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Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

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chastity

Hi. I am a 23 year old has never had an orgasm. I have tried to a lot, but every time I start masturbating, after a while, the desire just, goes away and it starts feeling, mechanical. I don’t know how else to describe it. Spankings while being naked, being humilated by a disciplinarian and then spanked and everything are incredible turn ons, but it never progresses further. Would love to hear back.

I wrote a post last year for those who enjoy spanking, but gain much less  pleasure from masturbating:

https://spankingtheatre.tumblr.com/post/187175914060/chasing-orgasms

You don’t need to masturbate, and actually, I discourage it in those I discipline. If denial becomes a forbidden fruit, and then a yearning, resisting that craving to touch without permission can become a powerful form of erotic obedience.

So paradoxically, perhaps you need to touch less, and imagine more. Play the self-spanking games, and experiment with other kinds of physical sensations and ways to satisfy yourself.

Remember that the largest sexual organ in the body is between your ears. The clitoris is just a very sensitive sensor, it’s not where orgasms originate – they erupt in your brain, you just feel their echoes between your legs.

And I’ll let you into a secret:

I’ve been able to make partners climax through words alone. Without any touching between their legs. What starts as a yearning, becomes a swelling almost overwhelming desire. Just being strict can be sufficient to leave her teetering on the edge, and a few well-chosen words can tip her beyond, as if I’d just cast a magical spell.

The secret is, there really is no need to rub at all…

Do you have any stories about not being able to touch ones’ self? Possibly including a chastity device?

Denial and chastity feature in a number of my stories, some of the following  contain chastity devices, others more inventive kinds of denial…

No touching.

Naughty Game #23: Chastity Belt

Previous naughty games are here.

This
game involves creating a home-made chastity belt from whatever belts
you happen to possess. This requires a minimum of two belts, ideally one
of which should be a leather belt, as those tend to feel better pulled
tight between your lips (see this image).

See an example of this kind of Chastity Belt here (Tumblr won’t permit it).

Like all good chastity belts,
the one described here will help keep
your wandering fingers out of mischief. It’s particularly useful for
those who have be instructed by their disciplinarian to abstain from
masturbation. Or those without who want to experience the joys and
frustrations of erotic denial. With the added bonus that it also leaves a
delightful pink strip between the legs
when removed.

How to Create your Chastity Belt

Start by shaving your mound and slit bare, your belt works best when your skin is sensitive and flush with its surface.

In
its simplest arrangement, a chastity belt consists of two belts. A
horizontal belt that will circle your waist, and a vertical belt that
with pass between your legs, running from just above your mound to just
above the top of your bottom crevice.

To do this, thread the horizontal belt through the buckle of what will be the vertical belt (preferably a leather one).

Now
you can tie the horizontal belt around your waist, just above your
hips, and move the vertical belt along so it lies between your bottom
cheeks. Then take the free end of the leather belt and pass it between
your legs, pulling it tight until it presses against your slit. Most
belts will part your labia majora, but if its thin enough it should be
able to part your inner lips too, so they lie on either side of the
strap.

Then the free end of the vertical belt can be passed up
and over the first belt at your waist. Now the vertical crotch belt can
be tugged tight and tied around the waist-belt.

If you want
an even more secure feeling experience, a third belt can also be affixed
around your hips, just beneath the first. Its role being to
place pressure on your mound, and keep the vertical belt in place, and
ensure your movements do not allow it to slip from between your tender
lips.

A third belt also helps press the buttocks together which is helpful if the belt is worn in conjunction with a butt plug.

When to wear your Belt

Your belt can be worn when your disciplinarian tells you to.

You
can also wear the belt when your feel your own resolve not to touch
yourself faltering, when a barrier of any kind is necessary to keep you
from masturbating.

The bold can also wear the belt under
loose fitting clothes, and go out in public with the strap tight between
their folds. Her every footstep serving as a reminder of her
disciplinary predicament. Feeling her cheeks burn with embarrassment of
having to be put into the belt, of her reaction to the sensations she
feels, and most of all the embarrassment by how aroused the belt is
making her feel.

And there lies the delicious paradox of the
Chastity Belt, that in time it makes her want to rub herself even more
than before…

Verso, Recto – part 2

This is the second part of a two-part story, you can read the first part here.


You put me to bed with a sore bottom, in one of the old convent’s austere intimidating cells. Where the fiery glow beneath me contrived to conjure such extraordinary dreams.

Somehow I saw those who’d inhabited these very rooms and corridors long ago, with such vivid lucidity I could have sworn they were my own memories. As I walked amongst the convent’s ghosts, every detail felt so real.

“I saw behind your portrait,” I told her.

“I know,” she replied.

I dreamt I was one of the novice nuns. An experience so vicarious I could feel my knees ache from kneeling on the cold hard floor, as I offered my thanks for the gift of a brand new day. A act of gratitude not only for the dawn, but also the daily morning ritual that was about to occur. Outside our dormitory, someone rang a hand-bell, a signal for my fellow novices and I to conclude our prayers and file out of our shared sleeping quarters to the bathroom.

After queuing for the toilet, we would undress, and enter the tiled corner where the showers steamed and spluttered. The water is warm, but never luxuriously hot. We ablute as best we can with the mediocre soap, and then – still dripping – cloak ourselves with a scrawny towel and take our place in line.

There are three girls in front of me, then two, then it’s my turn. I drop my towel, and I’m standing naked in front of one of the senior sisters. I clasp my hands in prayer across my chest as the sister dabs a foamy cream into my mound. Then she places a crucifix over my crotch, and with a fearsome-looking straight-edge razor, shaves the stubble in the four corners, leaving a cross-shaped tuft of pubic hair behind.

In this institution, it was easy to tell who were the well-behaved girls. As any who misbehaved would be sent to see a senior nun, and immediately shaved completely bare, before being severely spanked. Her candid bareness would serve as a lingering reminder of her sinful immaturity. The slow regrowth of her hair would represent the incremental progress towards her eventual forgiveness.

Somehow I knew all of the convent’s petty rules, and all the consequences. How the most serious infractions, such as the illicit touching of ourselves – or even worse, the touching of others – would result in being sent to the Mother Superior to be shaved and caned, and then being put in the dreaded chastity pants for several weeks, until the miscreant’s crucifix patch had fully regrown.

Chastity Pants were long-johns made of a thick uncomfortable calico fabric, with tough leather panels sewn into the gusset to guard against any external rubbing. Whilst their long ankle length leggings would prevent any fingers from straying inside. They were secured around the waist with cord that was narrower than the wearer’s hips, the two ends being secured with a lockable clasp that prevented them from being lowered once they were pulled up and fixed.

As a consequence, every morning, afternoon and evening any unfortunate girl wearing such underwear would have to report to a sister to be unlocked before she could visit the toilet – with the door left open, of course. And when time in chastity coincided with a girl’s period, it was also a chance to change to the cloth rags used for hygiene.

Whilst her bottom was bare, she’d demonstrate her own contrition by bending over and giving herself a brief spanking with her own discipline whip in front of the watching sister, who would often add some smacks of her own. Then the chastity garment would pulled up again and locked shut above her hips, leaving the poor girl’s bottom to throb inconsolably beneath her habit.

But, eventually, at the end of the offender’s sentence, she would be granted her redemption. She would have the cross once again shaved into her mound. and all her sins would be considered forgiven. After all, wasn’t that the Christian message?

In my dream, I hadn’t done anything naughty enough to be put in chastity. But I had been given demerit slip for whispering silliness to a friend in Latin class, and so had been sent to my house mistress Sister Juliet to have my bottom smacked.

Each nun in the convent had their own preferred means of spanking. Mother Superior believed in the corrective effect of naked canings, so any unfortunates sent to her would expect to find themselves completely undressed before being bent over the trestle for a whacking from her terrible cane. The dour Sister Anna made girls touch their toes, before administering their punishment with her favoured long thick wooden ruler.

Strict Sister Maria, on the other hand, preferred to use the strap on kneeling girls whose heads were pressed to the floor, with their bare bums raised high into the air. Whilst pretty Sister Constance had naughty novices lift their gowns and lie on their backs, before raising their legs and whacking with her paddle.

Lovely Sister Juliet had a more intimate spanking style, those sent to see her would be made to stand beside the spanking chair and lift their skirts. When the good sister took her seat, she’d put the naughty girl across her knee, and spank her bare bottom with the sole of her leather slipper. Soles saving souls, so to speak.

I had reached the door of Sister Juliet’s room, and was taking a moment to compose myself before I knocked, when I heard some giggling behind the door. This outbreak of jollity was so unexpected I found myself consumed by curiosity, like when you’re desperate to be let in on the secret joke. Something made me kneel and peep through the waist-high spyhole. None of the doors in the convent had locks or latches, whyever would they need them? Certainly only sin would flourish behind a locked door. Just as the Good Lord could see all, every door in the convent had a spyhole, so there were few secrets in this establishment. Or so I thought.

I held my breath, and peeked…

Instinctively, my hand flew my mouth to suppress a gasp. I could see lovely Sister Juliet lying naked on her bed, whilst above, a naked Sister Constance was straddling her. Their heads were between each other’s legs, in what my modern self would readily recognise as the classic 69 position, but somehow I also knew the mind I was inhabiting would find this revelation profoundly shocking.

I could see the sisters’ habits and underclothes strewn across the floor, as if they’d both undressed hurriedly. I watched in silent fascination as the two women pleasured each other. They were trying to be quiet, but every now and they’d let a slip a moan or a giggle, each only serving to stoke my own desire to join them.

“This is so naughty!” I heard Juliet whisper. “You know what would happen if we were caught…”

With that, she lightly smacked the bum of her partner several times by way of illustration. In reality, the sanctions would be far more painful than a light spanking on the bare bottom. They’d both be shaved bare and caned naked by Mother Superior. How I’d love to witness that.

As I spied, I could feel my own arousal growing, but I knew I mustn’t touch myself, not out here in the corridor especially. I did consider sneaking off to the toilets to take care of myself, if this place had taught me anything, it was it was easier to pray to forgiveness than ask for permission.

Beautiful Sister Constance had responded to Juliet’s tease by raising her head from between her legs, straightening herself before grasping her partner’s ankles and lifting her legs upright.

