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Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

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erotic fairytales

You were the first account on tumblr that made me squirm; you awakened my love of spankings. The Throne of Shame was the first of your stories I read and I loved every second of it. I used to read it daily. That was around seven years ago and to this day, it still makes me cum. Thank you is all I have to say.

Throne of Shame does seem to invoke powerful feelings in some readers. Perhaps it’s because it has the structure of a familiar fairytale, but one that’s darker, twisted and much more adult.

If you do have a favourite story, may I ask a favour?

Please share it.

Even better, share your favourite stories with a comment. Tell other readers why you like it, and why they should invite the tale into their imaginations too. Stories endure by flitting between like-minded souls. And who knows how many years of climaxes your little gift might inspire…

Filthy Fairytales

spankingtheatre:

image

[Thanks to @moan–ing​ for the original artwork!]

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.

Carl
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.

And
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
glass, darkly.

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.

Perhaps
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: 

Rape-punzel

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…

Because you’re never too old for fairytales…

Following on from my last post on erotic fairytales, this is worth reposting.

Throne of Shame

spankingtheatre:

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…”

Keep reading

I haven’t quite finished the alphabetical retrospective of past stories, so next up is the deviant fairytale Throne of Shame.

This is one of my earlier stories, written almost seven years ago! But I think it’s aged well, partly because it’s structured as a timeless fairytale. I believe 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.

Carl
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.

And
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
glass, darkly.

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.

Perhaps
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?



What readers have said about this story:

“Your writing is rich with lyrical images that took me in at the start:
ribbon of rivers, dark shadows of forests, a red dots of faraway fires,
small harbors of safety in the inky black night. I was beguiled by your
poetry. This love story, the King who learned how to read the needs of
the princess with his gentle touch, was beautifully drawn, mysterious,
probing, as smooth as velvet, yet as wicked and inevitable as the
passage of time. I am spellbound, dear author.“

“This was quite a trip! Your imagination takes you places that are quite
different from the places my own imagination takes me. That’s why I read
stories here! In the future, I hope we get to travel together often.“

“That story is just amazing! It has one particular line that really resonates with me: ‘She calls herself a Princess, yet wets herself like a slut.’ Wow.“


And don’t forget, if you have the right kind of dildo, you can create your very own Throne of Shame in the privacy of your own bedroom too…

Rape-punzel

A filthy fairytale

image

Fair Rapunzel had lived the entirety of her young life pleasantly confined in a vertiginous tower, secreted away in the depths of a dense foreboding forest. Her bedchamber, perched at the very of top of the thin lighthouse-shaped spire, was ringed by a balcony from which she could look out in every direction over a spectacular green ocean of treetops. But as far as the horizon, she could see no other buildings. And no one except her Guardian ever came to visit. Aside from the little birds who sat chirping on the balcony rail to keep her company, she was quite alone.

Yet, scattered around her living space, countless luxuries compensated her confinement so completely that she’d long stopped wondering what lay in the world outside. In fact, as she’d got older and her teenage wilfulness had mellowed, the world beyond began to seem ever more sinister and dangerous in comparison to her predictable little haven.

And the very worst aspect of the outside world, were men.

Even though she’d never actually met a man, that is, talked to one, she’d read all about them in her books. Sometimes she’d even occasionally see them passing by, drawn here by curiosity, stopping to stare at her towering home. But then, when she appeared on her balcony to greet them, they’d leer and shout obscenities. What crass obnoxious brutes!

During the long hot summer months, Rapunzel had become used to wearing nothing, wandering around her little domain naked. She liked how her long golden hair felt as it tumbled down her bare skin, and how she could swish it around herself like a gossamer cloak. How was she to know it was the sight of her own body that was provoking such boorishness?

How she’d laugh as the tiny figures scuttled around the base of her tower, frantically looking for a doorway and a way inside. The poor fools, there was no door, and certainly no stairs to ascend. Because only her Guardian ever came to visit her, and she flew up to her chambers on a broomstick, alighting elegantly on the balcony. It was a means of arrival that was quite unremarkable to Rapunzel, ever since she could remember, she’d always flown in this way.

Her keeper was a beautiful woman, with a strict authoritative demeanour that belied her youthful appearance. How strange that in all the years she’d known her, even as Rapunzel got older, her Guardian never seemed to change. If anything, she seemed to be getting younger. She never failed to ask if there was anything Rapunzel desired. Food, books, new musical instruments or manuscripts, Rapunzel only need mention it, and somehow her Guardian would reach behind her back and produce exactly that.

They would dine by candlelight as the last golden rays of the sun streamed through the panoramic windows. They’d feast on the most sumptuous luxuries, as her Guardian related the latest news, which seemed to be almost universally terrible, the kingdom beset by all manner of awful calamities and disturbing unrest. It always made Rapunzel quite grateful to be hidden away, safe in her high sturdy haven.

Later, after dessert, they always played out their little bedtime ritual. Her Guardian would lead Rapunzel by the fingertips to her bed – and, if she’d bothered to wear any clothes all, undress her. Carefully removing every fold of silk until she was completely bare. Then she’d lay Rapunzel on the bed, and lift up her legs, so the slit between her thighs was gaping.

