I love fairytales. Not the bland, colourful
fast-food served up by Disney to fill its theme parks, but the dark,
archaic gothic tales that have been told and retold around the glowing
hearths of Europe over countless cold winter nights.
Fairytales fascinate because they are abstract stories,
they tell of a imagined past that never was, yet one we can conjure
effortlessly into being in our imaginations. Fairytales are not
histories, but fables – stories about morals, archetypal characters and aphorisms.
Jung believed these archetypes came from our common psychology, the
thoughts, dreams and values we share with every human being ever born.
These universal stories form the foundations of our shared culture.
I believe fairytales have a special, secret magic: that each story
shares the same words with its darker twin, hidden in plain sight, which
we can see if we read the tale just slightly differently. Through a
If your mind is so attuned, you’ll see the secret
world that others can’t. You’ll begin to watch for it, you’ll learn to
recognise the covert clues, even when it’s in disguise. Where others see
an innocent fairytale, you’ll see a tale of submission and dominance,
obedience and rebelliousness, subjugation and eroticism.
you’ll develop a special fascination with the stern, domineering
characters, you’ll imagine their dungeons as places of taboo excitement
rather than despair. Maybe you’ll see the story not as good versus evil,
but as a banal, rule-bound world being rattled by iconoclast upstarts.
What is wickedness, really? Seeking to corrupt innocence and virtue, or
seeking to impose it?
The magic of fairytales is they contain two stories, light and dark, coexisting, twisted around each other like a double helix, waiting to be untangled by the reader’s mind. Is it a story of escape or desertion, capture or salvation? Do you see ravishment or submission? Do you see an abduction or a rescue? Do you see love or lust? And does the story end in agony or ecstasy?
It’s a genre I’m keen to return to, so starting tonight I’m going to be posting an new anthology of erotic spanking fairytales, starting with a brand new story:
I’ll update this post with links to the new stories as they’re posted, in the meantime, here’s two other gothic fairytales I’ve written. Look out for the themes of light and dark, try peering beyond the reflection, and you never know what you might see lurking behind the mirror…
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.”
“Yes…” I gulp nervously, earnestly hoping that wasn’t your actual intention.
“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.
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.
I begin whipping myself.
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.
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.
Kelly Jo really enjoys getting her bottom temperature taken. Every time the cool glass thermometer bulb penetrates her sensitive pink rosebud, she lets out a tiny whimper and slightly rotates her pelvis. It’s extremely difficult to maintain professional decorum with the girls who seem to overly enjoy their school health sessions. I believe some of the girls’ first orgasms have been right here in this office. I pretend to be oblivious to their behaviors, so some put on quite the extravagant yet “subtle” show just to attempt to pry my attention.
I know bottom inspections are a hugely evocative fantasy for a large number of my readers. If that includes you, I’m delighted to introduce for your erotic pleasure the wonderful work of @victimofcircuspants. I do hope their future illustrations will include some well-spanked bottoms. Do show your support and encourage the creation of original content. Bravo!
My doctor was refreshingly easy company, and soon we were messing around, making up lurid backstories of our fellow partygoers. One couple in an alcove opposite us had caught my eye, one had dressed as Snow White, and the other as the Wicked Queen. Their costumes were gorgeous, Snow wore a sparkling blue corset above a chiffon gown of radiant yellow, and the Queen wore a beautiful coal black cloak over a striking violet evening down. Snow had a cherry-red bow in her hair, whilst the Queen wore a small jagged copper crown whose edges glimmered in the half-light. And both wore porcelain white face masks, which made them look like life-sized dolls.
“I bet they they have a Queening Throne at home…” I ventured.
This was my little test. A chance to discover if my dear doctor knew what I meant, to learn if a kinky mind dwelt beneath that calm professional demeanour. His immediate knowing smile told me I needn’t have worried.
“Ah yes, but who sits upon it?” he replied.
I pondered his challenge for a moment, then described what I imagined. The Wicked Queen seated imperiously, the back of her long gown hitched up at the back. I told of how Snow White would approach the dais, bowing submissively, and then kneel before the evil monarch, begging to be granted the privilege of serving her. Then suddenly Snow would be enveloped by a swirl of violet silk, and feel the heat of her Queen’s hungry pink maw against her lips.
He nodded, congratulating me on my creativity. Or perhaps it was the other way round, he suggested. The Queen had been vanquished, and Snow had claimed the throne. Every day the defeated regent would be brought from the dungeons, naked but for her chains and her chastity belt. The prisoner would be made to pay homage to the new sovereign in the most intimate possible way. And despite her innocent monicker, he suggested Snow White would demand her captive thoroughly lick her bottom before she earned the right to service her Mistress’s soaking slit.
Goodness I thought. My new friend did have a filthy imagination…
The painting captivated me from the moment I glimpsed it, like a black hole in the gallery wall, capturing wandering eyes with its irresistible gravitational pull.
It had been mounted in one of the little L-shaped alcoves off the main concourse, a gap easy to overlook as one scurried between the artist’s better known works. Two brass posts and a red velvet rope had blocked the way, but curiosity got the better of me and I mischievously stepped over it, peering around the corner, just to see what lay beyond.
I was rewarded by the sight of this little treat. A golden torso, impressionistically rendered, and behind, a figure in a sheer black mermaid dress, her lines sharper, somehow edgier. A straight line cut through the centre, seemingly a stick of some sort. My imagination stirred. It could easily be a cane. And if it was, the radiant figure was about to be whacked.