“This is how I spank, young lady! Constance hissed, with as much threat as her hushed voice could convey. “Next time you can report to my room and I’ll paddle your bare bottom like a naughty little girl!”

Oh goodness. How I would love to witness that, the sister who’d put me over her knee so many times getting a sore bottom of her own. I found myself staring at Juliet’s pretty pink slit, now exposed as her legs were held in the air. A cross of ginger hair clearly visible on her own mound.

Absent-mindedly, my hand had drifted inside the hem of my tunic, and upwards until it reached the tingling region between my own legs. I brushed the cross on my own mound, following it down to the throbbing bead just below it. I was not surprised to find my slit hot and sticky to the touch.

I began to wonder, was this a divine test? Had the Lord put me in this situation? Was this a temptation to resist? Or a reward for my virtue?

I stroked as watched the two Sisters licking each other, imagining the sensation I was giving myself was administered by Juliet’s cute little tongue, or Constance’s long nimble fingers. I was soon approaching climax, lurching beyond the point it was possible to stop. The squelching of my own impaling fingers mingling with the stifled moans from the other side of the door.

And then, a hand painfully pinched my shoulder.

“Wicked child!”

I had been discovered by Sister Anna, with my hand still up my gown.

She tugged my earlobe, raising me painfully to my feet and intercepting my sticky hand before I could wipe away the evidence of my shame. She lifted my fingers to her nose, inhaling like a connoisseur might assess a fine wine, an expertise that suggested that in her time she had caught a great deal of young ladies masturbating.

“You disgraceful, filthy urchin!”

The commotion outside the door must have alerted the occupants, as by the time Sister Anna had knocked on the door, Juliet’s voice calmly replied, “One moment sister, I’m just getting dressed…”

This response only seemed to darken Sister Anna’s countenance, to her it was perfectly obvious what she had interrupted: I had been caught wanking whilst watching pretty Sister Juliet getting dressed.So Sister Anna didn’t wait for the door to open, she intensified her pinch of my ear and dragged me down the corridor to Mother Superior’s office.

The mistress of our realm was a formidable woman; a stern, middle-aged lady, a domineering presence born from an absolute conviction in what was right and what was wrong. My cheeks burned with embarrassment as Sister Anna explained her version of events, what she had caught me doing.

I was intimidated into silence, and decided not to contradict Sister Anna’s interpretation, part of me didn’t want to get the two Sisters into trouble, and part of me felt guilty for what I’d done. I had been caught spying and masturbating, and what had inspired it made little difference to my sins. My crime was unequivocal, and my sentence never in any doubt. Our Mother decreed that I would be put into chastity pants until the end of my next period, which was about 2 or 3 weeks away.

I was told to undress immediately, which I did without complaint, lifting my garments over my head and folding them up respectfully. Sister Anna then gripped my ear and dragged me into our Mother’s private bathroom, where she ran a bath of tepid water, and ordered me into it. There, the sin – the sticky mess between my legs, and the sweat that clung to my body – was roughly scrubbed away from me.

Once cleansed, Sister Anna applied a frothy shaving cream to my mound, spread my legs and shaved me bare. The cross I wore so intimately was scraped and swept away, as if my sins made me undeserving of it.

Once shaved, I was told to stand and step out of the bath, and given a towel to dry myself. I noticed those used by the senior nuns were far softer than the coarse flannels we novices were given. I was then instructed to use the loo, Sister Anna was to afford me no privacy, watching me dispassionately as I sat down naked to pee, then insisting I bend over to be wiped and inspected once I’d finished.

When I was finally led back to Mother Superior’s office, the caning trestle was already waiting for me. A waist high beam, with two A-shaped stanchions on either side, with little loops of leather at each corner.

I was told to spread my legs to the nearest corners and bend over, whereupon our Mother knelt beside me and fixed the belts firmly around my wrists and ankles. Once I was immobilised, she inspected me thoroughly, tugging my buttocks open to check I was clean, then running her fingers across my mound to check I was smooth.

Then she left me to wait, helpless and exposed for what seemed like an eternity, until at last I felt her cane tapping against my bottom.

A dread swish accompanied the first eruption of pain across my cheeks. I had received too many canings to remember, but abruptly realised for the mind I inhabited, this was her first. I could feel her fear, the thundering of her heartbeat, the sweat dripping from her armpits. The tears dripping down her face. And to be honest, that just excited me even more.

I felt like a rider on bucking colt as the body I shared trembled and convulsed with every stinging whack. Our Mother would pause after every couple of strokes, kneeling behind me to examine the lines she’d inflicted, occasionally also cupping my crotch consolingly with her hand. I’m certain she could feel my wetness on her palm. Part of me wanted to shout out, to implore her to just shift her fingertips to the one spot that longed for it most. But my host was sobbing too much to form any recognisable words.

In total, our Mother gave us twenty searing whacks, inflicting lines of welts that would continue to throb and ache for several days. She left us sobbing over the trestle with our red bottom on display for another hour, until there was a little puddle of our dribble beneath our face on the carpet. And just behind, if you looked closely, was the little sticky dot that had seeped from our slit.

That was because whilst my host had spent the hour weeping, I had spent it imagining Mother Superior had penetrated our bum with a prayer candle, before lighting it and letting the hot wax dribble down between our throbbing buttocks, until it solidified as little white rivulets that flowed as far as our inner thighs. I could almost feel the heat growing as the imagined flame got ever closer to our poor bottom hole, the jeopardy only serving to amplify my excitement.

When I was untied, I had to use the support of the trestle to steady my wobbly legs. Sister Anna had my chastity pants ready for me, placing them on the floor for me to step into, then pulling them abruptly to my waist. I could see her smirk cruelly as she secured the cord above my hips.

The only mercy I was shown was being able to eat my dinner standing up. Sister Anna had taken great pleasure in announcing to all assembled that I’d been caught playing with myself, and had suffered the consequences. I could see my friends looking at my pitifully, many had experienced the same punishment themselves, so there was no sneering or teasing.

When we were taken back to our dorm, I had to undress as they watched with rapt fascination, as I revealed my cruel chastity pants before pulling on my nightgown. I was briefly released to pee, before being put to bed. Needless to say, I slept on my front, sobbing quietly into my pillow with my pain and misfortunate.


The next day, my morning ritual was uncomfortably different. It was Stern Sister Maria who unlocked my clasp, and those of the other two girls currently in a similar predicament, and escorted us to the toilet. Then she took us to the shower, watching us closely as we cleaned ourselves, ensuring we the warm flannel didn’t linger too long between our legs. I could see one of the girls had clearly visible stubble now, indicating her time in chastity was almost over. I could feel the swollen welts on my bottom as I gingerly washed.

But my soreness didn’t spare me from Sister Maria’s strap. After showering, we had to kneel with our bottoms up, and were spanked six times as we said our prayers, acknowledging our sins and asking for forgiveness.

By mid-afternoon, I needed to pee again, but this time, I sought out Sister Juliet. She led me to the bathroom in silence and closed the door behind us.

“You saw, didn’t you?” she asked quietly.

“I saw everything, Sister. But I said nothing.”

I looked her in the eye, recognising her expression of surprise.

“That is… very… charitable… of you. Thank you.”

I nodded in acknowledgement.

“I saw behind your portrait.”

Sister Juliet considered my last statement in a long tense silence. Her unblinking eyes surveying me, as if attempting to discern my trustworthiness.

“I know,” she replied at last.

“… but you know you still need to be punished for spying and touching yourself.”

I nodded again.

With that, I lifted my tunic, allowing her to crouch and unlock my belt. She helped the cruel chastity garment fall to my ankles, revealing my bare slit to her gaze. She stayed on her haunches whilst she caressed the smooth skin of my mound, cupping me with her palm, until the warmth of her hand on my full bladder made me begin to fear I’d lose control and pee all over her.

Sensing my discomfort, as I hopped from foot to foot, she eventually permitted me to use the toilet. With my legs open, of course. Juliet watched as I gushed, then insisted I bend over so she could dry my slit herself.

She finished with a firm slap to my bare bottom, which was just a hint of what was yet to come. She edged past me to sit on the toilet seat, and sensing her intention, I bent over her lap without being asked. Mercifully Juliet spanked me with her palm rather than her slipper, but her two dozen smacks still left my poor bottom smarting.

Yet afterwards, once she’d pulled up and relocked my chastity pants, and just as I was about to turn and leave, she reached forward and held my head tenderly, and kissed me.

The next day, I visited pretty Sister Constance, and apologised for spying on her too. She also thanked me for my discretion, before putting me on my back and lifting my legs. She made me put a hand on my bare mound and tug the hood of my clitoris back as she spanked me, so I was exquisitely sensitive to every smack. But frustratingly, she did not allow me to rub myself.

This was my disciplinary regime for the next fortnight, visiting the two sisters alternately, to be spanked and inspected, morning, noon and night. So the only time my bottom wasn’t throbbing were in those delicious few moments when I woke, before we were roused out of bed, before I reported to have my first spanking of the day.

I could feel the heat in my smacked bottom throughout the day, like a perpetual spanking whose sting never faded. I could feel it as I sat on the hard unforgiving chairs in my classes, and when I ate, and whenever I knelt to pray. A continuing hot ache that made my slit tingle, and my little button throb, cruelly locked away, and out of reach.


On the day my period ended, I reported to Sister Juliet for the final time.

After taking me to the toilet and unlocking me, she took me back to her room and told me to undress. Completely.

I knelt on the cold hard floor as she placed her wooden crucifix against my bush, whilst she used the fierce-looking razor to shave away its corners, restoring the cross that cruel Sister Anna had taken away from me several weeks ago.

“All is forgiven, child.”

I nodded, and accepted her hand as she graciously helped me to my feet.

And then, to my considerable surprise, Juliet lifted her own habit above her head. She was not wearing anything underneath. She took my hand again, and led me to her bed. As I lay on my back, Juliet straddled my face, revealing the ginger cross on her own mound, a thin vertical strip with short cross bars. Beneath, the lips of her pretty slit were swollen, pink and wet.

“It is a sin to touch ourselves, but is not the message of the Gospels is that our love should touch others?”

I did not resist as she bent over me, burying her head between my legs, slowly licking the sensitive skin where I’d just been shaved, tracing the cruciform shape with her tongue, brushing my clit on on each visit to the base of the cross. Soon she was using her fingers to open me, tugging back my hood, and folding back my lips.