Then she’d ask a single question, the same question she always asked.

Have you been a good girl, Rapunzel?

Her Guardian knew the answer already, the little spy she left behind made certain of that. But she always asked anyway.

If Rapunzel had been naughty, she would have to confess to it. Being naughty meant Rapunzel had broken The Golden Rule. That she had touched the only place in her luxurious little world that was out of bounds. The little slit between her own legs, from the little button beneath the fleshy arch down to the tight wet hole between those soft velvety lips. From an early age, her Guardian had warned Rapunzel that this area was strictly out of bounds.

Upon her bedchamber wall was a conspicuous reminder of the painful fate awaiting naughty girls. A harbinger of the consequences should Rapunzel ever give into temptation, and touch herself. The wicked cane.

This enchanted rod kept watch on her from its ornate brass cradle, sizzling and glowing as if about to catch fire should it ever witness any transgressions. Then, when her Guardian arrived, if there was naughtiness to report, it would lie smouldering with expectation, waiting for the moment when it would soon be fetched and wielded.

Have you been a good girl, Rapunzel?

Her Guardian knew, of course. Her cane had already told her so.

If Rapunzel had something to confess, her Guardian would tsk dismissively, and retrieve the cane from the wall. The rod would respond euphorically, sprouting a dozen candlewick-sized flames, its whole length seeming to sizzle with delight.

Rapunzel’s subsequent spanking would be meticulous, painful and humiliating. She would be flogged until the stripes on her burning bottom merged into a single blaze of rosy pink. The enchanted fire smouldering on the edges of the rod only compounding the burning heat of every searing stroke.

She would be whacked until she was seeping from every orifice, tears streaming, nostrils dripping and mouth dribbling. And until the region that was the source of her temptation leaked a messy, musky goo.

As a result, Rapunzel hardly ever masturbated now. So when her Guardian visited, she‘d almost always discover her charge had been a very good girl indeed. Whereupon her Guardian would herself disrobe and lie naked on the bed beside her, before telling Rapunzel to rise and straddle her face.

Her Guardian’s skillful tongue would make her seep so copiously, that by the time Rapunzel collapsed, exhausted and spent, her juices would be smeared across every patch of her Guardian’s nubile body.

Some speak of legends where witches have stayed forever young, by anointing themselves with the excited secretions of a virtuous virgin. But only one whose tight haven had yet to be contaminated by a man’s tainted member.

Such was the treasure that Rapunzel’s Guardian kept hidden in the tower, faraway, deep in the wooded wilderness. Safe from the foul cocks that would ruin her precious prize…


One sunny day, as she lay basking naked on her balcony, Rapunzel heard rustling in the bushes below. She looked over, to see a man tying his horse to a branch. His face was concealed by a handkerchief, giving him a highly dubious appearance. His clothes were rough and dirty, he looked common, and dangerous. Like a thief, a brigand or highwayman.

The wretch was probably on the run from the King’s Men. They’d hunt him down eventually, they always did in the end. They’d capture him and take him back to the castle gallows to dangle and kick. She could feel a warm rush between her legs as she imagined him so helpless, his strong hands tied behind his back. No! She mustn’t think that! She wanted to be a good girl, and that was almost impossible once the throbbing got started.

She leaned on the balcony watching intently as he fumbled with the front of his pantaloons. The bucolic silence was then broken by her squeal of shock.

The brigand had opened the front of his trousers, and a long fleshy appendage had flopped out. Rapunzel gawked disbelievingly – and quite indignantly – as a stream of water spewed from his member, splashing against the base of the tower, running off to pool in a little puddle in the parched earth between his feet.

Rapunzel wasn’t entirely naive, her books and pictures had taught her that men and women had anatomical differences. But she’d never seen a penis in the flesh, so to speak. Its sheer size shocked her, far in excess of the tiny tubes she’d seen in artworks, and the little bumps on cherub boys that didn’t look all that different from her own.

Somehow, seeing his penis made her own slit throb. Something intuitively told her the two illicit places had a connection, some icky kind of shared purpose.

Her shriek had alerted him to her presence, and now he was looking up at her, admiring what he could see of her naked torso, the long streams of her hair barely covering her breasts, coquettishly teasing him. Had it not been for the base of the balcony, he would have been able to stare upwards unimpeded into her most intimate places.

They observed each other in silence, he stroking his member as she looked down on him. She watched, fascinated, as it appeared to grow between his magic fingers. Swelling, thickening, solidifying, until it stuck out rigidly beyond his clothes like an accusing finger. He seemed to be tugging at it now, wringing it with ever more increasing vigor until it suddenly spat a creamy stream of – something!? – onto the ground below.

She could see the brigand leering at her as he cleaned the dripping mess from his member on the cuff of his shirt. Then he buttoned his trousers shut, untied his horse and clambered onto the saddle. Before he rode off, he saluted her with a mocking half-bow, then disappeared into the undergrowth.

Obnoxious brute! thought Rapunzel.


