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Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

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erotic writing

I must confess, lately I have been having very detailed and vivid fantasies about my girlfriend bending me over her knee and spanking my bottom red. That is just the beginning, I wish I could share them all. And it all started thanks to your blog so thank you.

What a lovely message!

This blog exists to inspire the fantasies and imaginations of others.

This is a blog of Gifted Imaginings.

I ask for no payment or reward.

These stories are gifts from my mind to yours, made available to all. in the hope those who encounter them may stay awhile and read. And so discover delights that had long lingered deep inside them, just waiting for the right words or imagery to germinate, and blossom into something wonderful…

a place to suggest story ideas would be nice too, if a group chat were to be made

Very true. It could also be place for Sir to set reading assignments, and for the school’s brilliant students to discuss the stories, and the themes that resonate with them. 

I might even hold classes on erotic writing, like those described in The Caning Emporium, with erotic writing assignments too. I know there are some splendid, but shy, writers who read this blog. I would like to give them the confidence to express themselves, and share their lovely evocative words…

The Girl in the Mirror

image


To whoever finds these pages,

I am writing down these memories in the hope that recording my experiences might awaken me from this awful nightmare. Or at the very least, help preserve what remains of my sanity. If you stumble across these words, I pray they are not too late to save you from the fate that has befallen me.

Because I should not be here.

I belong in another life. In another, quite different reality.

Yet now I realise how little it takes to stumble between worlds. The gentle push of  a sudden squall, a soaking deluge on a dim dank late October evening. A split-second decision to veer into the nearest doorway to shelter.

As the cold rain teemed down, without an end in sight, I began to pay more attention to my surroundings, and realised I beneath the porch of a quaint old antique shop.

Impulsively, I decided to venture inside. A tinny brass bell tinkled as I entered, although not loudly enough to wake the shopkeeper, a white-whiskered gentleman who continued to snooze obliviously behind the counter.

I walked past him, slowly and quietly, not wanting to disturb his slumbers. The interior was a ramshackle collection of worn-out furniture and curios. The gaps between the merchandise had been eaten away by the additional of new items, to the point where the walkways through the shop were so challengingly narrow it felt more like an obstacle course than a retail space.

I weaved through the jumble carefully, trying not to bump or break anything. The palette of the shop were shades of tired time-worn browns, the rusty dusty dressed colour of items whose original owners had passed, and their inheritors too. Those who had once cared for and polished these items were long dead, their bodies decayed to mud or incinerated. Yet their possessions had endured. Even though their furniture had died long before them, being fashioned from the corpses of long-dead trees.

This was, I realised, a mausoleum of what had once been treasured. A requiem to the furnishings that had once brought such joy to their homes, and which now sat in musty silence, mourning their owners, awaiting the chance of a new one.

I began to see the items around me differently. Not as tired old junk, but merely dormant, just like the shopkeeper.

That was when my attention was captured by a dressing table, and in particular, its strange old oval mirror. There was an odd sharpness to its silver rim, one that made it seem like a still pool of water, somehow captured upright. Its glass seemed ethereal, almost impossibly clear, in stark contrast to the scratched and pitted wood of the table underneath.

My reflection gazed back at me, with clarity and depth that belied the dim light of my surroundings. I had the eerie sensation that if I concentrated hard enough, I could begin to see things beyond my own reflection. I thought I caught a glimpse of a rudimentary bed, covers bulging as if someone was sleeping beneath. Alarmed, I span around to check behind me. But I found myself quite alone. With no sign of a bed of any kind.

I turned to walk away, but couldn’t help looking over my shoulder at my diminishing reflection. It was so vivid, shining as if backlit amid the piles of gloomy clutter stacked around it. Each step further away from it made my tummy churn, as if I was already missing it.

The shopkeeper’s eyes blinked open as I passed him. He asked me if I’d seen anything I liked, nodding when I mentioned the old dressing table. Its price was surprisingly reasonable. Recklessly, daringly, I decided to buy it.

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The old dressing table was delivered to my home the following day. I had it placed at the foot of the bed, so its wonderful luminous mirror could throw its light across my bedroom. I liked to lie on my bed and stare at it, especially as I masturbated, with my legs spread wide, my intimate manipulations reflected back to me in perfect clarity.

Then, a few days after it arrived, I began to notice weird aberrations in the reflection, objects in the bedroom not quite appearing where they should be.

In the days that followed, the discrepancies between my room and the reflection seemed to increase. Until one morning I was shocked to see something moving in the reflected image. It seemed to be a person, a young woman. It did not appear to be me. Startled, I looked around anxiously, but found myself alone.

