Search

Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

Tag

dildo

I just wanted to say thank you for all the posts you’ve made over the past few years! Recently my partner surprised me with game “throne” and it was great. I sat on the dildo he placed in the chair and he tied my arms to the arm rests. At first, he left me there for a few minutes then when he came back he was a tease. He kissed my neck and whispered the most sinful things in my ears. I wasn’t allowed to finish which was torture. He would stop for a few minutes anytime I whined or tried to move. After this, he had me bent over the bed where he spanked me until my bottom was nice and sore. We will definitely be playing this again. Thank you!

You’re not the first to send me a message like this.

It seems many have enjoyed surprising their partner, who arrives home one day to find their Throne already set up for them. The dildo pointing eagerly upwards from the seat, glistening with lube and expectation.

“Your Throne awaits, Majesty,” they announce respectfully.

Perhaps they’ve already dressed for the role they intend to play. In their finest, most elegant clothes for royalty, or maybe something more revealing if they are to be your servant.

And then they will undress you. Immediately and completely. Kneeling between your legs to respectfully lubricate your bottom hole.

Then you will be guided to your seat, and assisted as you sit, atop the bottom stretching protrusion that has been especially prepared for you.

Once your wrists are secured and your legs are spread, your partner will bow before your royal magnificence.

Perhaps they will ask for your command, and perform to your instructions. Or maybe they will tease you and see how long your royal demeanour lasts before it begins to crack.

Perhaps they’ll be your Court Bard, reading you an excerpt from an erotic story, as you squirm and gasp atop your delightful protrusion. I would highly recommend choosing Throne of Shame.

Then finally, there will come a time to release you. Who knows what pleasures or torments they have in store?

Perhaps you’ll be made to Straddle the Wooden Pony, as you attempt to retain your royal pretence as your bare bottom is flogged.

When you come home to find a Throne waiting for you, who knows how the evening’s fairytale will end?

letterstohedone:

The Ritual

My phone lit up, a message flashed across the screen:

I grant you permission to perform the dildo ritual to orgasm.

My heart skipped a beat, and I felt an immediate heat flood my face…and other secret places. I cursed myself for having dinner plans, but knew that the waiting can be delicious, too.

I sat through dinner with a friend, catching up and eating takeout. We chatted about our jobs, our friends, enjoying each others company. But all the while, I was painfully aware of the soaking patch between my legs, the knowledge of what I was going to do as soon as he left. After a week of temptation and denial, of aching to touch, of bare lips and the provocative messages I’ve been trading with you, I was ready to beg for it.

It turned me on more to know that I had earned it, that my smart, eloquent new aquaintance was thoughtful enough to reward my restraint and patience. I wondered if you fell asleep, oceans away, thinking of me doing the naughtiest things, stretching my tight wet cunt alone in my bedroom.

When I was finally alone, I hurried upstairs. Behind my closed door, I bent over as I slowly, luxuriously pulled my panties and leggings down and surprised myself with a reflexive moan. You’ve had quite the influence on me, it seems. I paused a moment and breathed, bent over and exposed, enjoying the sensation.

I stripped down and stepped into my shower, letting the hot water wash the day away. I felt my body finally relax under the heat as I scrubbed down. I found myself wet, and wanting, as I applied shaving foam to my mound and lips, running my razor across my sensitive skin to shear myself bare once again. A little ritual to prepare myself for the night’s coming ordeal.

As I bent down to rinse off, I felt my bottom cheeks part and the hot water run between them, over my bottom hole. Enjoying it, I shifted my hips so the stream flowed over my freshly shaven cunt, sighing appreciatevely. I imagined your warm fingers, stroking me as I bent over for you, mewling in gratitude. I imgained your cock, rubbing just on the outside, just enough to part my lips. It was so hard not to touch myself, put naughty fingers in my little slit and rub myself to oblivion. But no, that wasn’t on the menu that evening. I was looking forward to a much heartier meal.

With a sigh, I stepped out, dried off and closed myself in my bedroom once more. I lit a few candles and turned out the lights. Placing my favorite dildo on a base on the floor, I pulled up a drumming playlist and knelt over the waiting member, its head just brushing my already seeping entrance.

I closed my eyes and imagined myself in the woods, in an overgrown ancient temple, taking part in an old and nameless pagan ritual. Naked in the dark, the flame before me, the sound of droning chants. The imaginary world unfurled around me, filling my senses; the smell of the bonfire, the rustling of branches overhead, the night sky above me. I let the beat carry me, swaying a little. I imagined you standing behind me, in nothing but a deerskin and a crown of antlers, reminiscent of Cernunnos, a leather strap in your hand. I leaned forward as I imagined you reaching back, and suddenly swinging the strap once, twice, in time to the slow beat as I knelt, helpless, transfixed.

My legs started the ache, and shake. I felt the drums driving me, as though the act of plunging myself upon the phallus beneath me would crack open the door between the mundane and the ephemeral, to see something Beyond. There was an immense sense of waiting, as though I were being watched, a ritual sacrifice of an uniquely sensual variety.

They were waiting for me, for me to give in. To open the door.

I rubbed my cunt over the tip of the protrusion, wetting it with my lips, feeling it part me, prod my entrance.

My legs weakened, my knees began to spread apart. I felt the tip push just inside my opening, stretching me. I rocked, panting. The drums egged me on, I felt my clit throb. My hips flexed forward, my head tilted back, rolling side to side, almost dizzy. I felt my cunt twitch, once, twice, dribbling my excitement onto the proud erection beneath me.

I felt myself breaking, swept up in the ceaseless drone and drums. I knew I couldn’t take any more, and finally drove myself down onto the upright cock with a groan of exctasy, pushing my bottom out and feeling it slide and press against my secret places, filling me almost painfully, slick with my juices, my cunt unused to being filled. I squeezed my walls against it hungrily as the wave of pleasure ripped through my muscles from my feet to my head, arching my back in an instinctual, unstoppable lordosis.

I leaned forward, began to raise and lower my hips, gasping, stopping sometimes to circle my hips with the full length of it inside me, hearing the obscene squelch of my juices and my puffy lips, and no longer caring. All I could hear was the drums, the rising chants, whoosh and crackle of the bonfire’s blaze, the crack of the strap against my spread cheeks.

I thrusted faster, harder, the need inside me growing. I felt my nipples, so hard as my breasts moved to the rhythm while I bounced, as I became hyperaware of the sensations rippling through my whole being. I spread my knees wider, to take the cock deeper inside me, arching my back and thrusting my soft buttocks out, supplicating, asking for more. I imagined my bottom reddening, crying out with each stroke of the strap, driving me on. On and on I rode, my hips stretching and knees sore, my frantic panting parching my throat, the drums never stopping, echoing the pounding of my heart.

I was fucking myself on the floor, rutting like savage, stripped raw and bare before the Gods. My orgasm approached, a final and ultimate offering. I ground and ground, imagined your tongue between my lips, imagined your cock inside me, imagined you castigating me. My thighs and bottom flexed over and over as I submitted to it, I knew I was going to come all over this thick cock, mouth open, groaning and eyes rolled back with total, animalistic abandon. I drove myself over the edge with my fingers on my clit, slamming myself down while spread wide, moaning aloud as my cunt rhythmically spasmed around the cock, drooling juices on the the base and floor.