To her surprise, the brigand reappeared a few days later. This time, he didn’t leer at her or fiddle with that thing in his trousers, but took a hammer and small sack from his saddle and approached the base of the tower. He took what looked like a long nail from the sack, which might have been the kind blacksmith’s used for horseshoes, and began to hammer it into the mortar between the tower’s big sandstone blocks.

Rapunzel was outraged by the racket, an awful metallic clunking and tinging. When the stranger had finished with the first nail he drove another one in just beside it, allowing him to step up onto his improvised stair.

Then, he started to hammer another nail in, at about knee-height, just to the side of where he stood. He repeated this process a dozen times, until his bag of nails was exhausted,  creating a glinting spiral staircase that reached several metres off the ground. Using the claw end of the hammer to steady himself against the rugged wall, he climbed back down to the base of the tower.

Rapunzel could see him looking up with quiet satisfaction on his hour’s work. His face was still concealed by his mask, but it was unable to to hide his lascivious intent. Even though brilliant balmy sunshine was warming her all over, that parting look as he rode rode off made her shiver.

He would be back. He meant to scale the tower. She would be powerless to stop him. He would reach her sanctuary. And then…

That night, Rapunzel barely slept. Images of the masked intruder dominated her thoughts. That thing, that penis. She imagined it growing, the closer it got to her. Until it burst through the brigand’s trousers, big and stiff and hard.

The most shocking realisation was that ‘thing’ was in the perfect position and just the right size to be pushed into the tight little hole between her own legs. That was surely his intention, to continue to scale her tower, until he was standing over her as she lay naked across her bed. His rough dirty hands covering her mouth, stifling her scream.

Have you been a good girl, Rapunzel?

Would he spank her if she told him she’d been a bad girl?

Or would he just grab her legs, loom over her, and push his stiff penis into her forbidden hole?

What would that be like? Would it be like when she’d pushed her own fingers deep inside? That had earned her such a sore bottom she hadn’t done that again in years. But being filled had felt so, so good.

I mustn’t.

I mustn’t.

But then, her fingers strayed.

That night, Rapunzel was a very naughty girl.

And in the darkness, the watching cane glowed and smouldered.


A few days later, the brigand returned, and as expected, he brought another bag of nails. He glowered at her, his face still mostly hidden by the handkerchief mask, revealing only his eyes, which glinted with a hungry, almost primal, intent.

He resumed his progress, stepping up the impromptu stairs with considerable agility. No doubt he was practiced, thought Rapunzel, probably a professional burglar. Her room did contain luxuries of considerable value, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was the most precious possession in the tower.

It wasn’t long before his spiral of iron had wrapped around the tower twice, and all Rapunzel could do was watch in growing horror as the masked assailant crept towards her private sanctum.

She began to await his visits with considerable trepidation. Sometimes he’d come back after 3 days, other times it might take 5 or 6. Each delay made her hope she’d seen the last of him, that he’d been caught, shot by the King’s archers, or was awaiting the noose in a dank and fetid dungeon. But inevitably, he’d return with a new sack of enormous nails, and her cherished silence would again be wrecked by the lout’s incessant hammering.

And the following night, Rapunzel would fall into lucid, lurid, disturbing dreams.

With every visit, the top of the brigand’s nail staircase edged ever closer. Soon, it circled the tower 3 times. Then 4. By the time it had reached halfway up the tower, it circled it 5 times.

Who would reach her first, she wondered? Rapunzel’s growing anxiety had been assuaged by the prospect of her Guardian’s impending return. Surely she would save her, she’d use her arcane powers to make the nails crumble to dust, just before he reached the top, letting him fall screaming to his doom. Or maybe she’d enjoy the irony of transforming this impetuous outlaw into something small, cute, fluffy and timid – and Rapunzel would be allowed to keep him in a cage.

But her Guardian never came. As summer wore on, the little iron staircase crept ever closer to invading her world. Until one day, when Rapunzel realised that it would only take one more visit before the intruder would finally reach her balcony.

That night, her dreams grew ever more vivid, wretched and obscene.

And the cane on her wall glowed red as it spat and smoked and sizzled.

The next morning, Rapunzel was woken by the familiar sound of nails chipping into the stonework just beyond her open balcony. He was so close now, she could feel the vibrations of each hammer blow trembling in her clit.

Her Guardian had indeed forgotten her. She had nowhere to flee. Ever since she could remember she’d accepted that this tower was inescapable, even if she’d wanted to.

How should she wait for him, on her bed, naked and helpless?

Or standing by the balcony, arms folded, proud and indignant?

Or perhaps bending over, the wicked smouldering cane gripped between her bottom cheeks?

She could hear his grunting now, his hands scrabbling against the edge of the balcony. A coarse, expletive-filled voice. And a faint stench of ale, horses and musty sweat.

Heavy boots thumped onto the floor of the balcony, then approached ominously. Threateningly.

Her sanctuary was about to be invaded.

Desecrated.

Violated.

Have you been a good girl, Rapunzel?

.

.

.

@spankingtheatre 2018

Filthy Fairytales

image

[Thanks to @moan–ing​ for the original artwork!]

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.

Carl
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.

And
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
glass, darkly.

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.

Perhaps
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: 

Rape-punzel

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…

Because you’re never too old for fairytales…

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