I had never thought of the Christian message like this before. But it made perfect sense, Jesus wasn’t a bully or an austere tyrant. An ascetic disciplinarian, undoubtedly. But one who preached a message of love.

My host had never licked another woman, but I took the initiative. Exploring Juliet’s folds with an expertise that seemed to take her by surprise. She mewed with delight, redoubling her efforts to pleasure me. Pinching my slit, rubbing and stroking, fingers straying and intruding.

It seems every portrait does have a reverse side. A hidden side. Who would have thought that innocent Sister Juliet was so lustful. So feminine, so sensual.

She took me to the very brink. Until I was mere moments away from the climax I’d been craving ever since I’d spied on her.

And then, suddenly, she stopped.

Sister Juliet rose from straddling me, stepping down from the bed, pulling on my hand and tugging me upright, until I was standing on the floor beside her. She positioned me deliberately so I was facing the wall, a few footsteps away from it, gently smacking the insides of my thighs until I’d opened my legs to her satisfaction.

I could feel the wetness of her saliva on my open slit, slowing dripping, the heat of my arousal cooled by the tickling breeze of the room’s chill air.

Was her intention to let me come, or would denial be my final lesson?

I was surprised when she took her place beside me. Now we were standing side-by-side, and she grasped my hand, holding it tight. It was an encouraging, comforting grip, with all the warmth of a lifelong friend.

I could feel her beginning to lend forwards.

“Bend over.”

I followed her lead, and tipping towards the floor until both our bottoms were high in the air – and facing the door. I wondered if anyone was watching us through the spyhole, whether we were moments away from being caught. Would Sister Juliet share my fate? Would I get to watch her being shaved? And then watch her being caned? Would we go to have our chastity panties lowered together? I delighted in the thought of being spanked together, every day for a whole month.

I felt a powerful emotion surge through me. A feeling of wanting to be close to Juliet. A fierce protectiveness. An intense affection that made me throb and my tummy tumble.

I did not resist as she dragged my hand backwards, between her own legs. She made me close all my fingers except for the middle one, and used it to enter her vagina, which seemed to suck on my finger like the tightest tiniest mouth. I wanted to push it deep, to masturbate her, to thrust it in and out until I made my beautiful new friend climax, to bestow such a gift of pleasure that a smile would beam from her mouth that would never fade.

But her grip on my hand didn’t let me. She used my finger to collect her sticky wetness, and then moved it upwards, rubbing it around the crinkled dimple of her bottom hole. Then, slowly and steadily, she pushed my finger inside. When I was all the way in she clenched, gripping me tighter than a grasping hand. Now I couldn’t move, even if I’d wanted to, my wrist fixed between her legs in the most erotic kind of armlock.

Then I could feel her arm beneath mine, straying between my own legs. Her middle finger stroked my own slick folds, frustratingly avoiding my swollen clitoris, before briefly dipping inside my vagina. How I wanted her to linger there, slowly pumping in and out, until she found the spot that felt just right.

But she didn’t. Instead, her finger moved upward, rubbing my own excitement into my bottom hole, her wet fingertip probing, then pushing, as if testing my resistance. It didn’t take long before I began to admit her, my heart thumping in my chest as I was violated so filthily. And when her finger was all the way in it felt so good when I clenched around her.

After a while I felt Juliet’s warm breath tickle my ear as she whispered conspiratorially.

“I have something to confess…”

I relaxed, then clenched again, gripped her finger even tighter.

“… Sister Constance will be along shortly, to spank our bare bottoms.”

She would open the door to find us giggling and gasping, bent over with our arms trapped between each other’s legs – with our fingers deep within each other’s bums.

We would feel her strap stroke our bare buttocks as she admonished us.

She would make us keep our fingers in each other’s bottoms as we were spanked. Our captured fingers gripped and squeezed tighter with every smack.

Our longings intensifying as she brought us ever closer to the edge.

And then

When I waked

I cried to dream again.

.

.

.

@spankingtheatre 2018

Verso, Recto

A spanking story

We are alone in the grand old
convent. Walking among the ghosts of the chaste and the pious. Their
home was an edifice of lichen-encrusted granite, nestling in the woods
like a miniature gothic castle, a secluded haven that did not wish to be
discovered. But years ago you found it, you rescued it and restored it,
like you’ve done with so many wayward girls. You made it your own home,
and now, you’ve invited me to visit.

You promised me a tour, to
show me its secrets. You explain how the spacious open-plan kitchen was
once the main dormitory, where dozens of young ladies would bunk
together. The biggest classroom has been transformed into your home
office, and the cavernous assembly hall is now a magnificent
timber-beamed living room.

I trail along gawking admiringly. You
escort me upstairs, our ascending footsteps muffled by the opulently
plush carpet. The rooms on either side of the long hallway were the
nuns’ private quarters it seems. You point to the door furthest away,
explaining that it was where Mother Superior dwelt. The ultimate
authority in this place, well, secondary to God I suppose.  

We pause at the top of the stairs, and you point to the ominous door at the end of the corridor.

“Go inside. You’ll find your instructions painted on the wall.”

That
comment was most unexpected, almost shocking. I found it difficult to
imagine anyone would deface such a beautiful old building by scrawling
on its walls.

I hesitated, but you sent me on my way with an
encouraging smack to my bottom. I began dawdling towards the
destination, looking over my shoulder, looking for confirmation of your
satisfaction. Reassurance that I was doing as I’d been told.

You
remained at the top of the stairs, watching silently and sternly, until I
reached the door. Then, to my surprise, you turned and left me,
descending out of my sight down the grand old staircase. Leaving me
alone to carry out your command. Trusting in my obedience.

I
gripped the little brass doorknob, twisting it until I heard the latch
click. I pushed the door open, trembling with anticipation, wondering if
we were really alone here, or whether I’d be interrupting someone
inside. Too late, I realised I hadn’t even knocked.

To my relief,
the room I entered seemed unoccupied. It was large, but surprising
austere, the plush carpet of the hallway giving way to exposed wooden
floorboards, its bare walls coated with an aged, off-white plaster. The
only decoration was a painting, seemingly a portrait of a young nun.
Contrary to my expectations, there was no writing on any of the walls.
If my instructions had been painted, I was clearly looking at it now.

The
only furniture was an elegantly carved wooden plinth that barely
exceeded the height of my knees, nearly identical to the one depicted in
the painting. Lying on top of it were what seemed like a pile of folded
clothes, predominantly black and white.

I realised this was a
test of my initiative. A test of my obedience. The garments looked like a
nun’s habit, a coarse black serge tunic, a white linen coif, a white
cotton undershirt.

I eased the door shut and began to undress,
folding up the outfit I’d chosen with such meticulous care in a vain
attempt to impress you. I placed my clothes in a neat little pile in the
corner, finishing by removing my panties, I suspected few nuns would
wear lingerie under their habits, and I strongly suspected you’d like to
check.

I pulled on the cotton undershirt first, realising this
was as close as my new outfit would come to underwear. The coif, the
tunic and stockings followed. The latter were authentically archaic,
without elastic they had to be tied around my calves by bright red
ribbons, the sole splash of colour in my monochrome garb.

Once
dressed, I knew you’d expect to find me in the same position as the
portrait, kneeling by the plinth, fingers arched. I mimicked the
position of the young lady in the picture, pondering the nature of her
prayers. Was she pleading with her God, imploring Him to forgive her
nocturnal transgressions? Those wandering fingers? Or the embraces with
her sisters that had escalated into kisses and rubbings?

How
strange this religion of love had become a global sexual denial cult.
Surely if we are made in the image of God, the Creator would want us to
pleasure ourselves, to glorify his creations by elevating each to state
of ecstatic bliss.

Despite the thick tunic, I could already feel a
faint draught between my legs. A subtle breeze teasing my slit, as my
undershirt tempted me further, rubbing across the exquisitely sensitive
skin of my newly waxed mound, in a continuous trial of my faith.

I
clasped my hands and prayed. My knees and elbows aching against the
hard unforgiving wood of the floorboards and the plinth. I found myself
praying you’d join me. Wishing you’d lift my robes and help satisfy me.

After
a while, I began to appreciate why prayers were made with clasped
hands. Had I not been clasping them so tightly, one of both would surely
have wandered beneath my thick scratchy gown and into my warm, wet,
aching cranny.

And then, suddenly, my prayers were answered.

The door creaked open, and you returned.

“Do you like my painting?”

I nod my head enthusiastically.

“It’s
a Martin van Meytens. An 18th century studio copy, admittedly. The
original is in the national gallery in Stockholm. Such a lovely place.”

“It’s beautiful,” I reply.

“What do you see?”

“Humility, grace, and piety.”

“And chastity?”

“Yes…” I gulp nervously, earnestly hoping that wasn’t your actual intention.

“Submissiveness?”

“Oh yes.”

“Innocence?”

“Oh, very.”

“And yet, sometimes appearances can be deceptive…”

I stare back, puzzled, not quite sure to what you’re referring. The canvas? Or me?

“Did
you know some paintings have two sides? Collectors call them Verso and
Recto, rather than front and back – because sometimes it’s hard to say
which side deserves the honour of being displayed, and which side should
be hidden…”

I watch in quiet fascination as you reverently turn
over the portrait, surprised that it reveals another complete picture,
painted on the reverse of the canvas. It is a scene of startling
candour, its explicitness making my clit throb even before my mind has
fully deciphered what I’m seeing.

[Image filtered by Tumblr – you can see it here]

She
must be the same subject, but this time depicted from behind. Perhaps
her innocence was just a front. Perhaps all innocence is just a front.
This angle reveals a different side of her, naked flesh in place of her
religious habit. This is a woman depicted as a sexual being. Curvaceous
and alluring. The glory of the Creator’s vision manifested, no long
hidden, but celebrated.

“Now, what do you think of your chaste and innocent nun?”

I’m
speechless. Not because I’m embarrassed by seeing nakedness, but
because I so crave the sensuality of what the image represents.

And
it seems our desires are aligned, because you reach down and lift the
hem of my own tunic, dragging it upwards until it gathers on the small
of my back, until my own buttocks are as bare as those in the painting
above me.