Exhausted, I leaned forward and collapsed on the floor, panting and murmuring thanks, prone as if in prayer, in submission to the experience, to whatever Gods may have been watching.

To perform this ritual on your own, please head over to @spankingtheatre and read his excellent tale of Lupercalia, a personal favorite of mine and many others.

What a wonderfully evocative description of the Dildo Ritual game!

I hope this adventurous reader’s thrilling write-up might encourage other curious readers to set up their own dildo and experience the ritual pleasure of Lupercalia for themselves…

Sexual Perspectives

Anatomy, gender, dominance and sexuality are completely orthogonal things – one does not imply anything about the other, unless you want it to.

Everyone gets to decide how these sexual concepts are related, this this their sexual preference. The open-minded will be comfortable with a diverse range of connections between these concepts. Those who are sexually conservative have a very narrow view of what’s permissible. What a pity.

My previous post generated some interesting messages, so I thought I’d expand on the concept. It’s clear that when it comes to sex, many get very anxious indeed about what’s ‘right’ and ‘normal’. Which is why some folks’ sex lives are driven by a need for validation, a need for conformity, rather than what actually turns them on.

Because if your notions of sexuality are rigid, any experimentation might be considered perverse or shameful, unfeminine or emasculating.

To me though, different sexual preferences and identities are just costumes. This is why I’m able to compose erotic fiction and most never attempt it. It’s what enables me to flit into the minds of the characters I create so easily. And why many who read my stories are still convinced I’m actually a woman.

Remember, there’s no ideal. No universal sexual preference. If you’re pansexual,and  happy to try anything with anyone, that’s lovely, and I wish you a lovely time. Personally, I’m not. I do have my own preferences, just as others have theirs. 

Perversion isn’t a sexual preference beyond your own preferences. Perversion is overstepping the consensual boundaries of others.

Consider an example of what a simple change of perspective might bring.

What if a woman was to use her phallic dildo ‘the wrong way around’ – with the base between her legs, so it juts out proudly, just as if she had an erection?

Perhaps the base will permit the phallus to be slipped inside her slit, or she’ll keep it in place by squeezing her thighs together. Now she can stroke her new penis just like men do, transferring her juices to its shaft, making it slick and slippery. How many women ever play with their dildos like that? As a way of changing their sexual identity, rather than just a means of physical stimulation.

What might happen, as she grinds herself against the shaft, or feels its base push deeper inside her, if all kinds of transgressive fantasies begin to fill her mind?

Like, what do men fantasise about? Perhaps she’s imagining herself in the mind of her first boyfriend, as he imagines all the things he wanted to do to her. Such a naughty boy, wanking in bed each night, longing to plunge this big stiff cock into her tight little slit.

Isn’t that interesting. Now, instead of using her dildo to fill herself, she’s magically switched perspectives, so now she’s imagining herself being filled. She can see herself as others might see her, as an object of sexual desire.

Perhaps she might go further, and imagine what it would be like to actually do the fucking. What it would have been like if she’d told him to bend over, and lubricated his bottom hole with her juices. What it would be like to stand behind him, her hardness throbbing between his firm cheeks, before pushing her own phallus into his tight little hole.

Anatomy, gender, dominance and sexuality. Just a minor change of perspective on one, and suddenly, everything can become fluid. And new possibilities suddenly open.

Not everything needs to change, of course, it might only be a subtle shift. A submissive woman with her dildo between her legs can still be spanked like a naughty boy. Perhaps ‘he’ got an erection in class, and now ‘he’ must be inspected and punished just like any other naughty boy, stiff penis and bottom hole examined before and after a good hard whacking. Perhaps the disciplinarian will be merciful afterwards, sliding a finger into ‘his’ spanked bottom, and reaching round to work ‘his’ shaft until ‘he’ comes.

If you own a vulva and a dildo, why not try this experiment for yourself. Pull down your panties, and place the dildo against your mound, like you had an erection. How does that change your sexual expectations? If you lie back, with the dildo held between your thighs, how does that affect what you fantasise about?

There is no wrong way. Only a thousand new possibilities to play, waiting for your mind to venture further.

Some readers might recognise this idea, it’s the theme of my story Grimoire:

Every night I take my precious book from its little metal haven. I lie back on my bed, turning to a random page, and read some centuries-old words under my breath like a magic incantation. Then I close my eyes, and I am transported.

You would never believe the wonders I have seen. My feeble descriptions do them pathetically little justice.

My grimoire is not just the scribbled memories of long-ago spankings, it is a portal into the minds of ancient witnesses. Through it I have shared the thoughts of hundreds of men and women, boys and girls. I have seen every flavour of cruelty and compassion, power and authority, dominance and submission. I have explored every aspect of eroticism and sexuality, from the coy to the explicit, from the mediocre to the sublime.

Through it, I know what it’s like to be a man, how it feels to secretly stiffen as you spank a beautiful arse, how it feels to see her folds winking back between her kicking legs, and the frustration of knowing you can not have her. Through it I have experienced the glorious sensation of reaching between hot spanked cheeks to find her soaking wet, the delight of being absolutely rigid, and the epiphany of slipping inside her slick tight hole.

Through it, I have given and received the tender love of women.

I have loved a man through the eyes of a man.

I have been unsure of my gender and loved regardless.

I have experienced pleasure in outrageously decadent balls, parties and orgies.

I have lost and taken others’ innocence.

I have disciplined out of love and out of anger.

I have spanked to punish and spanked to pleasure.

I have explored the erotic ingenuities of tying up.

I have induced unexpected climaxes in girls and boys with skilful whackings.

I have bared the bottoms of princes and princesses.

I have scolded and seduced in a dozen different tongues.

And I have played all manner of secret games.

If only I could copy my little magic book of spanking, and show humanity its sexuality as others have seen it.

Doesn’t that sound like a idea worth encouraging?

spankingtheatre:

Every Princess deserves her own Throne.

Here’s how to create one of your own…

The Summons of Cold Castle

A Guest Story, by an anonymous friend and contributor

I have the great pleasure of attending the Cold
Castle Academy for Finishing Young Ladies. I know this is a “great
pleasure” because I am reminded of that fact every time I even think of a
negative comment over my schooling in the presence of my Great-Aunt
Aurellia.

Cold Castle makes the place sound so imposing. I remember my first
day so well. As the vintage car that had been sent to pick me up rounded the curve
of the drive, trees spilled away to reveal a charming country estate
cut from sandy stone, set with big windows and
surrounded by a meticulous garden.

It is everything one with a naughty mind might assume about an all girl’s boarding school.
Yes, we do get up to all sorts of mischief.
What would you truly expect from a whole lot of young ladies left to their own company and amusement?

In the evenings, after classes and dinner have finished, the day
staff retire to their own homes in the nearby village, save for the lone patrol matron – who, quite conveniently – is never to be found. Even
when the strange events begin to unfold.

I suppose I can truly only speak for my own experience. Some might find what I’m about to describe scary, disturbing or even unnaturally perverse. Some might even find it as arousing as I do.

Each night, after our lamps are extinguished, I lie in my wooden cot bed, in a blackness so absolute, it matters not whether my eyes
are open or shut. There are eight of us in my chamber, and I can almost hear the evening symphony swelling, as the intensity of our
desperation rises. The heat of our bodies hanging heavy in the air. 

