 * *

Two weeks had passed.

And now the four girls had been summoned to their headmistress’s office, after hours, for what they’d been told would be a most important conversation. Keen to avoid any of Alice’s show-boating, Miss Hastings sat authoritatively on the sofa, and had the girls kneel on the floor in front of her. The message was clear, she was in charge and would not be tolerating any impudence.

“As we agreed, Alice, I have a question to ask you. And you promised to answer truthfully.”

Alice nodded solemnly.

It had taken Miss Hastings a fortnight to come up with an answer to Alice’s riddle. What was the question? She’d soon realised it couldn’t be something facile, like do you girls like getting together to lick each others’ cunts. The answer to that was blindingly obvious.

For a while, she thought it might be “How many Red Stripe Gangs are there in the school?” But that too, she eventually dismissed. What did it really matter if there were? That was just her inner busybody, wanting to know what went on behind every locked door.

No, it couldn’t be that, because that answer had no consequences. And that was the key. The more she thought, about it, the more she realised the answer to the question wouldn’t be a fact – it would have to be an answer that would change things.

The answer would have to involve acquiescence.

Or, an act of submission.

That’s when she realised what the question really was. The moment all the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. And so now, with the four girls assembled, Miss Hastings was ready to test her hypothesis.

Barbara had realised that Alice had really been laying her a challenge all along – and that once she’d arrived at a question, the final challenge would be asking it.

Sometimes achieving what you want requires going out on a limb, making yourself vulnerable, and revealing the nature of your desires. Because once asked, a question could not be unasked. But the consequences of some questions are worth the risk.

So Barbara drew a deep breath, and accepted the challenge of Alice’s gaze. She had a question to pose.

“Will you submit completely to me, as the new leader of the Red Stripe Gang?”

Alice smiled, and paused. She did love to tease.

“Absolutely, Miss.”

Barbara beamed with relief, then asked the same question to each of the other girls in turn. Amid giggles, each agreed to submit to her.

It seemed the Red Stripe Gang had just elected its new leader.

“Well, girls…” Barbara began, “since I’m charge now, I think we’ll start with a thorough bottom inspection for each of you.”

The quartet exchanged glances of surprise among each other, they hadn’t realised their new Mistress would seek to impose her authority so immediately.

She pointed to Penny, who happened to be kneeling closest, and beckoned.

“Come here.”

Penny complied quickly, rising from her knees and taking a couple of steps forward until she was beside the lap of her sitting headmistress, whose hands reached to her waist, rapidly unbuttoning her skirt, and letting it drift to the floor. Her panties soon followed, whisked unceremoniously down her legs, until they were gathered around her ankles.

Penny felt her wrist being grasped, then tugged. She lurched forward towards the floor, and in an instant had been put over Miss Hastings’ lap like a silly little girl. It had taken mere seconds for her new Mistress to bare her bottom. It felt awesome to be deal with so ruthlessly.

Barbara began the inspection with six loud, stinging smacks, which she found always helped ensure her subject’s cooperation. She scrutinised Penny’s buttocks first, just the faint pink patches she’d just inflicted on her pale cheeks, no evidence of any harder recent spankings. And when she looked in between, there wasn’t any sign of marks from panty-pullings either.

“I’ll be checking you all regularly.” she explained to the group, “So no more of your naughty little games. From now on, I’ll be the one deciding your punishments.”

The girls nodded their agreement, somewhat apprehensively.

She parted Penny’s buttocks further, holding them apart with both hands so her friends kneeling on the floor could see too. There was the pretty crinkled smudge of her bottom hole, and the glistening pink puffy folds of her slit. This inspection wasn’t to admonish Penny for her wetness, of course, more a chance for Barbara to confirm that this was what each girl really wanted – really, really, wanted. The kind of want that made a cunt swell and drip with a delicious musky goo.

Penny clearly wanted it. So she got another dozen smacks, cooing as she arched her back. She seemed almost disappointed when she was told to rise and sent to stand with her nose against the wall.

In time, the other girls followed. Each relieved of their skirts and underwear, each found to be just as aroused as Penny. Eventually all four stood facing the wall, bottoms tingling, whilst their headmistress prepared one last surprise. Behind them, their Mistress unbuttoned her own skirt; she wasn’t even wearing any knickers underneath.

Barbara opened a wall cabinet, and took out a long thick cane. Unremarkable but for the curve at one end, not a classic crook handle, but a subtle bend that was tipped with what looked like a pointed rubber bung. A cane with a butt plug on the end.

She squeezed some lube into her palm and smothered it onto the plug with her fingertips, before manoeuvring the cane between her legs. She placed a hand just beneath her buttocks, and guided the stick until she could feel the wet slippy tip against her own bottom hole.

Then Barbara pushed the base of the plug upward, mewing with satisfaction as it suddenly intruded deep inside her. Now she could feel the cool shaft of the cane between her slit, and a solid pleasurable pressure against her clit. Before the girls had even arrived she’d filled her vagina with her favourite Kegel ball. Now both holes felt satisfyingly full. The cane extended out from between her legs, protruding beyond her shaven mound like comically thin strap-on dildo. She was certain the girls would find it no laughing matter.

“Come here, Penny.”

Penny shuffled away from the wall, her mouth falling open in surprise as she saw her headmistress’s bare crotch, and the long cane that now protruded from between her legs. She’d never seen her headmistress undressed before, and her remarkable new appearance suggested a radically new relationship now existed between them. No longer teacher and pupils, but Mistress and subs.

“Bend over the desk, young lady.”

Penny lowered herself until she could feel the cool hard wood of the desk pressed against her. Meanwhile, Barbara edged into position, standing perpendicular to her target, so the length of her cane was snug beneath Penny’s bare buttocks, just above the tops of her thighs.

“Now girls, you can all turn around and watch. You’ll be next.”

Barbara could see the look of surprise, amusement, and then delight on the trio’s faces, as they drank in the sight of her own nakedness, and the implications of the cane that rested against Penny’s lovely bottom. She remained silence, letting the girls’ attention linger, and contemplate the inevitable. It didn’t take long before furrows appeared on their brows, as each fought the urge to drop her hands from the top of her head, and rub away the infuriating tingle that was smouldering below their waists.

She made one last adjustment of her position, twisting her hips so the cane was pushed firmly against Penny’s bum. Then Barbara reached down to the free end of the cane,  clenching her upper thighs as she pulled the rod away from Penny’s cheeks, feeling the cane tug her own labia open as it bent. For a moment, she could sense the accumulated tension of the curved cane straining against her fingers…

… then she let go, letting the cane spring back and whack against poor Penny’s bottom.

Penny winced as a fiery line seared across her backside.

Whereas Barbara felt the impact of the whack between her own legs, as a sudden quake that trembled against her slit, before being transmitted via the plug deep into her bottom. It felt amazing. Decorum and decency had prevented her from using this technique on unruly pupils, but it was by far her favourite way to cane.

When she was a girl, Barbara had a pretty terracotta pot in her bedroom. It was the home of a sprawling plant with long stems and big glossy green leaves. In time it grew so big that it began to collapse under its own weight, so Daddy had brought her some garden canes to help prop it up.