“What do you see in this painting? Voyeurism? Shame? Humiliation? Punishment?”

I find myself nodding, all of those, and more.

“Did you know Sisters were flogged in the position you now find yourself?”

I shook my head. I did not.

And now I see you’re dangling something in front of my face.

“This
little whip is called a Discipline. Notice how there’s seven leather
fronds, one for each of the deadly sins. Every nun here would carry one,
hanging from the belt of her habit, a continuing reminder of her oath
of obedience. And every one of them would be expected to spank her own
bottom every night, after confessing her sins in her bedtime prayers.”

You place it in my hand, and guide my right arm backwards until I can feel the whip’s cool thin straps sway against my bottom.

“But…! For what sins am I to be punished?” I ask indignantly.

By
way of response, you reach down, dragging your fingers between my legs,
before smearing my lips with the salty goo of my own excitement.

“The Almighty sees everything, Child.”

A flush of heat sears my face, I feel my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

“Forgive me.”

I begin whipping myself.

“Harder.”

Despite
the short backswing, I can hear the tails of the whip whistle through
the air before they strike. The seven thick flanges at the end of each
frond landing in a simultaneous, stinging eruption.

“Harder.”

I
reach back as far as I can, swinging the whip with all my strength. I
know this is how a nun would feel, knowing she was being overseen at all
times, watched by the Almighty.

I grimace as each whack lands,
knowing you’re not interested in my pitiful whimpering. This is my
penitence. My spanking, my absolution.

I look up at the painting,
and her beautiful buttocks. Is that a hint of pink I see? Or is she
whispering her confession prayer, the moment of righteous retribution
just moments away.  

Please, forgive my obscene excitement.

Let me atone for the sins of my flesh…


You put me to bed with a sore bottom, in one of the old convent’s austere intimidating cells. Where the fiery glow beneath me contrived to conjure such extraordinary dreams.

Somehow I saw those who’d inhabited these very rooms and corridors long ago, with such vivid lucidity I could have sworn they were my own memories. As I walked amongst the convent’s ghosts, every detail felt so real.

“I saw behind your portrait,” I told her.

“I know,” she replied.

I dreamt I was one of the novice nuns. An experience so vicarious I could feel my knees ache from kneeling on the cold hard floor, as I offered my thanks for the gift of a brand new day. A act of gratitude not only for the dawn, but also the daily morning ritual that was about to occur. Outside our dormitory, someone rang a hand-bell, a signal for my fellow novices and I to conclude our prayers and file out of our shared sleeping quarters to the bathroom.

After queuing for the toilet, we would undress, and enter the tiled corner where the showers steamed and spluttered. The water is warm, but never luxuriously hot. We ablute as best we can with the mediocre soap, and then – still dripping – cloak ourselves with a scrawny towel and take our place in line.

There are three girls in front of me, then two, then it’s my turn. I drop my towel, and I’m standing naked in front of one of the senior sisters. I clasp my hands in prayer across my chest as the sister dabs a foamy cream into my mound. Then she places a crucifix over my crotch, and with a fearsome-looking straight-edge razor, shaves the stubble in the four corners, leaving a cross-shaped tuft of pubic hair behind.

In this institution, it was easy to tell who were the well-behaved girls. As any who misbehaved would be sent to see a senior nun, and immediately shaved completely bare, before being severely spanked. Her candid bareness would serve as a lingering reminder of her sinful immaturity. The slow regrowth of her hair would represent the incremental progress towards her eventual forgiveness.

Somehow I knew all of the convent’s petty rules, and all the consequences. How the most serious infractions, such as the illicit touching of ourselves – or even worse, the touching of others – would result in being sent to the Mother Superior to be shaved and caned, and then being put in the dreaded chastity pants for several weeks, until the miscreant’s crucifix patch had fully regrown.

Chastity Pants were long-johns made of a thick uncomfortable calico fabric, with tough leather panels sewn into the gusset to guard against any external rubbing. Whilst their long ankle length leggings would prevent any fingers from straying inside. They were secured around the waist with cord that was narrower than the wearer’s hips, the two ends being secured with a lockable clasp that prevented them from being lowered once they were pulled up and fixed.

As a consequence, every morning, afternoon and evening any unfortunate girl wearing such underwear would have to report to a sister to be unlocked before she could visit the toilet – with the door left open, of course. And when time in chastity coincided with a girl’s period, it was also a chance to change to the cloth rags used for hygiene.

Whilst her bottom was bare, she’d demonstrate her own contrition by bending over and giving herself a brief spanking with her own discipline whip in front of the watching sister, who would often add some smacks of her own. Then the chastity garment would pulled up again and locked shut above her hips, leaving the poor girl’s bottom to throb inconsolably beneath her habit.

But, eventually, at the end of the offender’s sentence, she would be granted her redemption. She would have the cross once again shaved into her mound. and all her sins would be considered forgiven. After all, wasn’t that the Christian message?

In my dream, I hadn’t done anything naughty enough to be put in chastity. But I had been given demerit slip for whispering silliness to a friend in Latin class, and so had been sent to my house mistress Sister Juliet to have my bottom smacked.

Each nun in the convent had their own preferred means of spanking. Mother Superior believed in the corrective effect of naked canings, so any unfortunates sent to her would expect to find themselves completely undressed before being bent over the trestle for a whacking from her terrible cane. The dour Sister Anna made girls touch their toes, before administering their punishment with her favoured long thick wooden ruler.

Strict Sister Maria, on the other hand, preferred to use the strap on kneeling girls whose heads were pressed to the floor, with their bare bums raised high into the air. Whilst pretty Sister Constance had naughty novices lift their gowns and lie on their backs, before raising their legs and whacking with her paddle.

Lovely Sister Juliet had a more intimate spanking style, those sent to see her would be made to stand beside the spanking chair and lift their skirts. When the good sister took her seat, she’d put the naughty girl across her knee, and spank her bare bottom with the sole of her leather slipper. Soles saving souls, so to speak.

I had reached the door of Sister Juliet’s room, and was taking a moment to compose myself before I knocked, when I heard some giggling behind the door. This outbreak of jollity was so unexpected I found myself consumed by curiosity, like when you’re desperate to be let in on the secret joke. Something made me kneel and peep through the waist-high spyhole. None of the doors in the convent had locks or latches, whyever would they need them? Certainly only sin would flourish behind a locked door. Just as the Good Lord could see all, every door in the convent had a spyhole, so there were few secrets in this establishment. Or so I thought.

I held my breath, and peeked…

Instinctively, my hand flew my mouth to suppress a gasp. I could see lovely Sister Juliet lying naked on her bed, whilst above, a naked Sister Constance was straddling her. Their heads were between each other’s legs, in what my modern self would readily recognise as the classic 69 position, but somehow I also knew the mind I was inhabiting would find this revelation profoundly shocking.

I could see the sisters’ habits and underclothes strewn across the floor, as if they’d both undressed hurriedly. I watched in silent fascination as the two women pleasured each other. They were trying to be quiet, but every now and they’d let a slip a moan or a giggle, each only serving to stoke my own desire to join them.

“This is so naughty!” I heard Juliet whisper. “You know what would happen if we were caught…”

With that, she lightly smacked the bum of her partner several times by way of illustration. In reality, the sanctions would be far more painful than a light spanking on the bare bottom. They’d both be shaved bare and caned naked by Mother Superior. How I’d love to witness that.

As I spied, I could feel my own arousal growing, but I knew I mustn’t touch myself, not out here in the corridor especially. I did consider sneaking off to the toilets to take care of myself, if this place had taught me anything, it was it was easier to pray to forgiveness than ask for permission.

Beautiful Sister Constance had responded to Juliet’s tease by raising her head from between her legs, straightening herself before grasping her partner’s ankles and lifting her legs upright.

“This is how I spank, young lady! Constance hissed, with as much threat as her hushed voice could convey. “Next time you can report to my room and I’ll paddle your bare bottom like a naughty little girl!”

Oh goodness. How I would love to witness that, the sister who’d put me over her knee so many times getting a sore bottom of her own. I found myself staring at Juliet’s pretty pink slit, now exposed as her legs were held in the air. A cross of ginger hair clearly visible on her own mound.

Absent-mindedly, my hand had drifted inside the hem of my tunic, and upwards until it reached the tingling region between my own legs. I brushed the cross on my own mound, following it down to the throbbing bead just below it. I was not surprised to find my slit hot and sticky to the touch.

I began to wonder, was this a divine test? Had the Lord put me in this situation? Was this a temptation to resist? Or a reward for my virtue?

I stroked as watched the two Sisters licking each other, imagining the sensation I was giving myself was administered by Juliet’s cute little tongue, or Constance’s long nimble fingers. I was soon approaching climax, lurching beyond the point it was possible to stop. The squelching of my own impaling fingers mingling with the stifled moans from the other side of the door.

And then, a hand painfully pinched my shoulder.

“Wicked child!”

I had been discovered by Sister Anna, with my hand still up my gown.

She tugged my earlobe, raising me painfully to my feet and intercepting my sticky hand before I could wipe away the evidence of my shame. She lifted my fingers to her nose, inhaling like a connoisseur might assess a fine wine, an expertise that suggested that in her time she had caught a great deal of young ladies masturbating.

“You disgraceful, filthy urchin!”

The commotion outside the door must have alerted the occupants, as by the time Sister Anna had knocked on the door, Juliet’s voice calmly replied, “One moment sister, I’m just getting dressed…”

This response only seemed to darken Sister Anna’s countenance, to her it was perfectly obvious what she had interrupted: I had been caught wanking whilst watching pretty Sister Juliet getting dressed.So Sister Anna didn’t wait for the door to open, she intensified her pinch of my ear and dragged me down the corridor to Mother Superior’s office.

The mistress of our realm was a formidable woman; a stern, middle-aged lady, a domineering presence born from an absolute conviction in what was right and what was wrong. My cheeks burned with embarrassment as Sister Anna explained her version of events, what she had caught me doing.

I was intimidated into silence, and decided not to contradict Sister Anna’s interpretation, part of me didn’t want to get the two Sisters into trouble, and part of me felt guilty for what I’d done. I had been caught spying and masturbating, and what had inspired it made little difference to my sins. My crime was unequivocal, and my sentence never in any doubt. Our Mother decreed that I would be put into chastity pants until the end of my next period, which was about 2 or 3 weeks away.