Soon our eyes will accustomise to the gloom and we will rise, and we’ll open the shutters just a crack, to admit the merest sliver of wan moonlight. Then we’ll begin to play our usual games; Spin the Bottle, Truth or Dare, Kiss My
Cunny, and Overboard.

Sleep is not something any student here prioritises at
this investigative stage of our lives.
During the day we have all the usual things; lessons,
instructors, punishments. A disobedient girl may be held after class for
a whipping, but that’s usually a disappointment. Never sexual, always
carried out in the most swift and proper manner over
a clothed rump in the quiet privacy of an empty office. Even being called to the headmaster’s office, a situation which
has inspired many a wank, never results in anything but a stern
chastisement. 

But the truly interesting thing – the unique, almost unbeleivable factor that sets Cold Castle academy apart – is that it’s haunted… 

Well, that’s the only explanation that makes sense to me. We have all heard things, seen things that cannot have any other explanation.
The patrol matron is overly fond of drink and her routine is an easy one to memorize.
She does a once round of the dormitory corridors, then she can be heard
creaking about downstairs for an hour or so before settling into the library
with her bottle.

That’s when our fun begins.
Some nights it’s the whole group coming together in a circle on
the floor for a rousing game of Spin the Bottle. On other nights covers
are pulled back and beds are shared.
The fog of arousal, the buzz of buildup, the heady smell, the hum of heaving chests – it’s intoxicating.
I let the energy wash over me, relishing every whimper, moan and gasp. Once all have finished, the heat fades, silence falls. We sink into an exhausted sleep.

And that is when they come.

I’ve heard my friends’ tell their own stories. Out of your slumber for no reason, you
suddenly find yourself awake, and where before there was pitch darkness, now you find the dormitory drenched in a low, blue light – even when the shutters are closed, and there is no moon
in sight. 

Even more mysteriously, you will find on the end of your bed a folded square of rough, scratchy fabric and a member.
These enticing objects have been described in all sorts of
shapes, sizes and materials; some long and knobbly, others soft and
slick.

You rise, somehow sensing you have been summoned, picking up your bundle and making your way into the headmaster’s study. All around the strange weak blue light pervades the corridors, like a seeping mist. On arriving in the study, you discover the
thick rug that usually covers the centre of the room has been pulled aside, revealing a hatch in the floor. Upon lifting the latch, you will
descend a short flight of stairs into a cool,
dusty room.

When you step off the stairs and onto the floor of the little room below, the trapdoor swings closed above you, and you find yourself
trapped. Still the eerie blue light tints your surroundings, filtering down through ten or so round holes
drilled through the study floor high above your head. 

Something tells you to spread the coarse cloth onto the floor and remove your
nightgown. The evening’s earlier activities have already relinquished
you of your undergarments. Standing bare in the cold blue air you take a
moment to properly examine the member. It seems to hum with an inexplicable potency. 

Looking back, I would tell you I knew it was to be me that night
before I even fell asleep. I didn’t know that I knew, but had I thought about it, I would have realized.
The buzz and heat that throbbing through my body had been overwhelming. I had ridden my fingers
into glory, encouraged by chorus of moans from the bed next to mine. A friend who liked to join in as her neighbours played, and who was well accustomed to what they enjoyed.

I had pictured her, writhing together, our mouths buried in the other’s crotch.
On the other side, if I concentrated, I could just about hear the shy moans
of a new student, tentatively investigating her body for the first time,
emboldened by the activity surrounding her.
Her soft reluctance burst the dam within me as I imagined her
quickening breaths indicating that she’d found the courage to plunge her
longest digit within her hungry depths.
My orgasming voice joined that of my bed sisters and I slept
peacefully, contentedly until, for no explicable reason, I was awake. 

Sitting up, I could see arms and legs entwined in several of the room’s beds, whilst some lay empty, their sheets urgently tossed aside. I could hear the quiet breaths of my sleeping sisters, from whom my eyes drifted to focus on the
small pile beside my feet.

The cloth felt like it had been woven from rough wool. And
the member atop… it was shaped like a short, thick stone
dagger; obviously not one that was sharpened with a point. Or perhaps the head of a trident would have been a more accurate comparison, as it had a long centre shaft
and two equal shorter ones on either side. Grasping its base, I was impressed by its weight and unnatural
coldness. With reluctance, I accepted my fate and swung my legs to the
floor. The summons could not be ignored.

Gathering my bundle, I shuffled my way down the corridor, descending to the  floor below and through the imposing study door. I do not know who – or what – has pushed the heavy furniture
back against the walls, and rolled back the rug to expose the trap door hidden beneath. I took a deep breath, before kneeling and pulling the cold iron ring, coughing lightly
as the dusty musty air filled my nostrils.

As I descended, the steps creaked against my bare feet, my way illuminated by the blue light shining through the holes in the floor above.
When I reached the bottom, I could only just stand up straight in the small room. The stone walls around me glowed dimly, adding to my sense of confinement. I spread my rough blanket to cover the dirt of the floor.    

Knowing that next I was to discard my nightie, I scanned the
walls for a hook. Finding none, I folded it carefully and set it on the
bottom step, that’s when I heard the trapdoor latch above me. Trapped, with no way out, I knew what I had been summoned here to do. I rested the the 3-stemmed member upwards in the centre of the blanket, and gently eased myself onto the floor, lying on my back, heels clamped together
against the member’s square base. 

Now I conjured memories, crafting them into new delicious imaginings.
My new bed neighbour with her soft whimpers, yearning into me as I
drew my fingers down her body, cupping her mound, bringing her
tentative digits into mine.
 The cool air of the room lapped my hole which gaped stickily as
my knees lay spread. I tugged my nipples, stretching and twisting until
they were hard. I pinched my clit, making slow circles pulling it out of
hiding from beneath its hood; flickering
gently back and forth my mind searching for more wicked images. 

Perhaps one night we will venture from the safety of our sleeping
corridor and find ourselves fucked atop the headmaster’s desk, or taken
into the classroom and punished the way we wish: naked, in a room filled
with hungry eyes.

The last time I was punished I rushed straight from the
humiliation into the awaiting arms of my closest bed sister. She took me
into the woods and carried on my punishment; bending me over a fallen
log, lifting my skirts and switching my barely heated
cheeks until they were the stinging with the fiery intensity I longed for.
 I cried freely as she continued through my objections, trading the switches for her slipper adding a longing ache to the burn.
 She spanked me to my brink under the rustling leaves, surrounded
by birdsong and then she took me on that log, tribbing and riding until
we both lay exhausted on the forest floor. 

Strangely, she was expelled the next day. Yet it could not have been for
our woodland activities or I surely would have gone, too. I still miss her… hands.

I often wonder, had she ignored the summons?

I dipped my finger inside
myself, feeling the slickness within my depths. Now I was ready to bring my member up closer. I curved one side – one of the shorter prongs – until
it just teased my insides, if I pressed it against my mound, entered just deep enough to lubricate its tip.