I peered closer, the fuzzy image sharpening, replacing the reflection of my own surroundings the more I concentrated on it. Now I could see the girl beyond was standing in front of her own bed, which looked like the one I’d momentarily seen in the shop.

Details of her face began to resolve, and I noticed for the first time she was wearing a bridle bar gag in her mouth, which opened her lips into a provocative pout. She was remarkably pretty, I found myself jealously wishing I was as eye-catchingly beautiful.

The woman loomed closer, lifting her flimsy gown and looking over her shoulder to examine herself. I realised then she must be looking into a mirror of her own. As she hitched up her hem, she revealed that she was not only wearing nothing underneath, but that her bottom was bright pink, with the telltale overlapping rectangular bands of a recent strapping. She inspected her marks in full view of me, as if I was standing right in front of her, my magical mirror giving me an extraordinarily intimate view.

Can she see me? I remember wondering. Does she know I’m watching her?

As I spied on her, she began to rub her spanked bottom with both hands, often pausing her massage to let her forefinger stray between her cheeks. As she pulled her buttocks wider, I noticed a silvery glint from between her legs, which I initially thought was some kind of labial jewellery.

Her fingertip was circling her bottom hole now, the crinkled little hollow clearly on display, as if she wanted me to see everything.

Overcome by the urge to play, I stripped off and sat on the edge of the bottom of my bed, as close as I could get to my mirror, and the compelling scene beyond. I spread my legs wide, stroking my drippy slit before l let my finger drift lower, until I was circling my own bottom like the girl I was watching.

I could not hear the girl I was watching, so I had no idea if she was panting, or emitting little mews of satisfaction as she played. I couldn’t see her other hand, but assumed it was circling her clit, just as my other hand was doing. I wondered if she could hear me, my moans and my squelching?

I saw her turn around, and peer towards me. Suddenly, I was looking into the eyes of the girl in the mirror. Her expression didn’t change, but it seemed that our gazes connected. Somehow I felt that I knew her, and caught glimpses of her memories.

Painful memories.

Of abandonment. Loneliness. Salvation. And bondage.

I could hear the clink of chains. And the cries of floggings.

I stared at the mirror, overcome by a sudden feeling of vertigo, as if I was peering over the rim into an endless hole. But unable to stop.

Carried away, I continued rubbing, and the beauty in the mirror stared into my eyes as I reached the point of no return. I’m sure I saw her smile.

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And then, I must have fainted.

They call it la petite mort.

The little death.

I came, more intensely than I’d ever done before.

And something inexplicable happened.

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I awoke in woozy haze, to find myself looking back at the mirror. The girl in the mirror was now lying on her bed. When I moved my arm, the reflection mimicked me.

Because it was me.

There was a bridle gag in my mouth, its bar firmly between my teeth, holding down my tongue, keeping my mouth open in a suggestive pout. I leapt to my feet, screaming, only for the gag to muffle my cries. My clumsy fingers tried frantically to remove it, but there was never any chance of undoing the fastenings.

I stumbled towards the mirror in a state of mild terror, raising my hands to my cheeks to discover I had a different face now. A remarkably beautiful face.

And more than my face had changed, I realised I was inhabiting someone else’s body.

I raised my gown to discover I was younger, and leaner. My breasts smaller and firmer. My mound was shaved smooth and bare. And my pert bottom was still pink and stinging.

But alarmingly, my labia were pierced and closed shut with three small silver rings. Attached to the topmost ring was a thumbnail-sized silvery shield, which  had been fashioned with a curve that hugged the contours of my new body, completely enclosing my clitoris. It was anchored in place by a thin bar that pierced the fold above my hood. I could see greasy fingerprints on its shiny surface.

Bewildered, and suddenly queasy with fear, my instinct was to run. As my heart thundered in my chest, I tried the handle on the door, which opened into a long colonnade of bright white columns.

Between the columns were occasional alcoves, some empty, and some occupied by statues. The white marble figures were intricately carved, with bridles in their grimacing mouths and rings in the cleft between their legs. Just like me, which made a chill of recognition run down my spine.

I crept past dozens of closed doors, with skylights and windows providing alternating pools of light and gaps of darkness. My pace quickened as felt the breeze of outdoor air, and saw the green of a garden ahead, but the view was abruptly dimmed as an ominous silhouette loomed before me.

I halted in mid-step, as the figure encroached into my little pool of daylight, revealing herself to be an attractive, impeccably dressed lady, possibly a decade older than myself. In contrast to my gauzy white gown, she was dressed in an austere black. A nasty-looking leather strap hung from her belt.

The woman barked a question at me, in a tone of voice that suggested she was most displeased with me. I didn’t fully understand the language she spoke, but the bridle in my mouth meant I couldn’t reply, even if I’d wanted to.