In one of those quirks of fate that end having life-changing ramifications, the pot eventually became too heavy for her to move, meaning her plant began to grow in one direction, leaning towards her window. Two of the canes held the plant upright, but the third proved redundant, and for months sat idly in the pot, protruding from the soil like a landmark stake. Unnecessary, and overlooked.

Unseen, that was, until young Barbara had begun reading Oliver Twist at school. She had found herself simultaneously horrified and fascinated by poor Oliver’s cruel treatment. Caned! On the bottom! What a perfectly horrid experience that would be!

And yet, somewhere in her receptive mind, seeds had been planted. She’d go to bed, staring at the silhouette of that one redundant cane, a straight black slash through the moonlight beyond. And Barbara would find herself wondering: what did it feel like to cane someone? Was it mean to inflict pain, even if you had the best intentions?

Inevitably, one day when she was alone in the house, Barbara’s curiosity got the better of her. She had extracted the cane from its pot, tentatively, like young Arthur withdrawing the sword from the stone. Then, she wielded it; experimentally at first, swiping it through the air, just to hear its faint whooshing swish.

For reasons she couldn’t entirely explain, Barbara found swinging the cane unexpectedly exciting. She imagined she’d been put in charge, a governess dressed like Mary Poppins in front of a room of unruly urchins. Misbehaviour had consequences, she warned her imaginary audience – smacked bottom consequences.

The very thought of smacking someone’s bottom made her tummy flip. Even more mysteriously, it also made the region between her legs tingle. The forbidden place, that she was supposed to keep secret, the intimate anatomy that was rapidly changing as she became a young woman.

Barbara had idly put the cane between her legs, absent-mindedly trying to rub away the growing tingles. To her surprise, it felt surprisingly good, she especially enjoyed how it dragged against her panties, its solid firmness against her delicate, tender areas. It wasn’t long before she discovered how pleasurable it was to hold the cane between her legs and clench her thighs, as if she was a witch, riding the world’s smallest, thinnest broomstick.

Her next major discovery was discovering the pleasurable effects of twanging the cane, delighting in how the vibrations seemed to be conducted into her most sensitive places. As if it was a kind of tuning fork, but for people ring. It wasn’t long before she was imagining her own spanking fantasies, placing a cushion on upright on the seat of a chair, pretending it was some naughty boy or girl.

Sometimes she’d fulfil her duty, by swinging her cane, bringing it down from high behind her back with a merciless thwack. But even more enjoyable was clasping the cane between her legs, and bending it back before releasing. Then when it twanged forward, the resulting impact spread delightfully squirmy sensations through her loins.

Over the years, Barbara had refined her caning technique with a succession of willing girlfriends. It seemed the perfect way to cane, a sore pink bum for them, and a throbbing wet cunt for her.

It was as if the female anatomy was explicitly designed for it, the long sensitive groove between the legs, the lips that parted, the clitoris so perfectly placed, just above where the cane would be. And the tight little hole of the bottom, the ideal site to anchor the other end of the stick, and transmit its vibrations deep inside her. Her body was a sign, proof that ladies were innately superior, that they were the ones meant to give canings. It was a undeniable, a natural law.

She still had the house-plant, it sat beside her bed in the same chunky terracotta pot, its big glossy green leaves, now somewhat frayed with age, sheltering her as she slept. The original canes had broken and crumbled, but she’d replaced them, with sanded rattan of the highest quality. Their crooked handles peeping out from between its foliage. The perfect surprise for kinky visitors, who’d playfully bend over the bed, admitting their naughtiness, only to suddenly feel a cane tapping their bottom. The other end – well that would be between Barbara’s legs, of course.

As Penny moaned and squirmed, Barbara was pulling the cane backwards again, further this time. She held eye contact with Alice as the rod bent beneath her fingers, and maintained the gaze as she let go, and whilst the pleasurable shudders of another whack radiated through her crotch.

Whilst behind her own inscrutable eyes, Alice was kicking herself, thinking: why didn’t I ever think of that?

Barbara let her gaze roam between the waiting trio as she continued to cane Penny. One of the many delightful benefits her approach was the ability to look elsewhere as the whacks landed. Especially if others were watching, lined up, panties off and waiting their turn. She could look into their eyes and see them sparkle with trepidation and expectation, or admire the glistening sheen of excitement on their pretty bare slits.

She had been surprised to discover that every girl Barbara had ever spanked had been aroused by watching the comeuppance of those who were punished first. Before she’d ever disciplined anyone, she’d expected the dominant emotion to be dread, or sympathy, or even resentment. But the fact of the matter was, watching spankings was exciting. Witnessing whackings made girls wet. Perhaps it was feminine empathy, instinctively feeling every smack on their own backsides. Knowing their own spanking was inevitable, and they’d soon been getting a sore bottom of their own.

This means of caning was much less exhausting. Barbara considered a good caning to be a couple of dozen strokes at the very least, and that could be very tiring on the arms if several needed to be punished. But this way, she didn’t need to lift her arm or aim, just continue to pull the cane backwards. It also meant each whack tended to land on exactly the same spot, leading to the formation of a narrow red band of stripes where the recipient would sit, just beneath the curve of her cheeks.

After her thirtieth stroke, Penny was finally allowed to rise from the desk, and teetered back to join her friends on wobbly legs. Addison took her place, a trickle of her own excitement already running down the inside of her thigh as she bent over the table for what she had coming.

By the time it was Lola’s turn, Barbara had reached a delightfully floaty state of arousal. She’d established a steady rhythm now, tugging the cane back every 10 seconds, riding out the subsequent shudders, then repeating the stroke. Meanwhile Penny and Addison stood in line with their hands on their heads, their striped bottoms stinging, the frustration of denial evident on their faces.

“Such naughty girls!” she teased. “So desperate to come. I going to have to get you all some chastity belts!”

Barbara could see the girls squirming as each brought to mind their own notion of a chastity belt. She couldn’t help wondering what each was imagining: medieval cold metal bands, or Shibari ropework? Or maybe Victorian era paddled girdles? Or a leather belt pulled tight against the crotch? Or maybe one of those little gilded cages that kept fingers off the clit?

She gave Lola a dozen more whacks as she imagined the possibilities herself. Yes, this wilful little quartet would benefit from the discipline that enforced chastity entailed. No more rubbing themselves to sleep at night. New rules would now apply, no masturbating without her permission. And no climaxing without getting a smacked bottom first. Oh yes, Barbara liked the sound of that.

“You’re next Alice. Get undressed, I shall cane you naked.”

Alice removed her remaining clothes, folding them neatly as she could with her trembling hands. She hadn’t realised how hard and tender her nipples felt until her unclipped bra brushed against them as it fell. Alice had experienced far too many spankings to count, but couldn’t ever remember being this excited. Their new Mistress seemed to know how to play with their minds, how to exploit their desires and postpone their pleasures. Undeniably, she was in control now, and the girls loved it.

“Bend over Alice! Legs wide apart, girl. Show your friends how much you enjoyed watching their whackings.”

Alice obeyed readily, spreading her thighs, hoping that her Mistress might deign to put her palm in between, and mercifully stroke away some of her throbbing ache. But she received no such special treatment, her Mistress simply stepped back into position, and Alice felt the cool hard shaft of the cane against her bottom. Then it disappeared, only to return a moment later, accompanied by a fiery stripe.