Crawling onto my knees I angled the member carefully, shivering and shrinking as its icy hardness split my lips.
 Gripping the base with my heels, I sunk slowly onto the middle protrusion until
the uppermost prong paused, begging entrance to my puckered hole. Grimacing
as it stretched me, I gave in to what it wanted, bearing down until the
front curve was pressed cruelly into my clit.

Now, I was full.
The member’s marble so unyielding as it bore into my soft, warm flesh.
Carefully, I began fucking up and down, rocking my hips, enjoying the
little suckling noises that escaped.
My cunt was stretched by the thick intruder whilst my bottom hole hummed
with pleasure. Only my clit protesting as each thrust tugged its hood back, bruising my delicate little pearl a little more.

I could feel the pressure beginning to build, and continued my dance. The voices grew louder, the light bluer,
the air colder, the stone inside me harder. My fingers fought to find my clit,
fumbling with what little flesh they could find. I longed for her touch.
To be riding my member in my bed sister’s presence,
for her pleasure, my spanked cheeks glowing.

In my mind, I had run from the headmaster’s office, chastised
little by his lecture, to be greeted by her stern expression and firm
grasp, conveyed to our clearing.
The log was gone, but in its place was a wide ankle-high stump. She
withdrew my member from her skirts and relieved me of what I was wearing. Clambering, I
knelt atop the rough-hewn wooden surface as she placed the member
between my legs.

Eyeing me as she dipped to lubricate
its prongs with her spittle. I relaxed my thighs and sank onto the phallus,
her smile growing with my discomfort.
There is a glint in her sparkling eyes before she rounds out of sight. I
nearly lose my balance as her thin doubled woven belt strikes my
bare bottom. Her lashes fall evenly, encouraging my thrusts.

Once I cross the peak she pulls me to the edge of the stump,
spreading my thighs. I smile up at her expecting her tongue to suckle my
honey, but instead the belt comes down harshly through my clitoris and
extra-sensitive-from-freshly-cumming cunt.

In the dusty room I writhe against the member distracted by my fantasies.
I grow ever more adventurous, rocking wildly, clit crushed with each
raucous grind. I ride to the edge before feeling the blue light tipping
me backward, urging me to raise my knees high and plunge the member from
above.
I obey, lying on my back again, hips thrusting upward into the unforgiving phallus, until I cum. Loudly, with my legs shaking. 

I lay still a moment before letting the member fall; my hands
sliding to fondle my breasts, before crawling further to investigate my throbbing
clit.
I rub it gently, soothing the ache, legs twitching as my fingers cross the engorged bean. Then I jerk it roughly to another orgasm. 

Soon, I roll over again, so my face in the dusk, and my buttocks in the air. I thrust the
member desperately from behind, my empty hand scrabbling against the wall for anything to
pull against. I feel my juices dribbling down my thighs, bucking as my
open pussy relinquishes and reaccepts the member with
a sucking smack of a sobbering kiss. I can feel the cold blue air licking hungrily at my arousal, as I climax deliriously for the forth time tonight.

Collapsing onto the floor, tired and used, I can hear the voices
beckoning me to stand. I quickly slip my nightgown over my head, its thin
fabric doing nothing to hide my erect nipples. It’s brighter now, an extra blue square of light above my head indicating the trapdoor is again unlatched and open.

I ascend the stairs, but the moment my eyes come level with the floor above I am confused
to see that I am now surrounded by a circle of my naked bed sisters, their faces
pressed against the floor, their bottoms high in the air, their glistening slits on
full display. Each panting, urgently. Yet before I bend to
temptation forces beyond my understanding ferry me back up the stairs and  convey me into my bed.

I
don’t remember falling asleep.
And none of us remember the blue spirits in the daylight. I don’t
understand how we can forget. We go about our days in varying degrees of
scandal and normality, and only when night falls does our horny hum
wake the ghosts.


The very next night I wanked myself off to the memory of the previous evening after a very arousing game of Kiss My Cunny.
Here we close the shutters, and all sit on the edge of our beds whilst one girl fumbles about
in absolute darkness as we contort ourselves, trying to trick her into
suckling our pussies. When she mistakes the clit for a nipple or
dripping labia for the tongue she must pay a penalty
of the group’s choosing. 

Last evening I was the Cunny Kisser and I had made my way through
half the group before licking the proffered pussy instead of anus as I
had been aiming. My penalty was voted on and decided, and carried out summarily. It would be a group fingering over the baseboard, my cheeks spread, the solid
wood pressing into my stomach, a clamour of hands fondling me, whilst others held me in
place as I bucked against the innumerable squirming
digits within.

I came shamefully quickly to a round of racous laughter.
This was pronounced too lenient an execution and I was sentenced
to two more orgasms. They came quickly as I imagined what my fate would
have been had my original playmate still been here. She would have advocated a much more uncomfortable punishment, like a thorough pussy spanking, and then being put to bed with towels tied around crotch and waist, to prevent any chance of nocturnal relief. Exhausted by my climaxes, I fell into a deep and contented sleep. 

I was awoken several hours later by a low murmuring, and
unquestioningly joined the throng of my bed sisters as we shuffled down towards
the study. Compelled by the blue spirits, we moved as if in a daze – fully conscious
yet unable to resist. When we reached the study, we simultaneously removed our nightgowns, shyly
devouring each other’s nudity before obeying the unsaid command to kneel with our faces
to the floor. 

Like remembering fragments of a dream, I suddenly realised what I’d wintessed as I’d walked out of the trapdoor last night. Face
to the floor, looking through one of the little peepholes, I had a full view into the little room below. Just where I
had been last night lay the new girl, on her back, her legs spread wide. 

We tend to pleasure ourselves in darkness, rarely do we see our
wickedness. Our hands have felt much, much more than our eyes have ever
seen.
 From this spectacular vantage, I could feel my slit dampen in
mere anticipation of what my eyes were to see. My gaze consumed her
naked form; blue light glistening off her dark skin, hair twisted above
her head, full breasts, shaved mound, member in
hand. 

Just as I had, she was preparing her body to be filled, flicking
her clit. Those timid whimpers rising easily through the floor. I tried
to reach backwards to fumble my own but frustratingly found that I could not move my
hands.
Below, hesitantly, she began to twist the member, hers was a thick screw
made of glass. Her legs shook with each turn; mouth falling open,
silently protesting the intrusion.

I wondered what she was imagining. What naughty thoughts filled her head?

Did she like it when I had kissed her swollen lips?

Did she know I
had purposely lost that game, just for the chance to taste her?

Were her fingers
among those rubbing me furiously to my edge?

Would she one day become my
one bed sister?

And ride me?

And spank me? 

Just as that thought entered my mind, my naked bottom, high in
the air received a searing smack. I tried to turn and see who was behind
me but my gaze was locked on the show below.
The screw was all the way inside now, and she was gently tugging
in and out. Delicious sucking noises could be heard with each slight
movement. Her knees were drawn to her chest giving us the most invasive
view, her most delicate privacy fully open for
our eager eyes. 

Another crack fell upon my bottom and the wonderful heat rose. I
began to expect the next blow, eyes desperately consuming the show
below. She toyed herself to cumming and as she shook a volley of silent
blows fell across my cheeks. I bit back tears of pain
and joy.
She rolled to her knees, assuming the same position as us, gently beginning to twist the member into her puckered rosebud.
 I imaged the sensation, cold hard glass, intruding further and deeper with every turn. How the pressure must be building in her tummy. 