I was told to undress immediately, which I did without complaint, lifting my garments over my head and folding them up respectfully. Sister Anna then gripped my ear and dragged me into our Mother’s private bathroom, where she ran a bath of tepid water, and ordered me into it. There, the sin – the sticky mess between my legs, and the sweat that clung to my body – was roughly scrubbed away from me.

Once cleansed, Sister Anna applied a frothy shaving cream to my mound, spread my legs and shaved me bare. The cross I wore so intimately was scraped and swept away, as if my sins made me undeserving of it.

Once shaved, I was told to stand and step out of the bath, and given a towel to dry myself. I noticed those used by the senior nuns were far softer than the coarse flannels we novices were given. I was then instructed to use the loo, Sister Anna was to afford me no privacy, watching me dispassionately as I sat down naked to pee, then insisting I bend over to be wiped and inspected once I’d finished.

When I was finally led back to Mother Superior’s office, the caning trestle was already waiting for me. A waist high beam, with two A-shaped stanchions on either side, with little loops of leather at each corner.

I was told to spread my legs to the nearest corners and bend over, whereupon our Mother knelt beside me and fixed the belts firmly around my wrists and ankles. Once I was immobilised, she inspected me thoroughly, tugging my buttocks open to check I was clean, then running her fingers across my mound to check I was smooth.

Then she left me to wait, helpless and exposed for what seemed like an eternity, until at last I felt her cane tapping against my bottom.

A dread swish accompanied the first eruption of pain across my cheeks. I had received too many canings to remember, but abruptly realised for the mind I inhabited, this was her first. I could feel her fear, the thundering of her heartbeat, the sweat dripping from her armpits. The tears dripping down her face. And to be honest, that just excited me even more.

I felt like a rider on bucking colt as the body I shared trembled and convulsed with every stinging whack. Our Mother would pause after every couple of strokes, kneeling behind me to examine the lines she’d inflicted, occasionally also cupping my crotch consolingly with her hand. I’m certain she could feel my wetness on her palm. Part of me wanted to shout out, to implore her to just shift her fingertips to the one spot that longed for it most. But my host was sobbing too much to form any recognisable words.

In total, our Mother gave us twenty searing whacks, inflicting lines of welts that would continue to throb and ache for several days. She left us sobbing over the trestle with our red bottom on display for another hour, until there was a little puddle of our dribble beneath our face on the carpet. And just behind, if you looked closely, was the little sticky dot that had seeped from our slit.

That was because whilst my host had spent the hour weeping, I had spent it imagining Mother Superior had penetrated our bum with a prayer candle, before lighting it and letting the hot wax dribble down between our throbbing buttocks, until it solidified as little white rivulets that flowed as far as our inner thighs. I could almost feel the heat growing as the imagined flame got ever closer to our poor bottom hole, the jeopardy only serving to amplify my excitement.

When I was untied, I had to use the support of the trestle to steady my wobbly legs. Sister Anna had my chastity pants ready for me, placing them on the floor for me to step into, then pulling them abruptly to my waist. I could see her smirk cruelly as she secured the cord above my hips.

The only mercy I was shown was being able to eat my dinner standing up. Sister Anna had taken great pleasure in announcing to all assembled that I’d been caught playing with myself, and had suffered the consequences. I could see my friends looking at my pitifully, many had experienced the same punishment themselves, so there was no sneering or teasing.

When we were taken back to our dorm, I had to undress as they watched with rapt fascination, as I revealed my cruel chastity pants before pulling on my nightgown. I was briefly released to pee, before being put to bed. Needless to say, I slept on my front, sobbing quietly into my pillow with my pain and misfortunate.


The next day, my morning ritual was uncomfortably different. It was Stern Sister Maria who unlocked my clasp, and those of the other two girls currently in a similar predicament, and escorted us to the toilet. Then she took us to the shower, watching us closely as we cleaned ourselves, ensuring we the warm flannel didn’t linger too long between our legs. I could see one of the girls had clearly visible stubble now, indicating her time in chastity was almost over. I could feel the swollen welts on my bottom as I gingerly washed.

But my soreness didn’t spare me from Sister Maria’s strap. After showering, we had to kneel with our bottoms up, and were spanked six times as we said our prayers, acknowledging our sins and asking for forgiveness.

By mid-afternoon, I needed to pee again, but this time, I sought out Sister Juliet. She led me to the bathroom in silence and closed the door behind us.

“You saw, didn’t you?” she asked quietly.

“I saw everything, Sister. But I said nothing.”

I looked her in the eye, recognising her expression of surprise.

“That is… very… charitable… of you. Thank you.”

I nodded in acknowledgement.

“I saw behind your portrait.”

Sister Juliet considered my last statement in a long tense silence. Her unblinking eyes surveying me, as if attempting to discern my trustworthiness.

“I know,” she replied at last.

“… but you know you still need to be punished for spying and touching yourself.”

I nodded again.

With that, I lifted my tunic, allowing her to crouch and unlock my belt. She helped the cruel chastity garment fall to my ankles, revealing my bare slit to her gaze. She stayed on her haunches whilst she caressed the smooth skin of my mound, cupping me with her palm, until the warmth of her hand on my full bladder made me begin to fear I’d lose control and pee all over her.

Sensing my discomfort, as I hopped from foot to foot, she eventually permitted me to use the toilet. With my legs open, of course. Juliet watched as I gushed, then insisted I bend over so she could dry my slit herself.

She finished with a firm slap to my bare bottom, which was just a hint of what was yet to come. She edged past me to sit on the toilet seat, and sensing her intention, I bent over her lap without being asked. Mercifully Juliet spanked me with her palm rather than her slipper, but her two dozen smacks still left my poor bottom smarting.

Yet afterwards, once she’d pulled up and relocked my chastity pants, and just as I was about to turn and leave, she reached forward and held my head tenderly, and kissed me.

The next day, I visited pretty Sister Constance, and apologised for spying on her too. She also thanked me for my discretion, before putting me on my back and lifting my legs. She made me put a hand on my bare mound and tug the hood of my clitoris back as she spanked me, so I was exquisitely sensitive to every smack. But frustratingly, she did not allow me to rub myself.

This was my disciplinary regime for the next fortnight, visiting the two sisters alternately, to be spanked and inspected, morning, noon and night. So the only time my bottom wasn’t throbbing were in those delicious few moments when I woke, before we were roused out of bed, before I reported to have my first spanking of the day.

I could feel the heat in my smacked bottom throughout the day, like a perpetual spanking whose sting never faded. I could feel it as I sat on the hard unforgiving chairs in my classes, and when I ate, and whenever I knelt to pray. A continuing hot ache that made my slit tingle, and my little button throb, cruelly locked away, and out of reach.


On the day my period ended, I reported to Sister Juliet for the final time.

After taking me to the toilet and unlocking me, she took me back to her room and told me to undress. Completely.

I knelt on the cold hard floor as she placed her wooden crucifix against my bush, whilst she used the fierce-looking razor to shave away its corners, restoring the cross that cruel Sister Anna had taken away from me several weeks ago.

“All is forgiven, child.”

I nodded, and accepted her hand as she graciously helped me to my feet.

And then, to my considerable surprise, Juliet lifted her own habit above her head. She was not wearing anything underneath. She took my hand again, and led me to her bed. As I lay on my back, Juliet straddled my face, revealing the ginger cross on her own mound, a thin vertical strip with short cross bars. Beneath, the lips of her pretty slit were swollen, pink and wet.

“It is a sin to touch ourselves, but is not the message of the Gospels is that our love should touch others?”

I did not resist as she bent over me, burying her head between my legs, slowly licking the sensitive skin where I’d just been shaved, tracing the cruciform shape with her tongue, brushing my clit on on each visit to the base of the cross. Soon she was using her fingers to open me, tugging back my hood, and folding back my lips.

I had never thought of the Christian message like this before. But it made perfect sense, Jesus wasn’t a bully or an austere tyrant. An ascetic disciplinarian, undoubtedly. But one who preached a message of love.

My host had never licked another woman, but I took the initiative. Exploring Juliet’s folds with an expertise that seemed to take her by surprise. She mewed with delight, redoubling her efforts to pleasure me. Pinching my slit, rubbing and stroking, fingers straying and intruding.

It seems every portrait does have a reverse side. A hidden side. Who would have thought that innocent Sister Juliet was so lustful. So feminine, so sensual.

She took me to the very brink. Until I was mere moments away from the climax I’d been craving ever since I’d spied on her.

And then, suddenly, she stopped.

Sister Juliet rose from straddling me, stepping down from the bed, pulling on my hand and tugging me upright, until I was standing on the floor beside her. She positioned me deliberately so I was facing the wall, a few footsteps away from it, gently smacking the insides of my thighs until I’d opened my legs to her satisfaction.

I could feel the wetness of her saliva on my open slit, slowing dripping, the heat of my arousal cooled by the tickling breeze of the room’s chill air.

Was her intention to let me come, or would denial be my final lesson?

I was surprised when she took her place beside me. Now we were standing side-by-side, and she grasped my hand, holding it tight. It was an encouraging, comforting grip, with all the warmth of a lifelong friend.

I could feel her beginning to lend forwards.

“Bend over.”

I followed her lead, and tipping towards the floor until both our bottoms were high in the air – and facing the door. I wondered if anyone was watching us through the spyhole, whether we were moments away from being caught. Would Sister Juliet share my fate? Would I get to watch her being shaved? And then watch her being caned? Would we go to have our chastity panties lowered together? I delighted in the thought of being spanked together, every day for a whole month.

I felt a powerful emotion surge through me. A feeling of wanting to be close to Juliet. A fierce protectiveness. An intense affection that made me throb and my tummy tumble.

I did not resist as she dragged my hand backwards, between her own legs. She made me close all my fingers except for the middle one, and used it to enter her vagina, which seemed to suck on my finger like the tightest tiniest mouth. I wanted to push it deep, to masturbate her, to thrust it in and out until I made my beautiful new friend climax, to bestow such a gift of pleasure that a smile would beam from her mouth that would never fade.