She grabbed my wrist, scolding me as she dragged me back to the room where I’d woken, which I could only assume was where I was meant to reside. Whatever here actually is.

She made me kneel on my bed, head down, bottom up, before lifting my gown to spank me on the bare. I moaned into the bridle as my already stinging cheeks were burned further by her cruel leather strap.

I was put to bed immediately afterwards, with hot ache of horniness smouldering deep inside me, the shield enclosing my clit denying me the chance to relieve myself. I took what consolation I could by rubbing my bottom hole, just as I’d seen the girl in the mirror do, before falling into a deep and troubled sleep.

The next morning, I woke early, as the amber light of dawn seeped through my little window. My room was spartan, empty except for a bed and a dressing table, which seemed indistinguishable to the one I’d bought, a week and half a lifetime ago. Its large oval mirror still gleamed with an unnatural light.

That first morning I remember just staring at my own image, or at least, the image of who I’d now become. I tried to concentrate as I’d done yesterday, until I began to see beyond my own reflection, and into another world beyond. My heart leapt when I caught sight of my own bedroom, my own clothes still scattered messily on floor, my mobile sitting idly on my bedside table.

And on my own bed, I could see myself — or least the body I used to recognise as my own. My body was naked, with her hand stroking between her legs.

Can she see me? I wondered. Was she playing as she watched me, as I once watched her?

That was when I realised another mind now inhabited my body, one surely delighted to discover her slit was not sealed, and her own clitoris was uncovered. I could see how she examined my folds in the mirror with an intense fascination.

I gazed into the mirror as deeply as I could bear, until I felt my mind strain, hoping to catch her gaze and lock eyes as she came. But I never could, because I don’t think she ever saw me. Perhaps she didn’t want to see beyond the mirror any more, back to her old world of pain and humiliation. For now, she was content merely to enjoy her own reflection.

And then they came for me.

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I believe no-one knows I don’t really belong here.

No-one has ever explained why I’m here in the first place, so I’ve had to put the pieces together myself. I’ve even been able to learn some of their strange language, just enough to understand others, as I’m not permitted to talk.

They refer to me as Four, as that’s the number on my door. There are 19 other young ladies like myself here. None have names, just numbers. All are kept bridled.

This establishment is not a school, but some kind of training academy, where absolute obedience is demanded and punishments are commonplace.

We are being trained, it seems, to be Pavlovian Slaves.

That’s the best explanation I can come up with. We are being trained like Pavlov’s Dogs, conditioned to associate food with sexual satisfaction of others.

We have been told that when we leave this place, it will be to enter a life of sexual service. That when our Master or Mistress is at home, we will not be permitted to eat until we have pleasured them. And if necessary, any guests that are present too.

Hence we spend our days learning the art of erotic pleasure. How to use every part of our bodies to arouse and stimulate. Mouths, hands, feet, breasts, thighs and bottoms — everywhere but the vagina, in fact. That region remains sealed and untouched, until such time our owners decide to remove the rings that keep us closed.

As we are being trained to associate our owners’ pleasure with our own appetite, the only time we’re not gagged are the two meals where we assemble to be fed.

Our first meal is breakfast, before our day’s lessons begin. As we enter the dining room, we are ungagged, the straps that hold the bridle bar loosened so it dangles around our throats like a choker.

On each visit we each draw a ball from a porcelain urn. Each ball has a colour, and a number. White balls correspond to one of the 12 dining chairs, which have ivory phalluses on the seats. Those who draw a white ball kneel before the corresponding chair. By now, our conditioning means we are drooling, and so we eagerly take the carved protrusion in our hungry mouths.

Each cock is different, and the random allocation means we attend to a different one on every visit. I know all the cocks so well now. Numbers 1, 8 and 10 are big and thick; 2 and 4 are known as the flagpoles, thinner but ramrod straight; 3, 6 are distinctly curved.

The girls giggle about number 5, aptly nicknamed Bumstretcher, it’s half the length of the longest, but the thickest of them all. The others are shorter and stubbier, but we’ve been well-taught to deal with penises of all shapes and sizes.

Those kneeling before the phalluses suck them for five minutes, until a little bell rings, which is the signal to rise from our knees and take our seats. The protrusions well coated with our drool as we take them in our bottoms.

Choosing one of the 7 pink balls from the urn means a seat at the Mistresses’ table, kneeling between their legs to lick their bare cunts. Then rising to sit on her lap to be fed when the little bell tinkles.

The Mistresses are our instructors. There are two kinds of classes here, practical lessons on delivering sexual pleasure, where we master anatomy, techniques and positions, and physical training to develop our strength, stamina and suppleness. By now, we all have the toned physiques of athletes.