She reached her edge, fingers pounding sloppily.
I too had nearly reached mine. The intoxicating inconsistency of the
swats behind me returning with a vengeance. What I had judged to be a
leather paddle made no sound as I was jolted in place by each swing. I
tried to cry out but no sound came.

Silently I relished my punishment, rocking my hips to feel the
split between my lips. Each swing bringing a rush of air that cooled the
juice spilling from my slit.

Then, as the pressure within had built until I was sure I could no
longer take it, an unseen force plunged into my gaping pussy, fucking
me roughly. Something bigger than I’d ever had inside me before. Stretching me,
filling me.

I longed to let my head roll with pleasure.

 My fingernails dug into the floorboards, I pictured us all,
our bare bottoms glowing in the moonlight, eyes devouring pleasure below as we
received an invisible filling of our own.

We watched her come, as our own excitement peaked, watching in a state of near delerium as she put her gown back on, wondering if we would be cruelly denied the very release she had just been granted. 

Yet just as her toes hit the first
step, the fire burst within me.
I gushed down my thighs to a volley of fresh stings. I still
could not move; my bottom glowing, my stretched pussy throbbing, desperately panting.

She walked past us, no doubt wondering what had just occurred, just as I had. She would find out, soon enough.


Many thanks to the author of this work, a wonderfully creative mind who I’ve collaborated with before, but whose blog is too polite to post stories like these. If you liked this piece, I think you’ll enjoy her other work:

Pride and Obedience

A Spanking Story

image

Image by Katou Kahoru (source unknown)

Regency England, 1817

Serena
raised the hem of her candy-striped skirt to her hips, and hovered over
the little ebony stool, as her Mistress looked on encouragingly.

“That’s
a good girl! Mister Cholmondeley and his wife will be here soon. You
know how proud I am to have you kneeling at my feet.”

Beneath her
elegant dress, Serena was wearing nothing else. Her underwear having
been confiscated when she’d first arrived at Althorp House. At the time
she’d protested vociferously, a bit too petulantly as it happened. A
little tizzy that had cost her all her clothes, and ended with her being
spanked like a silly little girl over the knee of her Ladyship, and
being put to bed with a very sore bottom indeed.

That first night,
Serena had wept into her own pillows, distraught at the prospect of
having to spend the summer in this horrible place. In subsequent days
she’d discovered just how seriously her hostess believed in discipline.
The house rules were numerous and byzantine, but there was only ever one
punishment for breaking them: a good hard spanking, on the bare bottom.

At
first, Serena behaved as if she had a choice when it came to following
her instructions – a delusion her new mistress had found cheerfully
endearing. But in the three weeks since she’d arrived here, Serena’s
obedience had improved considerably. When she’d first been introduced to
the stool, she’d resisted bitterly, of course. But now she welcomed the
firm deep push of its double protrusions, and would take her seat
without complaint. In fact, Serena couldn’t remember the last time she’d
sat upon a proper chair.

There was a knack to mounting this low
dildoed stool, which Serena felt she’d now mastered. The trick, she’d
found, was to straddle it, and lower herself until she felt the slick
head of smaller stem poke against her bottom hole. Then she’d allow
herself to sink ever deeper, until she could feel the bulge of its head
stretch her open and push inside her. As she sank ever lower, the
thicker bulge of the other phallus would intrude between her slit,
probing her wet entrance like an over-eager lover.

Serena
continued her slow descent to the floor, until her knees were embedded
in the lush velvety softness of the salon’s dark carpet. She stifled a
moan as the protrusions penetrated deeper and deeper, stretching her
wider and filling previously unfelt spaces. At that point Serena would
be sitting on her haunches, her bright red shoes on either side of the
stool’s tiny legs, with her bare bottom resting on the narrow wooden
platter that formed its seat.

Once seated, she’d let go of her
dress, allowing her hem to fall to the floor like a finale’s stage
curtain, completely concealing the stool and its intimate protrusions.
Any visitor subsequently arriving would be completely unaware that just
beneath her pretty striped dress, both her holes were filled by dildoes.
Visitors would simply see what they expected to see, a beautiful young
lady kneeling adoringly at her Ladyship’s feet.

Once Serena was
kneeling, Lady Lydia Althorp took her place on the floral couch in front
of her, close enough for her young charge to lay her head on her lap.
She began stroking Serena‘s long chestnut brown hair, which was gathered at the back by a
vibrantly red ribbon.

“My lovely girl… such a good girl…”  she cooed as she stroked affectionately, “Serene by name, serene by nature.”

There
was a knock on the salon door, and Mary entered to introduce the
visitors. Mary was the chamberlain, the most senior of the household’s
all-female staff.

“Mr and Mrs Cholmondeley to see you, your Ladyship.”

Lady Lydia’s face lit up in an effusive smile, one that spread contagiously to all those present.  

“Mr Cholmondeley. And Jane! How delightful! Do be seated. Mary, tea for our guests please.”

The maid curtsied and closed the door behind her, as the guests made themselves comfortable on a sofa facing the lady of the house.

“Let me introduce you to
Serena. She’s staying with me this summer whilst her family are away. I
have absolute trust in her discretion, so you may speak freely in front
of us.”

Serena and the guests exchanged nods of acknowledgement, but the young lady did not rise from beside her Mistress’s lap.

“Dear Mr Cholmondeley. It is so good to see you again. To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“My
Lady Lydia… I shall be frank. A delicate matter brings us here. But
you asked me to speak candidly should my darling wife and I experience
any difficulties. Or disagreements…”

Her Ladyship seemed unfazed by
her visitor’s revelation. After all, matters of an intimate nature
usually lay behind most visits to her home. She took a moment to glance
at his wife Jane, who still hadn’t said a word, and whose arms lay
folded sullenly across her breast.

“Ah yes. A period of disquiet
is natural enough when a headstrong young lady enters her new marital
home. You lament the loss of your independence, my dear?”

Jane said nothing, but her expression suggested she did not demur. Her husband broke the awkward silence.

“Yet
I can’t help but notice those in your household seem devoted to you,
without ever having taken a marital oath. Just look at young Miss
Serena, kneeling so respectfully by your lap, so well-behaved! Pray my Lady,
what is your secret?”

“My secret?!” Lydia allowed herself a coquettish giggle.

“Well
Mr Cholmondeley, let me say that he ceremony of marriage is a mere
social convenience. An oath changes nothing. Respect and obedience must
be earned. Encouraged. And when necessary… enforced.”

“Serena? I
wonder, would you help me educate this lovely couple? Shall we show them
what’s been responsible for the improvements in your own behaviour?”

“Of course, My Lady.”

“Then will you please lift your skirt to your waist?”

Serena
felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment, yet she also found herself
wanting to do as her Mistress had asked. She’d been so naive when she’d
arrived here, but her Ladyship had shown her things, taught her things,
secrets she’d never known about her own body, and the intense pleasures
it was capable of. It was a debt Serena now felt honour-bound to repay with
her own unquestioning obedience.