But her grip on my hand didn’t let me. She used my finger to collect her sticky wetness, and then moved it upwards, rubbing it around the crinkled dimple of her bottom hole. Then, slowly and steadily, she pushed my finger inside. When I was all the way in she clenched, gripping me tighter than a grasping hand. Now I couldn’t move, even if I’d wanted to, my wrist fixed between her legs in the most erotic kind of armlock.

Then I could feel her arm beneath mine, straying between my own legs. Her middle finger stroked my own slick folds, frustratingly avoiding my swollen clitoris, before briefly dipping inside my vagina. How I wanted her to linger there, slowly pumping in and out, until she found the spot that felt just right.

But she didn’t. Instead, her finger moved upward, rubbing my own excitement into my bottom hole, her wet fingertip probing, then pushing, as if testing my resistance. It didn’t take long before I began to admit her, my heart thumping in my chest as I was violated so filthily. And when her finger was all the way in it felt so good when I clenched around her.

After a while I felt Juliet’s warm breath tickle my ear as she whispered conspiratorially.

“I have something to confess…”

I relaxed, then clenched again, gripped her finger even tighter.

“… Sister Constance will be along shortly, to spank our bare bottoms.”

She would open the door to find us giggling and gasping, bent over with our arms trapped between each other’s legs – with our fingers deep within each other’s bums.

We would feel her strap stroke our bare buttocks as she admonished us.

She would make us keep our fingers in each other’s bottoms as we were spanked. Our captured fingers gripped and squeezed tighter with every smack.

Our longings intensifying as she brought us ever closer to the edge.

And then

When I waked

I cried to dream again.

.

.

.

@spankingtheatre 2018

Here’s something to imagine, Your Highness, as you sit upon your Throne.

Your Ladies-In-Waiting, each naked, apart from a filigree of leather around their waists, which holds this little brass device in place. 

See how it parts their most intimate lips to your regal eyes, truly they have no secrets to keep from you, Majesty.

Standing obediently in the edge of your dais, a few paces in front of your golden throne. What a delight it is, watching them glisten in the throneroom’s flickering candlelight.

What a joy it is to see them seep and drip, aroused by the punishments and erotic activities performed for your entertainment. How they like to watch a girl dance upon the wooden horse, and witness the whippings of miscreants brought from the dungeons. 

You have warned your courtesans not to touch themselves. A little brass hood covers each girl’s clit, shielding her pearl from her straying fingers. Yet you are generous, Majesty, prepared to call a girl to your side when necessary, and slide a royal finger between their legs.

What a delight it is to see a girl wilt with joy, her knees buckling in an orgasmic curtesy. A demonstration of your regal power that makes you bear down resplendently upon the protrusion on your seat. 

Soon, you will dismiss the court, and be left alone with your eager aching courtesans. And there will be much pleasure enjoyed, as one by one, they begin to pay their tribute between your knees…

Image via wellredandremorseful – does anyone know the source, and if the item is available to buy?

Here’s something to imagine, Your Highness, as you sit upon your Throne.

Your Ladies-In-Waiting, each naked, apart from a filigree of leather around their waists, which holds this little brass device in place. 

See how it parts their most intimate lips to your regal eyes, truly they have no secrets to keep from you, Majesty.

Standing obediently in the edge of your dais, a few paces in front of your golden throne. What a delight it is, watching them glisten in the throneroom’s flickering candlelight.

What a joy it is to see them seep and drip, aroused by the punishments and erotic activities performed for your entertainment. How they like to watch a girl dance upon the wooden horse, and witness the whippings of miscreants brought from the dungeons. 

You have warned your courtesans not to touch themselves. A little brass hood covers each girl’s clit, shielding her pearl from her straying fingers. Yet you are generous, Majesty, prepared to call a girl to your side when necessary, and slide a royal finger between their legs.

What a delight it is to see a girl wilt with joy, her knees buckling in an orgasmic curtesy. A demonstration of your regal power that makes you bear down resplendently upon the protrusion on your seat. 

Soon, you will dismiss the court, and be left alone with your eager aching courtesans. And there will be much pleasure enjoyed, as one by one, they begin to pay their tribute between your knees…

Image via wellredandremorseful – does anyone know the source, and if the item is available to buy?

Throne of Shame

Her throne glimmered with gold. Ornately carved, fashioned by the continent’s finest craftsmen, it sat on a dais of burgundy and jade.

He took the princess’s hand delicately, elegantly holding hers on top of his, and led her.
“Your throne, your highness”

He enjoyed how quickly her expression changed from pride to shame, as she spied the finger-length protrusion of finest ivory just behind the centre of the velvet seat – as she realised just where it would penetrate.

Silken bonds dangled from the armrests. He reached behind her to undo her gown, which dropped around her feet.
“Please, be seated, highness…”


* * * * *

Once upon a time, in a faraway land of cloud-capped peaks and twisting paths, in a grandiose turreted castle adorned with fluttering pennants, lived a princess.

She was no fragile damsel, but a headstrong fighter, prepared to slay any man who dared challenge her feminine strength. By habit, she drew her sword with a defiant toss of her head.

Yet she would flee from her kingdom one fateful night, leaving all her riches and privileges behind. She had discovered she had been betrothed. An arranged marriage, a life not of her choosing. From her bedroom tower, the world had stretched out below her, beckoning her with the promise of adventures. There were turquoise seas and ancient forests, bone-white sands and shimmering lakes, sun-wracked deserts and eerie crags.

She would not be a minor supporting actress in another’s fairytale. She was a princess! A warrior! And she was determined the world would know her name. She disguised herself in a soldier’s cloak, hurriedly grabbing just the barest essentials and her favourite sword, and stole away from her castle by starlight.

Several weeks later, their paths crossed at a rickety river bridge.

He was a lord, returning home with his army. His scouts had spotted her, but he rode up to challenge her alone. The two warriors instinctively crossed swords. Fighting – or was it flirting with their blades – teasing, probing, determining each other’s character with every thrust and parry. Until, exhausted and sweaty, they locked eyes, and in that moment understood each other.

He told her to accompany him. She had resisted, vigorously, of course. So he had her put in chains. It was either that or leave her to stumble into the merciless clutches of his enemy’s roving armies. They would ensure the remainder of her life would be nasty, brutal and short – staked to the ground naked for soldiers to defile.

She accompanied his army on their ride home as a captive. When they made camp the next night, she was brought to his tent, still chained. He described her likely fate should she be freed, and offered her an alternative, instead of serving an army, she would serve only him.
“I’ll bow to no man!” she snapped back.
He just smiled at her challenge.

Her clothes were filthy from weeks sleeping rough, he soon cut them from her – despite her protests. Afterward, he bound her to his bed and washed her. Then he shaved her, his fingers protecting her soft lips from the razor’s edge.

She shouted in indignation when she saw the chastity belt.

It was a supple white leather belt with silver front-shield that curved like a horn as it tapered between her legs. He adjusted the girdle so the silver curve hugged her body like a hand cupping her crotch, the palm covering her shaven mound, a silver fingertip tantalisingly close but not touching her bottom hole. No man would touch her; neither would she.

The following night she was brought before him again. He untied her gown, exposing her naked, save the manacles around her wrists and ankles, and the small silver shield around her waist that defended her modesty. He pushed her onto his bed so she lay face down, and restrained her further with rope. She cursed him angrily for his affront. He chided her for her indiscipline – then began to whip her thighs and buttocks with his riding crop.

She yelled furiously, raging at the indignity, cursing his impudence.
No one had ever chastised her before.
She was a princess!
No one had ever dared be so bold.

Yet she had grown up under the shadow of physical discipline. If she had misbehaved, or flouted her royal household’s strict rules, her governess would escort the rebellious princess back to her bedchamber and undress her. Once divested of her fine silk robes and undergarments, she would be redressed in calico undergarments and a gown of coarse sackcloth. And in place of her gold filigree tiara, she would wear a circlet of straw.

Once dressed more humbly, the princess was escorted to the punishment room, high in the old decaying East Tower: a rarely visited – and conveniently out of earshot – corner of the castle. The room contained a padded leather bench and crude wooden throne on a small raised platform; she called it her Throne of Shame.

The disgraced princess would then stand in front of the spanking bench. And wait. She was meant to be contemplating her misdemeanours, of course, but her attention was drawn instead by the small details of the spanking bench – and the stories its patina revealed. Like how two holes in the restraining straps were worn larger than the rest, the holes that represented the diameter of a young lady’s wrist. And how, in the bench’s black leather, she could see the shadow of goodness-knows-how-many generations of squirming miscreants scuffed into its surface.

All the while, behind her, she would feel a palm-sized wooden paddle pressing against each of her buttocks, kneading, lifting, spreading each cheek, but never striking. She would wait in silence, and begin to long for a sudden smack, or a firm push in the small of her back that would bend her over the spanking bench, or the thrillingly cold draught of her gown being lifted as her bottom was bared. Still she waited.

But princesses were not to be beaten. Soon, she would be shaken from her reverie by a hammering fist on the old oak door. It would be one of the palace guard – and one of her friends. The guard would be dismissed, and the princess and her young friend would look at each other in awkward silence, each knowing what must happen next.

The princess would apologise to her friend as she began to undress her. By now, all of her friends had stood naked before her, and over the passing years she had seen their bodies change. She held the hand of her naked friend as she escorted her to the A-shaped spanking bench, and apologised again as she spread her friend’s legs, binding each ankle to a back leg of the bench. She would step around the bench to face her friend, both now blushing pink with embarrassment and apologise once more as she pulled her hands forward, bending her friend over the top of the bench, raising her bottom high to face her throne. She knelt down, securing her friend’s wrists to the front legs of the bench with straps, and whispered a final apology.

The princess would step up onto the platform, and sit guiltily on her wooden throne of shame. She would watch with guilt and fascination as her governess dabbed her finger into a small clay pot of ginger paste, and rubbed it into her friend’s bottom hole. In moments the leather straps would creak as she struggled against her restraints, splaying her buttocks wide as she seeks relief from the burning between her cheeks.

The governess would then explain to her friend the crimes she is about to be punished for.
The princess’s crimes.

Picking up a long-handled paddle, she would look up expectantly at the straw-crowned princess, waiting for the order to begin. The princess would look down from her high throne, facing her friend’s bottom, a few footsteps away, knowing she must perform her duty, lest her friend’s ordeal be extended. She would blush red, but speak authoritatively, like a princess should.