Unbeknownst to the girls, before each stroke their Mistress was clenching the Kegel ball she’d surreptitiously inserted. She had discovered that the ball helped make her more aware of the little tremors, as if amplifying them, able to turn her vagina into some kind of receiver, tuned to the very frequency of the caning. It made her able to pick up delightfully pleasurable transmissions.

Alice had only received six whacks, before Barbara abruptly stopped.

“You can stand up now Alice, and take a step away from the desk.”

Alice was confused, but did as she was told.

“Now, Penny… you can lower your hands and come over here. Sit down on the edge of the desk, just in front of Alice. That’s it. Grasp the edge. Now, legs wide apart, please.”

Penny obeyed her instructions, wincing as her sore stripes came into contact with the unforgiving cold hardness of the tabletop. But she could see Alice’s face illuminate with delight when she spread her legs to reveal her swollen pink slit.

“Now Alice, bend over and place your tongue where Penny needs it.”

Alice leaned forward into her friend’s welcoming lap, her eager tongue travelling up Penny’s slit, until she could feel her little bump with its tip. No longer supported by the desk, she brought her hands up, wrapping them around Penny’s hips to steady herself.  

Their Mistress issued no further instructions, but her intentions seemed obvious. She stepped forward, placing the cane against Alice’s bottom once more, and resumed her whacking. Penny felt a gust of hot breath blow across her cunt after every stroke, the sudden exhalation momentarily interrupting her friend’s licking. Already incredibly horny, she could feel herself getting close. Alice’s clever tongue knew just where to lick.

Oh yes. Just there. Just like that. Oh Alice! I’m…

Penny climaxed as their Mistress continued Alice’s relentless whacking, convulsing deliriously as her friend gasped into her lap.

Addison was the next to take Penny’s place on the desk, and the benefit of Alice’s tongue on her cunt. Alice knew her own spanking ordeal wouldn’t end until she’d made all her friends come, and so was very motivated to stimulate her friend’s clit meticulously, until she reduced her to a quivering heap.

Then it was long-legged Lola’s turn to sit on her stripes and open her thighs. Alice lapped eagerly, her nostrils smeared with the scent of her friends’ excitement, her tongue varnished with their accumulated saltiness. Lola didn’t even try to hold back, and climaxed quickly, noisily and messily; all over Alice’s mouth.

That left only two to be satisfied, the new leader of the Red Stripe Gang, and her predecessor. Barbara contemplated dismissing the girls, and pleasuring herself to orgasm in private, but that seemed to go against what she’d begun to understand as the spirit of the gang. This wasn’t a detention group after all, but a collective of mutual satisfaction.  

Barbara paused her whacking to inspect Alice’s bottom, who’d taken her spanking with admirable stoicism, despite all the angry pink stripes she’d received. And she’d done such a good job with her tongue, she deserved to be rewarded.

“Good girl, Alice!” she commended warmly.

Out of sight, between Lola’s trembling thighs, Alice winced, and smiled.

Barbara walked back to the sofa, sitting down with the cane still protruding from her legs.

“Girls, come here. Kneel in front of me.”

The four shuffled into place, their caned bottoms too sore to sit on their haunches, they hovered just above their heels instead.

Barbara relished the display of obedience, motivated not by a fear of punishment, but from a submissive desire to please. This would be the basis of the new contract between them, she would provide the intoxicating essence of authority, and reward her new acolytes with a heady mix of pain and pleasure.

“Girls. Let us play…” she said simply.

Barbara led by example, cupping her crotch with her right hand and massaging her mound. Her weaker hand stroked the shaft of the cane, in a crude parody of a man masturbating. From time to time she’d twang the rod to enjoy its vibrations, simultaneously clenching against the Kegel ball deep inside, and relishing the effects of her naughty little secret.

The girls followed her lead, cupping their palms over their own sticky slits, before stroking and rubbing their neediest places. Alice, being most in need, wanked most hurriedly and explicitly, inserting two fingers of one hand into her vagina, whilst rubbing her clit vigorously with another.

Meanwhile Queen Barbara the Benevolent watched from her throne as her subjects performed for her. As they fiddled eagerly, Her Majesty stroked her sceptre regally, savouring the little tremors it sent beneath her. When she wanted more, she could discreetly apply more pressure to her clit, massaging it against the slick hard surface of the rod.

She was getting closer, and closer. She liked to imagine herself as a fairytale Queen. What a munificent monarch she’d make, known across the kingdoms as scrupulously strict, but just and fair. Any miscreants who found themselves in her dungeons, or – if they were especially privileged – her private punishment boudoir, would certainly have deserved their fate. Throughout the realm hushed voices would talk reverently and affectionately of Queen Baba the Bottom Smacker.

Her Majesty closed her eyes serenely, and as her devoted subjects serenaded her with their little gasping cries… she let it happen…

* * 9 * *

A fortnight later, the four founding members of the Red Stripe Gang assembled after class in the cherrywood elegance of the Punishment Room. But the space felt different now, no longer a dread enclosure, somewhere to be sent and be dealt with, but their very own secret den.

The friends had undressed as soon as they’d arrived, hanging their uniforms neatly on the hooks on the wall. Now they were kneeling in a line with their bottoms up and noses pressed to the fine panelled floor. Legs splayed and hands behind to hold their bum cheeks wide open. Soon their Mistress would arrive, and find each of them presented for a thorough bottom inspection.

The girls had shared knowing glances, then each had put her head down to wait in silence, to be alone with her own thoughts. Waiting like this was a kind of erotic meditation. An aspect of their sexuality they were only beginning to appreciate. Normally, when they were horny, they’d reach down and satisfy themselves. If they were desperate, it might only take a minute. But this position forced them to wait, to be patient, to let their minds fill with the shame of being utterly exposed.

Willing holding themselves open for inspection challenged everything they’d been told. They could hear the echoes of parental voices. That good girls didn’t show themselves. That their intimate places were dirty, and must be concealed. That their sexual nature should only ever to revealed in private, and even then to just one earnest partner, preferably one they’d married first. Even if they didn’t really believe them, somehow these rules were strongly ingrained into their psyches. That’s what made violating them so thrilling, what made playing like this so transformative.

In the distance. Alice heard footsteps. She had shaved herself smooth this morning, and her exposed skin felt exquisitely sensitive. As the clopping became louder, Alice pushed her bottom as high as she could, tugging her buttocks apart, hoping to impress her new Mistress with her show of subservience.

As the footsteps reached their crescendo, Alice felt a wet drop dribble down her thigh.

Mistress Barbara was absolutely delighted to open the thick mahogany door, and see a row of four pretty little bottoms lined up for her approval, each cheek taut and round by virtue of the kneeling position. In between, the smudge of each bottom hole seemed to stare back, as if winking alluringly.

Locking the door behind her, she unbuttoned her own skirt, hanging it on an empty hook beside the girls’ uniforms. She was wearing a black tailored jacket that just about covered her waist. Flirtatiously, she dragged her hands across her hips, letting the two halves of the jacket fall open, revealing a tantalising glimpse of what lay beneath to the watching girls. A slender figure, an impressively flat tummy. A black satin bra, with matching suspenders –  but no panties, the thin garter belt straps framing her smooth bare mound.

She began her inspections immediately, kneeling first beside Addison, and taking her time to scrutinise the region between her open cheeks. It wasn’t that she was looking for anything surprising, what else would she find, other than a tight little puckered hole and glistening folds?