Nevertheless, her Ladyship’s
instructions often made Serena squirm with shame, but then she’d remind
herself that her Mistress knew best, and would try to do as she was
commanded. Inevitably, she’d soon find her heart racing, her skin
tingling, and the slit between her legs becoming throbby, hot and wet.
As if that feeling of intimate excitement was her reward for doing
exactly as she’d been told.

Serena reached down to the lacy hem
of her dress that lay draped on the carpet all around her, and slowly
raised both hands to her waist. Her bright red shoes were revealed
first, then the stool she was sitting on – its four curved ebony-wood
legs, on top of which was the narrow flat seat, inlaid with black velvet
around the rim.

As she raised her skirt, Serena revealed her
nakedness to their visitors. Beginning with a glimpse of her bare thigh
and her elegant red garter, then the smooth pale globes of her unclad
buttocks resting on the coal-black platter of the stool. And in the
middle, the watching eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to the thin dark
protrusions that rose from the seat and disappeared alluringly between
her cheeks.

Jane was the first to realise the significance of
what she’d seen, and gasped. Her husband tried to show more decorum, and
merely gawped.

A keen eye might even have seen the faint pink
blush of Serena’s early morning spanking. Her Ladyship believed in
waking her charges with a well-smacked bottom. So Serena knew that when
she heard the knock on her door in the morning, she was expected to
leave the cosy cocoon of her bedcovers, and bend over the rail at the
bottom of her bed.

When her Ladyship entered, 30 seconds later, she expected to see Serena
with her nightgown raised above her hips and her bare bottom presented
to be spanked. Lady Lydia found a dozen spanks cleared even the
sleepiest of heads. It meant in her household, no one was ever late for
breakfast.

Her bedtime routine was very similar. After washing
and toileting, Serena would bend over the bottom of her bed with her
nightgown raised, and wait for her Ladyship to arrive and inspect her.
They would then discuss her day’s behaviour. Being a good girl, one who
was attentive and obedient, often had very pleasurable consequences.
Whereas being naughty meant being put to bed with a sore bottom, with a
leather chastity belt over her nightgown, its thick strap passing
between her legs and buckled around her waist, to keep wandering fingers
at bay.

Serena continued lifting her skirt until her bottom was
completely revealed. She could barely believe she was exposing herself
like this, no gentleman had ever seen her so compromised. But
accompanying the shame was another feeling, an ecstatic thrill that
surged through her veins, making her whole body tingle. Showing herself
felt so liberating – and, contrary to all her expectations, incredibly
exciting.

“Good girl! You may stand up now Serena, and let our guests see what you’ve been sitting on.”

Serena
let the hem of dress fall, and rose from her haunches, holding onto the
sofa with her nearest hand to help steady herself. The two protrusions
slowly slipped out from within her, until only the uppermost bulges
remained. Her bottom hole stretched one last time, almost reluctant to
lose the intrusion that had filled it. Her dress muffled the faint
squelching sounds of their exit as she rose to her feet, feeling her
groin ache with longing for what she’d just lost.

Once she was
standing upright, Serena gathered her dress to her knees and took a step
to the side so her little stool was fully uncovered. Its twin
protrusions were now exposed in all their lurid detail, sticky and
glistening with her juices. Each stem was carved with a spiral, a design
that enhanced the sensations of the sitter as she slid down its length.
At the top of each was a helmet-shaped bulge of rubber, carefully
crafted to mimic the glans of a penis.

“My Goodness!” exclaimed Mr Cholmondeley.

“This… is Serena’s Obedience Stool…” Lady Lydia announced proudly.

The
visitors stared at what had been revealed in silence. Its purpose was
shockingly explicit, but what surprised them most was that they’d both
been within touching distance of the young lady who’d been
sitting serenely upon it, yet neither had suspected in the slightest the secret
that lay hidden beneath her pretty pink dress. She had literally been
fucked in both holes, right before their eyes, and they’d never even
noticed.

The edgy silence was interrupted by a knock on the door,
as Mary and another maid arrived with trays of tea and scones. Mary
caught Serena’s eye with a knowing smile when she saw the stool by her
feet, in a way that suggested she’d spent some memorable times sitting
upon the same device herself.

As Mary closed the door behind her, the silence
was replaced the sound of clinking china and thoughtful supping. The
tiny stool remained the elephant in the room, dominating the minds of
all those present, but mentioned by no one.

Lady Lydia could see
Jane was squirming awkwardly on her sofa. She wondered if her guest was
imagining sitting on the stool herself. Whereas her husband seemed to have a
bulge in his breeches. She did not need to wonder why.

Meanwhile
Serena was calmly sitting on the floor by her lap, cradling her warm cup in her
hands. She seemed to prefer kneeling to sitting on the sofa now, and
Lydia was most impressed by her level of devotion.

When the tea had been enjoyed, it was Lydia who broke the long silence.

“Were you embarrassed, Serena? To show you’d been sitting on such intimate protrusions?”

“Why yes, Mistress.”

“You’ll notice, Mr Cholmondeley, how Serena obeys despite her humiliation.”

“An attitude that does you credit, Miss Serena.”

“Stand up, Serena. That’s a good girl. Now lift your dress and show our guests your bare little slit.”

Serena
felt a buzz of energy surge through her body. She’d grown up being told
to always keep herself covered, to never ever expose herself. But now
her Mistress was teaching her all those old rules no longer applied. She was
a grown woman now, in an adult world, venturing into a strange new realm of
intoxicating experiences. One where nudity wasn’t just permitted, it was
encouraged.

“Yes Mistress.”

Serena bent over, reaching down
to grasp the hem of her dress, and slowly raised it to her face. Coyly
hiding her blushing cheeks as she exposed her most intimate places.

“Why, her mound is quite bare!”

“Indeed.
Those in my charge keep themselves smooth, as a daily act of devotion.
Now Serena, tell our gentleman friend why you’re standing with your
skirts up, showing everyone your bare little slit.”

“I’m standing like this, Sir, because my Mistress has taught me that my obedience matters more than my pride.”

“My. My. How fascinating! And I assume the stool is a key part of your training regime?”

“Of course. And regular spankings.”

“I see. May I ask where you acquired this marvellous stool?”

“I have an acquaintance who is a master carpenter. He made a pair to my specifications.”

“A pair, you say?”

“Indeed.
I usually have two young ladies staying with me each summer. Serena
will have a company soon: Julienne is coming here from
France. Now the disturbances on the continent are over, her family are
eager I improve the young lady’s English. As well as her discipline. In fact, she
should be on the ship from Le Havre as we speak.”

“I don’t suppose…” he began.

Lady
Lydia could read his intentions in his face, and rang the service bell
before he could finish his sentence. Moments later, Mary reappeared.

“Be a dear, Mary, and fetch the other stool from my bedchamber. And lubricate its stems please, so it’s ready for use.”

Mary nodded, but wisely suppressed her smirk until after she had left the room. The staff lived under the same rules as her Ladyship’s guests, with self-pleasuring strictly rationed by their Mistress. It made for a household that was very eager to please.

“Now Mr Cholmondeley. Be so good as to ask your wife to remove her underwear.”

“I shall do no such thing!” Jane protested, breaking the sullen silence she’d maintained ever since she’d entered the room.

“Now, now, Jane dear. Serena was just as obstinate when she arrived, weren’t you, my love?”