“Proceed”

Smacks began to echo around the punishment room. The governess spanked hard, slapping one cheek, then the other with her wicked rosewood paddle. All the while, the princess stared down from her wooden throne, her gaze fixed on the reddening cheeks of her struggling friend, almost close enough to touch.

Each whack is accompanied by an anguished cry, guilt makes the princess long to take her friend’s place, trying to imagine the sensation of each smack as it rings in her ears. Yet she can not avoid staring between her friend’s lithe thighs at her most secret places. Underneath her sackcloth gown, between her own legs, she would feel herself tingling.
Soon, tears of guilt and shame would drip down her cheeks.

The chastened princess did not misbehave often.
Though sometimes, when she was alone at night in her chamber, lying in her ornate four-poster bed with its satin curtains drawn, her fingers would begin to wander. Her favourite fantasy involved the paddle, the throne and the spanking bench – and that intoxicating, illicit view of a freshly spanked bottom, and the secret area in between.

And sometimes, the very next day, just to see it again, she’d misbehave.

* * * * *

So it was with a shock that she realised she was not being beaten, but disciplined. For years, she had fantasised about such punishment, of receiving her comeuppance, imagining the hot sensations as her bottom was smacked. She had always wondered how much it would hurt; but it really wasn’t that sort of pain. She stopped yelling.
This was discipline, chastisement, and she deserved it.

Later that night she was returned to her own bed, tied down and left alone to contemplate the warm afterglow of her whipping. It had been incredibly humiliating. But deep down – she admitted to herself, being so powerless had been very exciting. Whips and chains and rituals of discipline would bedevil her dreams.

The next night she was brought before him again. Again, he untied her gown, exposing her nakedness, and restrained her to his bed. This time though, she held her tongue, as if silenced by the guilt of unpunished childhood follies. He produced a seductive, spicy, musky balm and began to rub it into her feet and hands. She did not demur.

He combined the sensations from his fingers with his warm breath, gently blowing and nibbling her tingling flesh at the nape of her neck, then her calves, and behind her knees. He rubbed the balm further, nuzzling her inner elbows and thighs, before caressing her throat and breasts. Behind the silver shield of her chastity belt, a fire began to smoulder between her legs.
He would make no attempt to quench it tonight.

The following night, she was brought before him again. But this time, she untied her own gown,  and lay down on his bed before he’d said a word. He smiled at her compliance, then turned her onto her back and tied her down.

Again his expert fingers began to spread aromatic oils across her canvas. Featherlight touches danced across her calves, earlobes, shoulders and the small of her back, leaving her longing for a lingering touch.

He ran his fingers through her hair, and raised her chin to see her sparkling eyes coruscate with desire. He explored the valley of her back, finally arriving at the crevice of her buttocks. A lone finger skirted her puckered entrance, causing her to frantically pull against her bonds in protest, but she was defenceless.

His finger teased and probed her hole, stoking the fire behind her silver shield, a hot, wet ache she was desperate to satisfy. Then he stopped, switching his attention to the soles of her feet, and then the nape of her neck. Each time he returned to her hole, his finger teased her more salaciously. She would tug at her bonds, trying to arch her back, urging his finger deeper, but then it would vanish, only to reappear in another corner of her world.

Later, his finger brushed her hole again. She was about to beg him for release when she felt a surge of shame. She suddenly realised that she was no proud princess, no untameable warrior spirit, they were lies she’d told herself, masks she’d donned. In reality, she was an undisciplined wench, a lust-driven harlot, a spoilt brat who’d got wet watching her friends being spanked for her own misdemeanours. He had discovered her true nature, he had whipped her like a scullery maid, and now here she was, behaving like one. He had found her weakness, and tamed her with her own desire.

He continued to tease, tickle and tantalise her until her will to resist finally crumbled like some long-besieged city wall. She cried out, begging him to remove her shield and take her.
But he just smiled.

“Patience, my lady. We arrive at my castle tomorrow. And I have a surprise for you.”

* * * * *

They rode into his castle as the sun set, its granite walls glowing pink in the dying light. It sat atop a small hill, its six tall towers staring out like sentinels, watching over the lands he had sworn to protect.

He escorted her to his private chambers, and searched the eyes of his manacled guest. Now he could see the rage had vanished from her eyes. He unlocked her shackles. She stretched her arms and legs, then hugged him. It was not a romantic embrace, but one born of loneliness, the desire to feel the warmth of another again. Each smelled of sweat, grass and horses.
“Thank you”, she whispered.

He knelt before her and unlocked the girdle of her chastity belt, admiring the delicate folds of her femininity. He undressed slowly as she watched. On removing his shirt, she saw his stout arms bore the souvenir scars of battles and skirmishes. It never crossed her mind to look away as he began to remove his undergarments. Through surreptitious assignations with past lovers, she was no stranger to the male form. When he stood naked before her and knelt, he could smell the musky odour of her sex.

He led her by the hand to the adjoining bathroom. The circular tiled pool had already been filled with hot water, filling the room with mist. Candles glimmered in the steam, flickering floating orange orbs, will-o’-the-wisps in a fragrant swamp. They entered the water eagerly and washed the grime of each other’s journey away.

Afterwards, he dried and dressed her in a simple gown. They dined in a room at the top of a tower, on a table crafted from an old tree stump. After weeks of dried rations they devoured the fresh food eagerly; and slowly, they began to talk to each other. They learned each other’s names, and related the stories that had caused their paths to cross. As the moon rose, he pointed out the lands below, the silver ribbons of the rivers, the dark shadows of the forests and the red dots of faraway fires, each a small haven of safety in an inky black night.

A silence – just the sound of cicadas chirping nearby – and then:

“I promised you a surprise”

* * * * *

They descended a spiral stone staircase, and he led her by the hand into a small room. The tapestries on one wall were illuminated by a bank of candles on the wall opposite. They were alone.

At the far end a single throne glimmered with gold. It was ornately carved, it sat on a dais of burgundy and jade.

He took the princess’s hand delicately, elegantly holding hers on top of his, and led her towards it. “Your throne, your highness”

He enjoyed how quickly her expression changed from pride to shame, as she spied the finger-length protrusion of finest ivory just behind the centre of the velvet seat – and as she realised just where it would penetrate.

She noticed the silken bonds dangling from the armrests – and something else, a strange wooden contraption on the floor below the dais, just a few footsteps in front of the throne. It looked like some kind of spanking bench, she thought, suddenly recalling the details of the austere punishment room of her youth.

He reached behind her to undo her gown, which dropped silently around her feet. She stood naked in front of him without complaint. He spoke softly, but firmly.
“Please, be seated, highness…”

She hesitated, then stepped up onto the dais with as much dignity as she could manage. The throne’s gilded craftsmanship was exquisite, but her eyes were irresistibly drawn back to the bone-white ivory protrusion in the middle of the seat; it was as wide as her thumb, as long as her index finger, with a subtle curve, and there could be little doubt about its purpose. She knelt over the throne, and took the ivory finger in her mouth, her tongue feeling every sculpted groove as she moistened it.

She stood and faced him, her arousal obvious, before stepping backwards and beginning to sit. She supported her weight on the armrests as she lowered herself towards the ivory finger, then she felt it, cool and damp, poking between her bottom cheeks. She raised herself slightly, feeling the finger trace down her crevice, until it touched her arsehole. She pushed against it, gasping as she felt the cold, hard protrusion slide inside her. As her legs quivered, she dropped the remaining short distance, fully impaling herself on her new throne of shame.

She sat upright, regally, her posture immaculate. But he easily saw behind her pretence of elegance, she could not conceal her abasement as she squirmed disgracefully upon her throne’s protuberance. He stepped onto the dais and bound her wrists to the armrests with the silken ties, then parted her legs to bind each ankle to the throne. His fingers glanced across her lips as he dabbed the damp patch of velvet between her thighs, tsking at her lack of self-control.

Fettered and immobile, she felt the pleasure of impalement spread from her arse to her crotch. She imagined a bonfire spitting hot embers towards a pan of gunpowder, realising the inevitability of an explosion…

But what he said next shocked her.
“Is this really how a princess should behave?”

She stared back, open-mouthed.
“What kind of princess wanders in rags, in the wilderness?
What kind of princess impales herself so readily?
What kind of princess soaks her own throne with her arousal?”

Dumbstruck, she let his words sink in. Had she really behaved like a princess in his company? Now without her jewels, her fine robes and her servants, was she even a princess anymore? Certainly her behaviour since they’d met had been more akin to a common harlot than a highborn princess. Now here she was, penetrated, owned and tied to be used – and she liked it. The intrusion in her bottom felt so good, and her arousal was undeniable; from her glazed eyes to her engorged nipples to the slick, open pink petals of her cunt. She tried to regain her composure, stretching against her bonds, trying to concentrate on other sensations.

“Let’s see…”

Now he walked past the strange wooden contraption, and left the room. It reminded her of the spanking bench her friends had once been bent over, but it was much taller, almost as tall as he was. It was also much narrower, its legs were as wide as her stance at the base, but quickly narrowed to a leather-covered top – actually, it was more of a ridge than a top; an apex, an edge. But its most distinctive feature was the carved horse head at the end that faced away from her, it give the structure the appearance of an oversized children’s toy. The head had an authentic-looking bridle, all straps and shiny plates and reins. At the end closest to her, there was a small rickety-looking two-legged stool underneath. A giant rocking horse, that didn’t rock, with a back that was more edge than saddle. Her mind boggled at its strangeness.

She was still trying to understand its purpose when he returned. This time there was someone with him, a young woman who wore the utilitarian clothes of a servant girl. She was suddenly acutely aware of her nakedness, but bound to the throne with her legs apart, she was incapable of covering her modesty.

“You stand before a princess. Be sure you show the due respect” he told her.

The servant girl looked surprised, then suddenly alarmed, as if she’d left a fire unattended, and quickly approached the dais to curtsy. The princess tried to acknowledge the girl’s tribute as regally as one could whilst bound naked to a golden throne with something up one’s bottom.

“Undress”

The servant girl didn’t seem particularly shocked by his command, and removed her clothing quickly. Undressed with a single word, the princess thought; his exhibition of erotic power excited her. She ran her eyes down the servant girl; a cute face, blue eyes, short boyish black hair, clean unblemished skin, a shaven mound. Was that usual for a servant girl?