Inspections were acts of devotion, where the one being examined knew she was, for a few intoxicating minutes, the absolute and intimate focus of their Mistress’s attention. Inspections were about being admired, and being appreciated.

Addison cooed contentedly as the fingertip of her Mistress stroked between her legs, spreading her folds and exposing her vagina, massaging her wetness along the length of her slit. The inspection concluded with a slow, hard spanking, a dozen smacks delivered to the underside of her bottom and the tops of her thighs by Barbara’s open palm.

She moved between the girls, ensuring each got the same treatment. By the time she was finished, all four were soaking wet. She left them in position for a moment, and fetched a small box from the shelf near the cane rack.

“You can stand up now, girls. I have a special treat for you…”

She handed the box to Alice, who instinctively shook it slightly. It was light, made of something like balsa wood, tied up with a thin pink ribbon. Whatever was inside it didn’t rattle. Alice faced her friends so they could see too, and plucked the bow open, letting it fall to the ground as she opened the lid.

Inside, were what looked at first glance like leather belts. At her Mistress’s instigation, Alice plucked one out. On closer inspection, it was actually two short lengths of rope, wrapped in soft leather cover. One rope was circular, and the other rope was perpendicular to it, running across its diameter – one end was fixed, stitched into the circumference, the other was loose, running through an eyelet. On the leather a name had been embossed: LOLA.

It looks like a reinforced leather g-string, thought Alice. Feeling herself go squirmy as she imagined it between her legs.

“I’ve had new some rope girdles made.” Their Mistress explained.

“You might not be aware that originally, girls who were sent to the punishment bench wore crotch ropes. Back then, of course, girls wore bloomers, so there was no such thing as panty-pulling. Instead, naughty girls wore these little girdles.”

“I see you’ve got Lola’s rope – you’ll remember I had you all measured. Each girdle has been made to fit your waist perfectly. Come here, Lola, I’ll put yours on first.”

Barbara took the girdle from Alice, and knelt beside Lola, encouraging her to step into it. Then she pulled it up to her waist, so the fixed end of the crotch rope was positioned against her bare mound. She ensured the inner cord passed between her splayed labia and tugged the loose end at the back to ensure was tight against the crevice of her buttocks.

Her choice of a luxurious (and expensive) soft leather to cover the ropes was her own act of benevolence. The original ropes were a coarse scratchy hemp, that would leave the naughty girls who rode them sore between the legs for days.

One of the old headmistress diaries that Barbara had found had candidly described masturbation as a privilege reserved for only the best-behaved girls. Naughty ones got the cane, and were seated on their stripes, then the bench fell and the cruel ropes were pulled tight between their legs. This would leave unfortunate miscreants too sore to play with themselves for several days. The softer ropes would be more forgiving, sitters would still dance as the rope inexorably rubbed, and it would inflict a nice pink stripe, but wouldn’t stay sore for long.

She escorted Lola to the bench, sitting her down, and fixing the loose end of the rope to the bar behind her. Then she put Lola’s hands behind her back and bound them by slipping a tennis sweatband over both wrists.

“Now… who’s next?”

The Red Stripe Gang sat in a row on the punishment bench, hands bound, feet dangling high above the floor. Each was naked apart from the cord girdle around their waists, and each was already aching with expectation.

Straight-faced, Alice smiled to herself. She could feel her clit swollen and throbbing, tight against her meticulously positioned crotch-rope.

It had all gone perfectly to plan. Months ago she’d sat on this very bench, and written her essay in the hope of being discovered. Alice had given her headmistress the whiff of a conspiracy that she suspected would be irresistible. And once the existence of their little gang was uncovered, Alice knew her headmistress wouldn’t be able to resist investigating deeper into the puzzle.

And it had to be a puzzle; Alice knew she couldn’t just walk into her headmistress’s office and say: “Hey! We’re four girls with a secret kinky group – wanna join in?”

No, seduction was about tempting and tantalising. Steadily revealing a bigger mystery. Establishing a desire, and letting others want it.

Alice understood that only once her headmistress had followed the trail by her own volition, and learned for herself that the gang weren’t just a cabal of horny schoolgirls, but fellow kinky young women deserving of her company – only then would she want to take charge.

In the early days of the gang, they’d all had fun role-playing an ersatz headmistress. But now, really what they all longed for was a proper authority figure, someone to whom they could all genuinely submit. Now the Red Stripe Gang had a new leader, and there’d be no more furtive meetings in Alice and Penny’s dorm.

Their new leader would ensure they were well spanked, and then suspended by their crotch ropes until the stripe between their legs was nice and sore. Then perhaps she’d watch as they took it in turns to kneel and soothe each other’s discomfort with their eager tongues. Who knew what other naughty games might be in store? She was looking forward to putting herself at the mercy of her new Mistress’s inventively kinky mind.

Besides, they wouldn’t be at school forever, and after they left, it would be good to stay in touch. Pardon the pun.

The other girls didn’t know that Alice had written the essay, that she’d laid the trail that led to their exposure, it was more erotic that way, to think their clandestine activities had been stumbled upon. Alice would keep that little secret to herself.

What a naughty girl I am, thought Alice. She tested the bonds that bound her wrists, and squirmed against the cord that ran between her slit. She felt like a prisoner, caught and condemned. She knew she deserved to be thoroughly punished. In truth, she could barely wait.

Mistress Barbara had hung up her jacket, and now made her final preparations in just her bra and stockings. She’d configured the punishment bench for a long, slow drop, so the girls would spent as much time as possible squirming against their crotch ropes. By the end they’d be vertically upright, toes just above the floor, suspended by the girdles at their waists, dancing like puppets.

Her hand hovered over the bench’s release lever.

What was the gang’s founding principle again? Oh yes, Mistress got to watch the girls dance as she came. She’d already prepared a chair of her own from where she’d watch, with a big thick dildo stuck to the seat. It would give the girls something nice to watch as they dangled, their own clits aching desperately. She intended to enjoy this.

And then she pulled the lever, and the bench began its slow slump downward.

She stepped backwards, and onto her seat, feeling the thick slick tip of the dildo nudge between her lips, then sat upon it with as much decorum as she could manage.

She watched her girls wriggle and writhe, then kick delightfully as the bench tilted relentlessly, ever steeper and steeper.

Enjoy your dance girls. Feel the cord tighten, slipping ever deeper into your slit. Have you realised yet? Your anatomy was made for this torment. Clitoris, vagina, perineum, anus – all in a line, perfectly positioned so each can be simultaneously stimulated by a thin rubbing rope. Four different sensations at once. Frustration. Intrusion. Burning. Degradation. And the more you wiggle, the hotter it gets.

Are you getting close? Naughty.

Six of the Best for the first one who comes, I think. And then you can sit on your stripes on the enema cushion.

As the girls struggled and moaned, their Mistress slid ever further onto her thick protrusion, stretching her, until it had completely filled her.

Soon all were squirming on their seats.

Lewdly. Deliriously.

Carried away by their sit-down dance.





The End




@spankingtheatre 2017

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

Originally posted at

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Three Heartbeats


A short story

The painting captivated me from the moment I glimpsed it, like a black hole in the gallery wall, capturing wandering eyes with its irresistible gravitational pull.