Serena
nodded solemnly. Her initial protestations seemed so silly now in
retrospect, but petulance driven by her sexual insecurities meant she’d
earned herself several canings and inspections during her first few days
here. Each act of defiance had cost her an item of clothing, all the
garments she’d brought with her being held in the custody of her
Ladyship’s wardrobe. Her initial misbehaviour meant soon she had nothing
left to wear. So Serena had spent two full days walking around her new
home naked, shyly covering her chest and freshly shaved mound whenever
she encountered any of the domestic staff.

It was the promise of
winning back her clothes that motivated Serena’s obedience. That, and a
growing realisation that she secretly rather enjoyed following her
Ladyship’s instructions. Yes, they could be embarrassing, but they also
made her feel all gooey inside. Being naked felt surprisingly good.
Getting her bottom spanked made her little bump throb. And being
inspected, and having her most intimate places spread open by her
Mistress’s fingers made her feel like she was the most important little
girl in the whole wide world.

When Serena had first encountered
the stool, she thought it was a cruel and devious means of punishment.
But her Mistress had undressed her and reassured her, and she’d knelt
down as she was told, and discovered she’d been very much mistaken. As
Serena sat naked on the stool, she learned instead how it rewarded her
obedience with a deep, satisfying pleasure.

“Your husband has commanded you dear. You do remember your vow of obedience…”

Jane harrumphed in reply, folding her arms even more tightly across her chest.

An
awkward silent stand-off developed, which lingered until there was
another knock on the door. It was Mary, carrying another stool in both
hands.

Mary placed the stool as instructed, by Mr Cholmondeley’s
feet. The stems of its two lewd protrusions glistened, catching the
lamplight, luring the eyes.

He respectfully waited until the
chamberlain had left the room before beginning to scrutinise the curious
object she’d left at his feet.

“Such elegantly crafted phalluses…” he observed.

“Yes!” Lydia affirmed, “A hardwood core, with a head of finest Malay latex, and such exquisitely carved spirals down each stem.”

“And lubricated with..?”

“Glycerin. I like to add a dash of fresh ginger if the sitter has misbehaved.”

“Wonderfully inventive. And they are removable too?”

“Indeed,
one can simply unscrew them for cleaning or replacing. The vaginal stem
can removed during the days of the month when a girl’s slit is padded,
so she can sit on the anal stem alone. And of course the same
arrangement can be used whenever I host naughty boys…”

At that
last comment, Mr Cholmondeley arched an eyebrow. He could readily
imagine a young man kneeling at her Ladyship’s feet, his stiff cock
pointing upwards in tribute.

“Now, Mr Cholmondeley. It’s clear
your wife requires a lesson in obedience. But a good disciplinarian
knows there’s more than one way to impart their teachings.”

“Serena, dear. Fetch the leather spanking paddle and give it to Mr Cholmondeley.”

Serena
ambled towards the mantelpiece, where a long thin intimidating cane
rested horizontally against the wall. How strange, she thought, that a
bottom-whacking stick should have pride of place in so many homes.
Perhaps it was a subtle message to visitors, that this household was run
in good order, a place that believed in the highest standards and
discipline. But if that was the case, what message did the considerable
collection of disciplinary implements in this room convey? Serena was
still pondering that question as she plucked one of the black oval
paddles that hung on the wall from its little hook, returning to
graciously place what she’d chosen in the gentleman’s hands.

“Now,
Sir…” began her Ladyship, “I’m sure you’ll agree that your wife’s
blatant rudeness and disobedience deserves a good hard spanking.”

“I do…” he said hesitantly.

“Unfortunately,
your wife is in a most obstinate mood. So, Serena shall take her
spanking for her. Lift your dress please, Serena. And bend over.”

Serena
did as she was told, hoisting her skirt up to her waist until her
bottom was bared. Then to Mr Cholmondeley’s surprise (and not
inconsiderable delight) she took a step forward and bent over his lap.
The couple were sitting close enough that Serena laid with her head
resting on Jane’s lap. Then, without needing to be told, she opened her
legs as she’d been taught, exposing the long cleft of her swollen cunt
to his disbelieving gaze.

“Now, tell Jane she’s been a very naughty girl, and she must be spanked.”

He turned aside to his wife, who looked back at him incredulously.

“You’ve been a very naughty girl, Jane. And you must be spanked.”

“Place
the paddle on Serena’s bottom, Sir. A bit lower. Yes, there. Now, spank
her hard. A dozen times, alternating between her cheeks. Begin.”

He
started smacking as instructed, uncertainly at first. But progressively
harder and firmer. Serena had buried her face in Jane’s lap, whose
skirts served to muffle her cries. He felt it cruel to inflict such pain
on this innocent young lady, but he only needed to glance between her
open legs to see how excited she’d become. Besides, Lady Lydia was an
expert in such matters, he was confident she knew what she was asking of
him.

After the first dozen spanks, Lydia demanded he give a dozen
more, this time even harder. Soon, Serena’s bottom was conspicuously
pink, with her hips beginning to snake and squirm with every smack. Jane
was growing increasingly uncomfortable herself, as each whack on
Serena’s bottom not only assaulted her ears, but she could also feel the
hot breath of each accompanying cry as it was shouted into her own lap.

Jane
forced herself to look down at the stool that had been brought for her,
staring at its twin phalluses, glinting in the lamplight. They were so
tall, they’d go in so deep. Much deeper than her own little fingers had
ever been able to probe, certainly deeper than any hairbrush handle.
Deeper even than the thrusts of her dear husband’s cock.

She
didn’t want to defy him, or become a tetchy wife – she just found
running her new household so tiresome. She’d much rather take her
favourite horse from the stables, and go galloping around their
beautiful estate than do all the aristocratic chores that seemed to be
expected of her. Like writing and sending dinner party invitations, or
entertaining the well-meaning but ultimately tedious individuals who
constituted her new social circle.

But…

… maybe it would
be better to kneeling on the floor, impaled upon the stool, filled,
obedient and satisfied. Better than sitting on the sofa, frumpy, ignored
and miserable.

“Another dozen, Sir… then I’ll summon Mary, and she can take her place.”

In
the end it was Jane’s pride that broke her resistance. The thought that
her stubbornness would ultimately result in every woman in this
household having her skirt lifted and her bottom bared, before each had their turn across her husband’s knee. That wasn’t fair. His lap was her
rightful place. Where she belonged.

“Wait! Wait! I’m sorry!”

The paddle froze in mid-air, moments from Serena’s trembling pink buttocks.

“I was wrong. I’ll take my place, and what I deserve.”

Lydia
nodded contentedly, and told Serena to rise and return to her stool.
She retook her place excitedly, no longer caring who was watching as the
two protrusions slid easily inside her yearning holes. Sitting on the
stool with a well-spanked bottom was always an extra special treat,
everywhere was so much more sensitive. With her sore cheeks tingling
against the soft velvet pads of the stool’s tiny seat, she could perch
on the edge of orgasm for hours, knowing just a few firm rubs of her
little bump from her Mistress would utterly sweep her away.

As
Serena was retaking her seat, Jane rose from her own and reached up
under her dress to undo the drawstring of her drawers. She let them fall
to the floor before stepping out of them, picking up her undergarments
to present to her hostess as a sign of her contrition.