I could feel my cock now, stirring and slightly heavier between my legs. Now I was glad of my solitude, of this chance to admire this alluring image alone, the bustle and chat of the invited patrons a reassuringly distant murmur.
I stood staring, trying to unravel its strange meaning. The caption card seemed to offer few hints, merely stating its title, “Three Heartbeats.”
“I do have other paintings here you know.”
I recoiled from my reverie, I hadn’t noticed her approach, but now a stylishly dressed lady was standing beside me. I took me a while to understand her comment, to recognise who she was. She was the exhibitor, the one whose works we’d all come here to admire.
“A captivating work” I admitted. “Inspired by personal experience?”
“Perhaps.” she said coyly.
The artist drew closer, reducing her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. Her scent was fresh and sweet, like a walk through a midsummer garden after rain.
“I once visited my headmistress’s office, I was going on a field trip, to paint mountains, and I needed her to sign a form. Her secretary smiled slyly as she told me she was busy. She invited me to wait, I took a seat near the door. I could hear her voice, scolding somebody. Then I heard that they were going to be caned. Her secretary was scribbling on a page, but I saw a faint smile on her face. I was seized by curiosity.”
“Then, fate intervened. The secretary’s phone rang, and she was suddenly called away. I was left in the room alone, there was a keyhole in the door, so obviously I couldn’t resist peeping through it.”
“So I knelt, heart thumping, beside the headmistress’s door. Knowing at any moment I might be discovered, and surely be caned myself.”
“That’s when I peered into the room, and saw everything.”
“A tall young lady was standing facing the back of the door, her arms folded across her back. Her naked torso dominated my field of view, I could see her mound was shaved exquisitely bare. Behind her, the headmistress had plucked a cane from the wall. She stood impassively in her tight black dress, looking like she was wrapped in a shard of night.”
“When she summoned the girl to bend over in front of her, I could see she was naked apart from her shoes and socks, her school uniform neatly folded on a nearby chair.”
“Suddenly, I was aware of approaching footsteps. I hurried stood and dashed to my seat, just as the secretary returned to the room. My face burned pink, I could feel my palms slick with sweat.”
“Through the door I heard the first faint swick, and the poor girl moan. Then 9 more whacks.”
“The secretary must have seen the shock on my face. She fixed me with her wide, sparkling eyes, and told me in no uncertain terms: That’s what happens to naughty girls.”
“A few minutes later, the door opened, and a quite contrite looking young lady emerged. I knew her, not well, but she was part of my year. I never discovered why she was punished. And I never mentioned what I’d seen to anyone. Until now.“
I looked back at the figure in the painting, and the delicate cleft below her smooth mound. I found myself scrutinising her body language, was that trepidation I could sense or excitement?
I could see the artist’s anxiety in her quick, urgent brushstrokes. As if she was trying to commit to canvas that fleeting memory before she was discovered. Perhaps the surrounding gray haze represented the stolen glance dissipating from memory, yet the central figures remained vivid.
I found myself wondering who the model was, and whether this was really a self-portrait, that I was looking at the naked form of the woman standing beside me. Whether the painting was really the artist imagining herself about to pay the penalty for her peeking, literally and figuratively undressed, and about to bend over for the headmistress’s cane.
“And what about the title?” I asked.
“A double meaning. One is there are three hearts beating in that picture, the headmistress, the girl about to be caned, and the viewer’s own.”
I nodded. The scene certainly had set my pulse racing. And my cock swelling.
“And the other?”
“It really was only the most fleeting glimpse, it must only have lasted 3 heartbeats. But what I saw has lingered with me a lifetime.”
I looked deeper into her eyes, and began to recognise a kindred spirit.
I handed her my card, telling her I hoped she’d visit my office sometime.
She ran her fingers along mine as she plucked my card from my hand. She read my details salaciously, almost teasingly. My name. My gallery. Then my profession.
“Oh, a Dealer? I’m always happy to meet those who deal with naughty girls…”
Then, before my tongue could untie itself, the enigmatic artist took a step backwards without even bidding me goodbye, and melted back into her appreciative crowd.
The caption translates as “In fact, he masturbated her”, suggesting she found her humiliating punishment actually rather pleasurable. As those who’ve ever experienced a skillfully delivered spanking on their slit and bottom hole will readily appreciate.
Does anyone know the artist, or the provenience of this drawing? Please drop me a message or repost this with the answer if you do.
I wonder if it was part of a series, and who are the characters? Is she a naughty schoolgirl, or are they roleplaying lovers? What did the young lady do to earn such intimate punishment? Is she spanked in other positions? And what happened when the slaps finally stopped?
Stylistically it looks like an illustration from, or homage to, the elegantly raunchy French spanking fiction that was popular during the first 40 years of the 20th century. If you’ve read my posts from Pierre Louys’ Young Girls’ Handbook, you’ll know French erotic writing can be very witty, and very filthy indeed…
Apollonia Saintclair asc 379 – 20130625 L’apprentissage (Wrapped Around Your Finger)
You consider me the young apprentice / Caught between the Scylla and Charibdes. / Hypnotized by you if I should linger / Staring at the ring around your finger. / I have only come here seeking knowledge, / Things they would not teach me of in college. / I can see the destiny you sold / turned into a shining band of gold.
As I’m in the mood for all things French, à ce moment. I highly recommend the dark, provocative and profoundly beautiful erotic art of @apolloniasaintclair…