It had been mounted in one of the little L-shaped alcoves off the main concourse, a gap easy to overlook as one scurried between the artist’s better known works. Two brass posts and a red velvet rope had blocked the way, but curiosity got the better of me and I mischievously stepped over it, peering around the corner, just to see what lay beyond.

I was rewarded by the sight of this little treat. A golden torso, impressionistically rendered, and behind, a figure in a sheer black mermaid dress, her lines sharper, somehow edgier. A straight line cut through the centre, seemingly a stick of some sort. My imagination stirred. It could easily be a cane. And if it was, the radiant figure was about to be whacked.

I could feel my cock now, stirring and slightly heavier between my legs. Now I was glad of my solitude, of this chance to admire this alluring image alone, the bustle and chat of the invited patrons a reassuringly distant murmur.

I stood staring, trying to unravel its strange meaning. The caption card seemed to offer few hints, merely stating its title, “Three Heartbeats.”

“I do have other paintings here you know.”

I recoiled from my reverie, I hadn’t noticed her approach, but now a stylishly dressed lady was standing beside me. I took me a while to understand her comment, to recognise who she was. She was the exhibitor, the one whose works we’d all come here to admire.

“A captivating work” I admitted. “Inspired by personal experience?”

“Perhaps.” she said coyly.

“Tell me.”

The artist drew closer, reducing her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. Her scent was fresh and sweet, like a walk through a midsummer garden after rain.

“I once visited my headmistress’s office, I was going on a field trip, to paint mountains, and I needed her to sign a form. Her secretary smiled slyly as she told me she was busy. She invited me to wait, I took a seat near the door. I could hear her voice, scolding somebody. Then I heard that they were going to be caned. Her secretary was scribbling on a page, but I saw a faint smile on her face. I was seized by curiosity.”

“Then, fate intervened. The secretary’s phone rang, and she was suddenly called away. I was left in the room alone, there was a keyhole in the door, so obviously I couldn’t resist peeping through it.”

“So I knelt, heart thumping, beside the headmistress’s door. Knowing at any moment I might be discovered, and surely be caned myself.”

“That’s when I peered into the room, and saw everything.”

“A tall young lady was standing facing the back of the door, her arms folded across her back. Her naked torso dominated my field of view, I could see her mound was shaved exquisitely bare. Behind her, the headmistress had plucked a cane from the wall. She stood impassively in her tight black dress, looking like she was wrapped in a shard of night.”

“When she summoned the girl to bend over in front of her, I could see she was naked apart from her shoes and socks, her school uniform neatly folded on a nearby chair.”

“Suddenly, I was aware of approaching footsteps. I hurried stood and dashed to my seat, just as the secretary returned to the room. My face burned pink, I could feel my palms slick with sweat.”

“Through the door I heard the first faint swick, and the poor girl moan. Then 9 more whacks.”

“The secretary must have seen the shock on my face. She fixed me with her wide, sparkling eyes, and told me in no uncertain terms: That’s what happens to naughty girls.”

“A few minutes later, the door opened, and a quite contrite looking young lady emerged. I knew her, not well, but she was part of my year. I never discovered why she was punished. And I never mentioned what I’d seen to anyone. Until now.“

I looked back at the figure in the painting, and the delicate cleft below her smooth mound. I found myself scrutinising her body language, was that trepidation I could sense or excitement?

I could see the artist’s anxiety in her quick, urgent brushstrokes. As if she was trying to commit to canvas that fleeting memory before she was discovered. Perhaps the surrounding gray haze represented the stolen glance dissipating from memory, yet the central figures remained vivid.

I found myself wondering who the model was, and whether this was really a self-portrait, that I was looking at the naked form of the woman standing beside me. Whether the painting was really the artist imagining herself about to pay the penalty for her peeking, literally and figuratively undressed, and about to bend over for the headmistress’s cane.

“And what about the title?” I asked.

“A double meaning. One is there are three hearts beating in that picture, the headmistress, the girl about to be caned, and the viewer’s own.”

I nodded. The scene certainly had set my pulse racing. And my cock swelling.

“And the other?”

“It really was only the most fleeting glimpse, it must only have lasted 3 heartbeats. But what I saw has lingered with me a lifetime.”

I looked deeper into her eyes, and began to recognise a kindred spirit.

I handed her my card, telling her I hoped she’d visit my office sometime.

She ran her fingers along mine as she plucked my card from my hand. She read my details salaciously, almost teasingly. My name. My gallery. Then my profession.

“Oh, a Dealer? I’m always happy to meet those who deal with naughty girls…”

Then, before my tongue could untie itself, the enigmatic artist took a step backwards without even bidding me goodbye, and melted back into her appreciative crowd.




@spankingtheatre 2017

About this post – perhaps you’d like to post your own interpretation?


Today, I had the absolute pleasure of recording a reading of The Waterwheel by @spankingtheatre.

I enjoyed doing this immensely, I hope you enjoy it half as much. Thank you!

Another big thank you to the lovely @sexfairy-princess​ for recording this wonderful reading of my poem Waterwheel. And with commendable attention to detail, what you can hear in the background is a fast stream trickling and gurgling, and a waterwheel gently turning…


Wouldn’t you like your very own waterwheel?


A spanking story

Headmaster Thaddeus Winklethorpe bustled down the corridor, his rubicund face set in a mask of fixated fury, unstoppable as an avenging angel.

Doors seemed to throw themselves open before him without so much as a touch of his hand. As his ominous shadow sped across the windows of nearby classrooms, eyes widened and mouths gawped. A fearsome cane swung in his right hand, like some ancient sword of justice. Would-be miscreants squirmed in their seats, the sight of the rampaging headmaster meant school rules had been broken – and soon, certainly, the perpetrator would receive their comeuppance. There would be no escape.

The tip-off had been anonymous, but quite specific. Mischief was planned in classroom 18A, the elegant handwriting confessed. 2.30pm – the last lesson of the afternoon. Bring the cane.

He could hear the ongoing kerfuffle well before he saw it. The unmistakable shrill shrieks of unsupervised schoolgirls, a sound rarely ever seen, so quickly silenced were they by disapproving adult scowls. If they wanted to screech and squeal, Headmaster Winklethorpe would happily oblige, they could howl all they liked with their panties around their ankles and hot pink stripes across their behinds.

The corridor’s final set of double-doors flung themselves apart, as the Headmaster seared towards classroom 18A with the incandescent inevitably of a harbinger comet. Through the window he could see it was Miss Bernadine’s Sixth Form class, but their teacher was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there was a rowdy ruckus that called into question the right of those involved to call themselves young ladies. Little girls would have been shamefaced had they behaved as badly.

In that moment before the classroom door thundered open, he saw everything. Every one of the students was gabbling excitedly, some sitting in little cliques upon their desks, others absent-mindedly exchanging messages, tossing scrunched-up pages across the room in long parabolic arcs. And at the front of them all, Prefect Polly Alton sat daydreaming in her teacher’s chair, her shoulders thrown back as if she hadn’t a care in the world, her feet impudently resting on the grand wooden desk…

The headmaster burst into the room to the sound of panicking squeals, as if he were a predatory beast pouncing into a scattering herd. In an instant, the unruly commotion gave way to the scraping of furniture and the clamorous thunder of footsteps, as the students scurried back to their seats. Within eight seconds, everyone was standing respectfully in silence, their faces pictures of cherubic innocence. Everyone in their proper place, as if the disgraceful disorder Mr Winklethorpe had just glimpsed had been a figment of an overactive imagination, and had never really happened.