“Stand up on the stool, and straddle the horse” he instructed.

The servant girl approached the back of the horse tentatively, stepping up onto the stool at the very back of the horse and swinging her left leg over the narrow ridge. Now she stood astride the flat thin edge, her feet on the stool, one on each side of the strange structure.

“Now, sit” he said firmly.

She lowered herself as he instructed, but the ridge between her legs was far too narrow to serve as a seat. She felt the cool leather-clad edge part her buttocks, then touch her lips. She rocked back slightly, shifting to avoid pressing on her most sensitive parts, until ultimately she found herself balancing precariously, resting her perineum against the edge near the very back of the horse. He could see from the straining muscles of her thighs she was still supporting most of her weight with her legs, but said nothing. He produced a thin leather thong and tied her hands behind her back.

The servant girl stood astride the horse with her back to the princess, hands bound behind her back, teetering slightly on the stool.

In a flash of terrible clarity, the princess suddenly understood the cruel purpose of the wooden horse.

On several awful occasions, it had been the princess’s terrible duty to witness a hanging. To the beat of drums, she and her parents, the King and Queen, would solemnly file into the royal balcony, and sit on their thrones overlooking the great castle courtyard. She would look down on the gallows, its ominous old timbers blackened as if by fire, she’d see the noose dangling expectantly in the breeze, and shiver.

The sound of drums would rise to a deafening roar, almost too loud to think, as if trying to mask the horror of what was about to happen. A glint of gleaming metal would then catch her eye, pushing through the crowd: the guards escorting the condemned from the dungeon to underneath the dangling rope. They would be lifted onto the stool, their hands already bound behind their backs. The hooded hangman would pull the noose over the poor wretch’s head, and pull the rope tight, then rest his foot against the stool; he would look up at her and wait…

She saw him rest his foot against the stool.

“Give the order, highness”

The realisation of what was going to happen next made a shiver run down her spine, she squirmed on her throne. She felt the thrilling power of authority, yet simultaneously yearned to be free of her throne, to be free of her responsibilities. But she knew her duty, and so she spoke loudly and imperiously.

“Proceed”

With a firm push, his foot tipped the stool, toppling it over. The servant girl dropped a fraction onto the leather edge, her feet jolting and dangling like a wretch on the gallows. The princess watched her feet kick the air with morbid fascination, watching her hands struggle behind her back as she vainly tried to free herself. And faintly audible beyond the servant girl’s moans, were the faint squeaks of flesh on leather, as her weight was painfully concentrated on the crevice between her legs, splaying her vulva apart.

He reached behind the struggling girl and untied her hands, bringing them in front of her and re-tying them with the reins. This made her lean her forward, rounding her bottom cheeks, revealing to the princess how the cruel edge had parted her lips. From her vantage point, her eyes sparkled, she was enjoying her privilege, enjoying watching another’s punishment again. It felt wrong, it felt shameful, but it was intoxicating.

From the side of the horse, he took a riding crop with a long black stem and tipped with a rounded flap of leather. He whipped it through the air, making it whiz threateningly, before slapping it across the servant girl’s buttocks. And again. The poor girl cried out, but said nothing. The sound of smacking filled the room as the princess’s gaze flits between the pink patches appearing on the victim’s bottom, and her bare feet – kicking the air, as if nestled in invisible stirrups.

He’s making her ride the horse, she realised, as she began to match the tempo of her canter by rocking on her throne. He began to whip more rapidly, bringing her to a gallop. Her cries quicken too, she tugs the reins, leaning even further forward, so now the princess can see the dark hole between her reddened cheeks. The remembered shame of watching her friends’ gingered bottoms wink in the punishment room washes over her, making her skin tingle. She is so desperately close to coming.

When suddenly, the slapping stops.

He reached down to right the stool, placing it underneath the servant girl’s dangling feet. At last, her trembling legs take her weight again.
“Good girl”, he told her, “you may dismount”.
He helped her swing her leg over the horse and step down to the floor. She stood silently, her hands between her legs alternately nursing her whipped cheeks and her vulva, now red and puffy and sore from her ride on the horse’s edge.

Now he approached the throne, stepping up onto the dais. He knelt between her open legs, close enough for her to feel his hot breath on her slick, engorged lips.
“I see you enjoyed that performance”, he said, as he began to untie her ankles.
She said nothing in reply, lowering her eyes in shame as he untied her wrists.

“Stand up please, highness” he commanded.
She rose slowly, hoping neither could hear the sucking noise as the throne’s protrusion pulled from her bottom.
“Now stand on stool, highness, and straddle the horse”

She stood mouth agape; so he repeated his instructions, more firmly this time.

She knew she had to comply. She stepped down from the dais, approaching the wicked horse tentatively. She paused, then stepped up onto the stool and swung her left leg over the narrow ridge, so she stood astride the horse just like the servant girl had done. The folds of her lips hovered just above the horse’s edge, as if teasing it, close enough for her to feel the warm dampness of her predecessor.

He gathered her hands behind her, tying her wrists with the leather thong. Her legs trembled as she imagined herself standing naked under the gallows, hands tied behind, teetering on the fatal stool, looking through the noose at the jeering, lascivious crowd…

His voice broke her reverie.  “Take your place on the throne, girl”

Her throne? She looked over her shoulder to see the servant girl daintily lowering herself onto the now slick protrusion. She began to wonder if she was truly just a servant girl, she had acted quite submissively yes, but she also possessed a certain sexual confidence, she was comfortable with her nakedness, and had endured her torment with little complaint.
Perhaps she was a concubine. Or a lover. Or…

The thought hit her like a mace’s glancing blow, she tottered on the stool, flexing her thighs against the edge to preserve her balance. What if the girl was his wife? His princess!
They could be playing with her, secretly laughing at her.
“I found a feisty one on my travels, my dear”, he would have told her, “she calls herself a princess, yet wets herself like a slut.”
“O make me your slave, my Lord”, she would have replied, “whip me on the Horse as she watches from the Throne of Shame, then let me witness her disgrace!”

She had thought she had nothing more to lose when he stripped her of her clothes, now she realised he was stripping her identity away too, exposing the secret submissive that lay beneath her haughty princess persona. Worse – she was complicit, willingly collaborating as he stripped her to her core, made tame by her own desire.

She faced forward again, a shiny bridle plate reflected the scene behind her in miniature, with the other girl seated regally on the throne, her wrists and ankles tied as hers had been. She felt his hand grip her cunt, a finger probing inside her.

He spoke differently now, his once polite, respectful tone now admonishing.
“Disgraceful wench!” he scolded, “Sopping wet. Does the pain of others excite you?”
He rested his foot on the stool, rocking it threateningly.

As she tried to keep her balance, he slapped her bottom with his hand. And again. Instinctively she shied away from the blows, leaning forward, feeling the hood of her clit rubbing along the horse’s edge. Her bottom was raised now, and he spanked her vigorously, scolding her after every few smacks. Her hands, tied just below the small of her back, flailed uselessly, powerless to prevent him splaying her buttocks. He ran his finger around her hole; after her time on the throne it betrayed her readily, eagerly accepting his invading digit. He pushed in deeply, continuing to spank her with his other hand, chiding her licentiousness as she ground herself against the horse’s edge.

He withdrew his finger and addressed the girl on the throne.
“Give the order”
It was the first time she had heard her voice, she spoke clearly and confidently.
“Proceed!”

His foot toppled the stool with a firm push. She felt herself fall, just a fraction, and then a sudden burning pain as the leather edge forced her labia apart. Her weight pressed cruelly against the base of her mound and her clit as her feet danced beneath her, stretching vainly for the ground, whilst her hands struggled behind her. Her wetness translated her writhing into an exquisite torment, even a tiny shift in her balance would make her slide ever so slightly, pressing the sadistic edge against a new and tender part of her cunt.

He let her dangle on the horse until her feet stopped kicking, then untied her hands, before retying them to the reigns in front of her. In the silence, she thought she could hear faint murmurs of pleasure, but in her daze could not be sure if she was responsible – or the girl impaled on the throne behind her.

A swishing whip broke the hush.
Moments later, she felt it smack against her arse.
She recoiled instinctively, grinding herself against the edge, a stripe of pain across her bottom, followed an instant later by a stripe of pain along her most sensitive place.
He began to whip quicker, making her grind against the horse at a cantering pace. The burning between her legs intensified, pain and pleasure mingling until they were indistinguishable.

She gripped the reins tightly, as if trying to rein herself in. She was so close to coming, but her last vestiges of dignity tried to hold her back from what she knew would be a wench’s climax: the disgrace of coming by rubbing herself as she was whipped. She longed for a princess’s climax, to be worshipped by a stiff cock as she lay blissfully in a white feather bed. Instead she was being forced to masturbate herself on this horse, as a servant girl stared between her legs, watching her bottom turn red.

Once upon a time, she had wished – she would have done anything – to swap places, to be the one over the spanking bench, to feel her bum burning, to be forced to spread her legs to expose everything she had to the authority on the throne. Now her wish had been unexpectedly granted, her disgrace was almost complete.

He continued to castigate her between flurries of slaps.
“What a wanton hussy. Rubbing her clit in front of others. My humble servant girl behaved with more decorum.”

“Are you really a princess? Or an imposter, weaving an improbable tale of a runaway princess in the hope of shelter and charity? I should send you to work in my kitchens.”

He was whipping her rapidly now. And she was losing her battle of self-control, she felt the tell-tale tremors deep inside. All those years of tedious royal dutifulness, she’d never felt anything like this, the shame of being his slave, the delight of suffering under his whip.

“And since you like it so much, you can spend every night in the dungeon, sitting across a device such as this.”

She pulled at the reins and clenched her legs, gripping the narrow beam with her thighs, driving the edge deeper into her aching slit, proferring her bottom in a final act of submission.
He accepted her sacrifice, and whacked her hard between her cheeks.
She thrust herself onto the edge, feeling her throbbing clit slide down its slick ridge, until it was buried deep inside her.
She came ecstatically.
She came shamefully.
She came revealingly.

* * * * *

Epilogue

They fucked again as they watched the sun rise, colouring the tower-top bedchamber with a golden glow.
It had been an exhausting night.
But he was sure he had made the right choice.

@spankingtheatre 2012

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