Then
without needing to be told, Jane returned to stand in front of her
husband, lifting her dress to expose her bare bottom, she bent over his
lap, just as Serena had done.

“I’ve been such a very naughty girl, Sir. Please give me the hard spanking I deserve.”

Her
husband responded by rubbing the paddle across her bottom, and stroking
her hair with the fingers of the other. It was soothing and
conciliatory, his way of letting her know this would not be a spanking
delivered in anger, but a punishment she’d earned, and the proper fulfilment
of justice.

As the first whack echoed around the room, Serena
could swear she felt it through her stool. Mr Cholmondeley spanked his
wife firmly and vigorously, each smack harder and louder than any he’d
applied to Serena’s poor bottom.

Jane was whacked hard for her
defiance, her disobedience and her rudeness. And she was spanked for
cruelly letting poor Serena suffer in her place. She hoped she’d be able
to apologise to her later, to make things better. Until then, she hoped
Serena was enjoying watching her get what she deserved, as well as the
sensations of the dildoes deep inside her.

As she looked down to
the floor from her husband’s lap, the second stool returned her gaze,
the two faux cocks pointing back, accusingly. As each whack stung her
bottom, Jane came to regret her recent aloofness even more. It had been
ages since her husband had spanked her, and her natural submissiveness
had withered into haughty indifference. He’d been too meek, too distant.
But now each spank was making her realise how much she’d missed his
firm hand, and how she longed to be under his strict control.

After
two dozen whacks, Jane’s bottom was sore and smouldering. She hadn’t
been spanked this hard since her last year at finishing school. The time
she’d been found asleep in another girl’s bed – which wouldn’t have
been so bad, had not Hannah, the bed’s owner, been found asleep
alongside her. If only their schoolmistress had known just what they’d
been getting up to…

They’d watched each other bend over the
padded horse in the punishment room, each throbbing as they
witnessed their lover being caned. Afterwards, they’d walked out hand in hand,
before returning to the scene of their crime to rub cooling lotion into
each others’ stinging cheeks. Jane had learned two important lessons
that day: to be much more careful in her erotic escapades, and how much
being disciplined turned her on. She longed for someone strict to put a
stop to her nonsense, to ignore her disingenuous pleas and place a cane
against her bare bottom. Someone to give her the whackings she knew she
deserved.

Jane found herself daydreaming about that long ago
caning, squirming, but never pleading, taking her punishment with stoic
acceptance, just as she’d  always done. Her husband spanked her until his
arm was tired, until her pert little bottom glowed brightest pink, and
until her a trickle of her wetness dribbled from her slit, and seeped
onto his breeches.

“You may get up now, Jane.”

“Thank you, my Lady. I’m truly sorry for my insouciance.”

“Are you now? We shall see. Remove your clothes at once, every stitch.”

Jane
knew immediately she had no justifiable reason to disobey. She
swallowed her pride and sank to the floor, crouching to remove her shoes
before pulling off her stockings. As she stood, she gathered her gauzy
lilac dress around her waist and lifted it over her head in one swift
deliberate movement. Which meant that once she’d slipped her silk
camisole off her shoulders, she was indeed standing in front of her
Ladyship without wearing a stitch.

Her Ladyship took a moment to
admire her visitor’s nude athletic figure. Her thighs and flat tummy
toned by years of horse riding no doubt. The talk was Jane never rode
sidesaddle, that she liked to ride in breeches, scandalously astride her mount, with
the ridge of the saddle against her cunt. Jane respectfully left her arms by her
sides as she was scrutinised, declining to hide her firm round breasts
and erect little nipples, and the precisely clipped dark triangle of her
mound.

“Very good. Now take your place on the stool at your husband’s feet.”

Jane
stood above the stool, and did her best to copy what she’d seen Serena
do: bending at her knees until she felt the bulge of the smaller phallus
against her bottom hole, then sinking down slowly onto her haunches
until she was fully impaled on both. It felt incredible. Like her heart
might jump out of her chest with excitement.

When she raised her
woozy head, she found her husband looking down on her admiringly. His
hand reached towards her, running his fingers through her short black
hair, flooding Jane with a feeling of sudden contentment.

It
didn’t take Jane long to understand why her hostess had called this
devious device an Obedience Stool. The tall protrusions that filled her
also served to pin her in the kneeling position, legs splayed apart and
back ramrod-straight. Jane tried shifting her weight, trying to subtly
obtain new throbby sensations, only to discover this was a stool
designed with posture, and not self-stimulation, in mind.

The
protrusions actually reminded her of Hannah’s long bony fingers – she’d
liked to fill both of her friend’s holes at once, her two longest
sliding into Jane’s vagina, and her ring finger living up to its name,
stretching and entering her tight little bottom hole. But whilst
Hannah’s skillful fingers had pushed and probed, the dildoes of her
stool were rigid and frustratingly still.

Jane’s upright posture
meant the dildo in her cunt filled her deeply, without ever rubbing
against the throbby front part of her passage where she wanted it most.
To gain any kind of pleasure on this stool, Jane knew she’d need to rise
up from her sitting position, so the bulges of both protrusions rubbed
the sensitive spots just inside her entrances. But that would be
impossible to achieve surreptitiously, meaning any pleasure would
require the explicit permission of one’s Master or Mistress. And thus the stool guaranteed its sitter’s obedience.

As if to emphasise the point, her incessant squirming soon drew her husband’s attention.

“My Lady, is there a risk a girl on the stool might come?” he asked curiously.

“What is The Rule, Serena?”

Serena turned her head to the side, so she could address their guest.

“Pleasure
on the stool is strictly at my Mistress’s indulgence, Sir. I may not
stimulate myself without permission. I must sit at the lap of my
Mistress, obediently and attentively.”

Mr Cholmondeley nodded with
satisfaction, and returned to stroking his wife’s hair, drying the
wetness that her spanking had brought to her watery eyes. New thoughts,
and exciting possibilities began to materialise in his mind.

“Tell me my Lady, how long before your French guest arrives?”

“With a fair wind and smooth carriage, I expect her here in about ten days.”

“Then may I be so bold, and ask if you’d be generous enough to take my Jane
under your care for a week? I have tedious business in London to attend.
And I think she’d be much happier here, in your company.”

Jane
looked up at her husband pleadingly, despite knowing there was no chance
of changing his mind. His request made her stinging bottom tingle.
She knew that staying here would mean a week of sore spankings and
intimate humiliations, days of strict discipline and lessons in
obedience. And hours perching on top of this infernal stool, aching
to come. But perhaps also the beginnings of erotic adventures that had
been too long denied. She resolved to obey, and trust.

“Why, I would be delighted, Sir! By the time you return, you shall find your Jane kneeling
just as she is now. And I promise you’ll find her aching for your touch,
and so very eager to please. You’ll be ever so proud of her!”

“Wonderful! Thank you, my Lady!”

“And
might I also have your carpenter’s address? I would love to pay a
visit, and commission a pair of stools for my own household.”

His wife looked shocked.

“A pair?”

“Well yes, my dear… we often have visitors…”

.

.

.

@spankingtheatre 2017

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.

You’re welcome to reblog and share.

Every Princess deserves her own Throne

Have you sat on yours yet?

Every Princess deserves her own Throne

Have you sat on yours yet?

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