But then there was the detritus on the classroom floor, the obscene doodles on the blackboard, the dishevelled uniforms and developing blushes. The evidence of the class’s shenanigans was clear to see. He surveyed the shameful scene, and his verdict was succinct and unequivocal…

“Disgraceful!” he castigated, in a deep gravelly voice that caused the tummies of those listening to flutter and tremble.

When discipline became necessary, Thaddeus Winklethorpe was a man of few words. No speech was ever necessary, if one of his pupils deserved punishment, they already knew what they’d done wrong  – and its consequences. The school’s policy of Collective Responsibility was quite clear: those who misbehaved together would be spanked together.

The Headmaster turned to Polly, who shirked from his penetrating scowl like one dodging a gorgon’s gaze. As one of the school prefects, she had been left in charge, a responsibility she had happily neglected. He informed her she could watch what was going to happen next, because she’d be getting her own whacking in his study afterwards. Polly just gasped.

He addressed the whole class next, pronouncing their sentence. Six of the best on the bare bottom. The twelve girls present knew the painful price of dissent, and nodded agreeably at their penalty.

“Pair up. Panties off. And bend over your desks!”

These were familiar instructions, the standard disciplinary procedure when a whole group had misbehaved. It meant that each girl should pair up with her neighbour, then lift her skirt and tuck it into her waist, and pull her panties right down to her ankles and off. Once removed the white school knickers would be quickly rolled up, its owner would open her mouth and have her underwear placed between her front teeth.

Winklethorpe expected punishments to be conducted in silence, and had found numerous benefits in using a miscreant’s panties as her own gag. For one, it helped prevent pointless pleading and snivelling beforehand. It also helped muffle the cries that might otherwise occur as bottoms were whacked. And the gags certainly helped preserve the solemnity of the occasion afterwards, when those punished would be expected to remain in position with their sore bottoms on display.

The Headmaster watched as the girls hurried to their task, tapping the tip of his cane rhythmically on the front desk, whispering the countdown.

10 … 9 … 8 …

Once the first girl had her panties placed in her mouth, she would repay the compliment, baring her neighbour’s bottom and gagging her with her own knickers. Then both girls would hurry back to bend over the front of their own desks, compliantly placing their hands on the tops of their heads. Before the Winklethorpe had concluded his countdown, twelve pairs of quivering buttocks were presented for his inspection.

Polly did not escape this ignominy, but she had to pull down her own panties, roll them up and put them in her own mouth.

The Headmaster stepped forward to the first row of desks, tapping his cane against the first girl’s bottom, before delivering six quick hard whacks. The recipient gasped and moaned into her impromptu gag, but took her punishment in good grace, keeping her legs apart and her feet planted on the floor.

He moved to the neighbouring girl, administering her six strokes in less than twenty seconds. The sting he imparted, however, would linger much longer.

There were two more girls in the front row, he chastised them both without speaking, the only sounds in the classroom the nervous breathing of its occupants, the occasional creaking of desks, and the regular swoosh-swick-smacking of the disciplinarian’s cane.

Those in the third row at the back of the class had the dubious privilege of waiting in dread anticipation the longest, listening intently to the little moans as their classmates were caned, as the whacking noises grew closer. The glistening sheen between their legs suggested some found the experience rather exciting indeed.

The final stroke stung the bottom of the twelfth member of class, and silence resumed. Headmaster Winklethorpe returned to the front of the room to survey his handiwork. A dozen striped bottoms, pink blushes already beginning to radiate outwards, like heat from the bars of a filament fire.

The Headmaster told them all they would stay in position until the final school bell rang. That meant forty more excruciating minutes, to be spent bent over their desks with their sore bottoms on display. In absolute silence, naturally. Hands would remain on their heads, and there would definitely be no rubbing! He reminded them that they could be seen from the corridor, and passers-by would be all too happy to report them if they were seen or heard violating the post-spanking rules. Remember girls: collective responsibility still applied, so if one broke the silence or rubbed her bottom, they would all be caned again.

Polly looked over the pink bums of her classmates with quiet satisfaction, the panties in her mouth masking the slightest of smirks. Then she felt the crook of the Mr Winklethorpe’s cane hook around her upper right arm, and a tug towards the door. It was Polly’s turn now, she’d be taken to the Headmaster’s study in the manner reserved for the very naughtiest girls, dragged through the school corridors by the crook of the cane, with her white knickers visible for all to see between her lips. And once there, she’d be touching her toes for much more than just six of the best…

At least, that’s how Polly had imagined it, as she’d been daydreaming at the front of the class, her feet resting insouciantly upon the desk, as her peers noisily entertained themselves around her.

Polly had written the note inviting Mr Winklethorpe to stumble across her classmates’ anarchic rowdiness. She’d written it a couple of hours ago, just after Miss Bernadine had told her that she’d been called away for a late-notice meeting, and so would have to miss the last lesson of the afternoon. As a senior prefect, Polly had been put in charge, providing an opportunity that seemed far too good to miss.

Polly looked up at the classroom clock. 2.30pm. He’d be here soon, she smiled. She might even hear the approach of his thundering footsteps. He always took reports of mischief very seriously indeed.

Headmaster Thaddeus Winklethorpe shambled down the corridor, his rubicund face made even pinker by these unaccustomed exertions. The tatty trailing edges of his long academic gown contributed to his eccentric appearance, more a shuffling black cloud than an avenging embodiment of justice. As he approached, would-be miscreants knew they had little to fear, and as he receded, they chuckled at his impotence.

The tip-off had been anonymous, but quite specific. Mischief was planned in classroom 18A. 2.30pm. Bring the cane.

Winklethorpe could hear the ongoing kerfuffle well before he saw it. The unmistakable shrill shrieks of unsupervised schoolgirls, this was all very disappointing. He resolved to have a quiet word with Miss Bernadine later.

He peered through the glass of the door at the unruly Sixth Form class. Their teacher was nowhere to be seen, just a prefect sitting in her place, seemingly oblivious to the rowdy ruckus all around her. He cleared his throat, spluttering slightly,  and gripped the door handle, striding into the classroom with as much gravitas as he could muster.

“Now… now… girls!!!” he stammered, trying to make himself heard over the continuing racket.

The heads of those in the classroom turned slowly to see who’d entered, shoulders shrugging on recognition. One by one, they ceased their own excited conversations and reluctantly returned to their seats. The anarchic hubbub dying away to the murmur of sniggering whispers.  

“W… who’s in charge here?” the headmaster mumbled.

Good question, Polly found herself thinking, before standing up authoritatively.

When she’d been first been admitted to this school, Polly had found the Headmaster quite intimidating. But time, it seemed, had worn down and wearied poor Mr Winklethorpe. The man who’d once been the imperious head of the school, a bustling, inspiring, terrifying presence, was now bumbling and innocuous. In the seven years she had known him, he had dwindled as she had flourished.

Mr Winklethorpe eyed Polly with evident dismay. A look Polly returned when she noticed he hadn’t even brought his cane.

“It was rather raucous in here, Polly. Please try to keep your classmates under control. I’m sure you all have plenty of work to be getting on with.”

Polly tried her best not to scowl. This wasn’t at all how she had imagined his arrival. In front of her, she could already see her classmates exchanging little grins. But by now they should really have been bent over their desks with their panties between their teeth. What was this school coming to? Somebody should do something.

“I have to admit, I’m very disappointed. Please see me in my office after school, Polly.”

Polly’s jaw dropped, and Mr Winklethorpe shuffled out of the classroom without saying another word. After he’d closed the door behind him, a ripple of giggles spread throughout the room, they could almost have been mocking her.

Polly eventually encouraged her classmates back to work, and as they scribbled, Polly began her scheming. Snitching on the class had clearly failed miserably, she’d clearly overestimated his authority. But perhaps, that opened new possibilities. Exciting ones. Potentially very exciting, in fact.

So when the school bell rang, Polly sauntered to the Headmaster’s office with a spring in her step. Drawing a deep breath she composed herself, and knocked. His weary voice bade her enter.

Polly opened the door timidly, closing it gingerly behind her. Yet she spoke up first, having already determined to steer the direction of their conversation.

“Am I in trouble, Sir?” she asked coquettishly, her hands crossed at her waist, her eyes fixated on her own feet.

“Er…” mumbled Mr Winklethorpe, trying to remember the opening words of the little speech on authority and responsibility he tended to recite when prefects fell short of expectations.

“Oh Sir! My whole class got into trouble because of me. I’m so sorry! Do I have to get my bad little bottom smacked?”

She raised her eyes, risking a glance at her Headmaster to assess the impact of her words. On top of the jumble of papers on his desk, she could see the note she’d written. At the time, being put in charge had seemed too good an opportunity to miss. Now it was becoming clear that what was really needed was a bit of nudging in a more intriguing direction.

“Um… well…”

Mr Winklethorpe found himself lost for words.

“I’m so, so sorry Sir! I know I should have kept the class under control. I know discipline is so important…”

In the absence of appropriate words, her Headmaster found himself just nodding along in agreement.

“Oh Sir, won’t you put me over your knee? And give me the spanking I deserve with your big strong hand. On my bare bottom?”

There are three possible responses to such an audacious question. Yes. No. And stunned silence.

Mr Winklethorpe didn’t say no. In fact, his gawping mouth didn’t say anything at all.

Polly took that as permission to proceed, reaching under her skirt to tug down her panties to her thighs. She paused for effect, then wiggled her hips provocatively until her underwear had slipped to the floor.

“Ooops…” she said coyly.

Stepping out of her underwear, which she left conspicuously discarded where it had fallen, Polly fetched one of the high-backed chairs used by visitors and placed it in the middle of the room.

She beckoned him to stand, and then escorted him by the arm, taking him from behind his desk to sit on the seat she’d chosen.

“I’ve been such a naughty girl, Sir.” Polly said, with the earnest conviction of one who really meant it.

“Well, er… yes, you have…” confirmed her Headmaster with growing certainty.

Polly lurched forward before he could change his mind, bending over his lap, effectively pinning him in place, right where she wanted him.

“Lift my skirt, Sir. I know what has to happen to naughty girls.”

He did as he was told, hesitantly pinching the hem with his fingers, then lifting it higher and higher at Polly’s insistence until her whole bottom was bared.

“Oh Sir!” she exclaimed dramatically when she was fully exposed, helpfully spreading her legs slightly to allow a tantalising glimpse of her most intimate places.

“Naughty girls must be spanked hard on their bare bottoms. Isn’t that right, Sir?”

Admiring Polly’s smooth pert cheeks, Mr Winklethorpe found it impossible to disagree with her assessment. That she had indeed been very naughty. And she did indeed deserve a good hard spanking.

“Spank me now, Sir! Please!” Polly implored.

Thaddeus Winklethorpe might almost have been mesmerised. He found himself raising his hand above Polly’s pale cheeks as if under the control of some mysterious presence. He struggled to remember the last time he had spanked one of his pupils. Times and customs had changed during his tenure here. What it a coincidence that classes seemed be more unruly now? That the girls seemed less respectful, less focussed and poorly behaved. Perhaps this prefect was right, perhaps it was time to bring back some old-fashioned discipline. This could be an experiment, he reasoned. Yes. He would give this girl the spanking she deserved, and evaluate the effectiveness of his discipline afterwards.

On his lap, Polly held her breath, waiting for the first stinging slap to land across her cheeks…

Then the Headmaster’s palm fell, landing on Polly’s bottom as a good-natured pat.

Polly gasped in surprise at the timidness of the blow, she barely felt its impact at all. So she quickly encouraged her Headmaster to deliver another spank. But the next effort was barely any harder, more an innocuous tap than disciplinary smack.

“Harder, Sir!” she encouraged, “I’ve been so very naughty.”

Polly tolerated a dozen more ineffectual pats before her patience became exhausted. Then she dropped the coy little girl act, and decided to talk more candidly, adult to adult.

“Look, Sir. This isn’t working. It’s not hurting enough. It’s supposed to be a punishment. You’re supposed to be giving me a sore bottom.”

“Oh um, goodness, I am sorry! I will try harder…” Winklethorpe replied apologetically, feeling more than a little foolish.

But the next dozen spanks were barely any harder. Now Polly was growing increasingly exasperated by his ineptitude. It felt like this was the second time today her Headmaster had foiled her meticulous plans with his incompetence.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” she said at last, “This is just embarrassing.”

Polly stood up and purposefully marched towards the wall where a few canes were dangling. She could see little ridges of dust on the top of each crook, clearly these implements didn’t get used much. They were probably only here as antique decorations, more hipster coffee shop than kinky dungeon. She picked up a cane and whipped it through the air experimentally, it made an incredibly satisfying swish.

“Here Sir, take this – and hold it like this…”

Polly could barely believe that she was giving her own Headmaster a lesson on how to wield a cane. Once she was satisfied with his basic technique, she adjusted his stance, so he was standing just the right distance away from her, and then bent over in front of him, lifting her own skirt to the small of her back. Then Polly shuffled backwards until she could feel the cane resting flat against the lower half of her bare buttocks.

“That’s it, Sir. Now – pull your arm back, keep the cane parallel to the floor – and deliver the first whack.”

There was a swish, then Polly felt the sting of the rod’s impact. Not bad.

“Again Sir, harder this time!”

The next strike was indeed louder and stingier, that was a good sign. So Polly decided to mix some goading into her encouragement.

“And again Sir. When you discovered us this afternoon, I thought you’d spank us all there and then! Could you imagine that? Thirteen bare bottoms, all with pink stripes from your cane…”

The subsequent whack was the best yet, it almost took her breath away.

“Oh Sir! Do you find it exciting to smack the poor little bottoms of naughty young girls?”

That comment seemed to provoke a particularly sizzling stroke. Polly could feel a burning sensation spreading across her bottom.

“Oh Sir. Is this making you hard, Sir?” she goaded, parting her legs slightly to reveal her own glistening excitement.

That prompted another intensely satisfying whack. Polly looked across at Mr Winklethorpe, her eyes immediately drawn to the conspicuous bulge at the front of his trousers. She reached back, momentarily pulling her buttocks apart, flashing the crinkled pink ring of her bottom hole and the shiny folds beneath.

“Make the last one hard Sir! I’m such a naughty girl!”

His sixth stroke didn’t disappoint her, Polly felt its echoes tingling in her clitoris.

And that was six of the best, Polly concluded. She reached between her legs, stroking herself to collect some of her arousal, before standing to her full height and brazenly dabbing a little patch of her musky goo on his septum, right between his nostrils.

“Oh Sir…” she teased coyly as she straightened his tie, “Just smell what you’ve done to me…”

Now she could see his eyes blazing, with a coruscating intensity that had been quite absent when he’d shambled into her classroom earlier this afternoon. I think I might just have his full attention now, thought Polly. It was time for her manifesto.

“I think there just isn’t enough discipline imposed in this school any more. Things are getting out of control. We need to take back control, don’t we Sir?”

Mr Winklethorpe nodded vigorously in agreement. His prefect was just articulating what he’d long been thinking. Too many of the senior girls had indeed lost their respect for authority. Almost every day his staff reported impudent high-jinks, of gangs of silly young ladies running amok. Strict discipline was clearly required, wrongdoers needed to learn that misbehaviour had a price, and that price was a sore bottom.

“Do you know, Sir, all the outrageously naughty things that go on at this school behind your back?”

He was forced to admit he did not.

Polly recited a few provocative examples with relish. Like the unnamed Sixth Former whose boyfriend had given her a butt plug, and who had spent today wearing the plug under her uniform. Her feat of daring had already been approvingly whispered half-way round the common room.

Then, there was the elusive and secretive Drink Club, (first rule of Drink Club: do not talk about Drink Club), with their hidden stash of beers and spirits. Or the so-called Homework Factory, a cadre of the cleverest with an entrepreneurial spirit, they’d complete any assignment, to any deadline – price on application.

“Perhaps, we might come to some kind of arrangement, Sir?”

The Headmaster nodded encouragingly, intrigued to hear the prefect’s suggestion.

“I propose bringing instances of rule-breaking to your attention, Sir. Those identified will, of course, need to be punished, so all such individuals will be summoned here to your office.”

He nodded his agreement; what Polly was proposing was eminently sensible. School rules were worthless without the ability to enforce them, and what his prefect seemed to be offering was the covert intelligence needed to uncover the mischief, and bring those who thought themselves untouchable to justice. Some might call her a tattle-tale, or a snitch, or an informer – but they were such pejorative terms! She was merely helping to ensure the good name of the school was respected. And what could possibly be wrong with that?

“I further propose all rule-breakers be spanked on their bare bottoms. Minor offences by a hand-spanking over the knee. Moderate offences by the wooden ruler whilst touching their toes. And serious offences by caning whilst bending over your desk.”

Again, her Headmaster concurred, that sounded like a perfectly appropriate menu of punishments.

“I also propose that I be present to witness all spankings. As I’m sure you’ll agree, a female presence will help make intimate discipline less awkward. Likewise I suggest I be made solely responsible for the pulling down of panties and the placement of said garment in the mouths of those to be punished.”

Her Headmaster nodded once more, a female presence was an entirely reasonable suggestion. Placing panties in the mouth was a fascinating proposition, after all, those being spanked should endure their punishment in silence. Clearly his prefect had thought all this through, she did seem to be very knowledgeable when it came to matters of discipline. He wondered where she’d learnt it all.

Polly took a deep breath as subtly as she could manage, and hoped her poker face would hold for the final and most extravagant term of her proposal.

“And I also propose that the administering of spankings is shared between us, fifty-fifty. That is, every other girl who finds herself in your office will be disciplined by me.”

Thaddeus Winklethorpe had to smile at her bravado. The girl was certainly bold, and she pushed a hard bargain. But as he considered the details of her proposal he realised the strength of her negotiating position. Put bluntly, without her information, no miscreants would ever be caught. Fifty percent of some spanked bottoms was a much more alluring prospect than one hundred percent of no spanked bottoms. Besides, he quite liked the idea of watching this headstrong young lady spanking her classmates, he could watch it all sitting behind his desk. It would certainly help conceal his inevitable intumescence.

Polly watched him ponder her proposal, and held her breath.

After what seemed like an age, he extended his hand.

“Agreed, young lady.”

Polly accepted his handshake with a grin and a resolute grip of her own. He did have lovely strong hands, she’d see he put them to good use.

“Excellent, Sir! Then we shall take back control of this school together! I think you’ll find I can be very imaginative…”

And as if to emphasise her point, she ran her fingertip down the unseemly bulge at the front of his trousers. It was at that very moment Polly realised just how much power she now wielded. The Headmaster, and by implication the whole school, was now – quite literally –  under her thumb.

The prospect of her new power was thrillingly intoxicating. With it, Polly knew she could now denounce anyone in the school, and guilty or not, they would end up here, whimpering as she pulled down their panties, their eyes pleading silently as their own knickers were placed in their mouths. And if any of the silly little girls cried, she’d dab away their tears with their own underwear afterwards.

Perhaps she should insist on inspections too. Bend over and touch your toes, girl. Legs apart. Oh… what’s this? You’re soaking wet! Filthy girl! Well, if the prospect of a spanking excites you that much, you may have double.

Oh yes, she liked that idea. How the offender would moan plaintively against her gag when she heard her sentence had been doubled, begging for a chance to explain herself, but knowing deep down the shameful evidence was be incontrovertible.

Polly could already imagine putting the naughty over her knee, or making them do the bend-over dance to the beat of her ruler. She could almost hear their snivelling as she spanked their bare bottoms. And how exciting it would be to wield the cane, and paint rows of hot pink stripes onto trembling cheeks. To luxuriate in the pleas of the peasants as they prostrated themselves before their new queen.

Yes, telling tales was rather treacherous, but weren’t rules a good thing? Surely restoring order to the school was a noble endeavour. Didn’t that make her one of the good guys now?

As for those lingering traces of guilt – well, thought Polly, there’s no better cure for a guilty conscience than a well-smacked bottom.

“Now Sir…” she said teasingly, shepherding him back to sit on the high-backed chair.

“Your hand-spanking technique is quite atrocious. I think we’d both benefit from some practice…”  




@spankingtheatre 2016

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

Originally posted at

You’re welcome to reblog and share.


And so begins the story ‘GLIMPSE’, a spanking ghost story by ‘Spanking Theatre’ who asked me to do this illustration for him.

I fully recommend his site/blog, he cleverly subtitles it by the wonderful phrase…


you can find him here on tumblr…


This is a truly marvellous image, @asajones2​ has done a brilliant job capturing what I’d
imagined when I first wrote those words. And it’s such a beautifully unusual image too, it’s so rare to have
that kind of distance separating viewer and subject in erotic
photography. Usually the subject is close, leaving nothing to the imagination. But here she’s frustratingly distant, blurred by the intervening window pane. Yet her pose draws in the eye, and now
you’re hooked. You yearn to see more…

But whilst you’re staring at the girl’s bare bottom, something sinister creeps into the corner of your eye, like some ominous memento mori. Too late you realise, you’re seeing something you weren’t supposed to see. Few erotic images have such subtlety.

I wonder, when you read Glimpse for yourself, what will you see in the theatre between your ears?

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