The lucky girl who draws the single golden ball gets to dine with the Academy Master. Her meal will begin with his cock in her mouth, until she feels his cream splashing the back of her throat. She’ll swallow that hungrily, before taking her place on his lap to be fed.

If he hardens again before the meal ends, she will be expected to dutifully roll a slippery sheath down his cock, then sit down on his lap so his stiffness enters her bottom. She’ll be expected to demonstrate her mastery of anal fucking, riding breathlessly as the whole room looks on in admiration.

Dinner time is the only opportunity to speak to the other young women here. We’re not supposed to talk, but we exchange illicit whispers. I’ve become more adept at understanding their language, which is both somehow familiar, yet eerily foreign.

I have asked about their families, but it seems all of us are orphans, each selected for service once we’d reached our 18th year. That was when we’d each been pierced and had our slits closed. We are each much too valuable a property to fall pregnant. And it prevents us from pleasuring ourselves.

I’ve also been earnestly warned not run to away from this place. My sisters speak fearfully about those they’ve seen try. Some point sadly at friends they claim they used to know, who now inhabit the alcoves of the colonnade, somehow frozen in time, petrified into stone.

Yet every morning before I’m summoned for lessons, I try to find a way home, I’ve tried masturbating anally in front of the mirror, trying to recreate the circumstances that brought me here. But nothing ever happens, it’s never quite the same, the other girl is never on the other side looking back at me.

Now my view of my old world is fading. Every morning I try to peer past my own reflection, but each day my view of my old bedroom is even fainter. I don’t know why, whether whatever channel that once linked our two worlds is diminishing, or if the other side of the mirror has been moved into a loft, or given away to a gloomy antiques shop.

It’s been months since I’ve seen the other girl, the inhabitant of my old body. I wonder how she’s faring in my modern world? In the life that she stole from me.

I have tried to rationalise what’s happened to me, to come up with some kind of explanation. Perhaps the mirror is some kind of escape tunnel, created by well-meaning abolitionists to liberate those unfortunate enough to find themselves doomed to a life of sexual bondage. Perhaps they’re unaware that the destination of those that escape is not their own reality, but one completely different. Was it their intention that we should swap places? Or was it a freak accident, an inadvertent consequence of climaxing whilst our minds were somehow connected?

If this is not a dream, then I fear I am trapped here, lost somewhere in time and space, in an unreal reality.

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Something happened last night, in the flickering candlelight.

My time at the Academy is almost complete. I have been fully trained, there is little more they can teach me. So now I have been allocated.

My new Master seems to be a senior member of this society’s nobility. When I first encountered him, he was wearing a martial dress uniform, embellished with gilded epaulettes and extravagant braids.

I, naturally, wore nothing. Except for my bridle.

I knelt respectfully, just as I’d been taught, my face just in front of his crotch. Waiting for the moment when he unfastened my gag, whereupon I would reciprocate by unbuttoning his lampas-embroidered trousers.

With us was the Academy Master, to which the visitor addressed his questions. I recognised the familiar words for the rod and the whip.

I am told to rise and bend over for inspection. The visitor’s  hands are strong but he has the soft skin of an aristocrat. He strokes and fondles my buttocks, testing their firmness, before inserting his little finger into the tiny gap that remains of my slit. He seems satisfied to find me already drooling.

I think hear him ask:

May I try her?

I was taken to a candlelit boudoir that was dominated by a huge four-poster bed.

The visitor, who others deferred to as a Duke, had led me to the bed, and I had laid alluringly on my back as he admired my lithe naked body.

Then he reached over me, lifting my legs, pushing back my ankles until I was bent in half, my feet on either side of my head. There were cuffs attached to the corner posts, which he secured them around my ankles, and another pair for my wrists, ensuring my arms were spread towards the corners.

I watched helplessly as he fetched an unlit candle from a bedside candelabra, and warmed its base with the flame of another. Then he pulled something smooth and shiny from his pocket, and stuck the candle to its flat top using its melted wax. When he brought it closer, and I could see the shiny object was a steel butt plug.

In this position,with my bottom pointing towards the ceiling, my arousal seeped from my gap, dribbling over my bottom hole and down between my splayed buttocks, helpfully lubricating me when he pushed the slick plug into my bottom. The candle on the plug was now protruding vertically, and he used another candle to light it, before extinguishing every one of the surrounding lights.

Now we were alone together, surrounded by darkness, sharing the tiny pool of light emanating from the single remaining candle between my legs. From my point of view, it protruded proudly like a miniature lighthouse.

He disappeared into the blackness, and I heard the rustling of discarded clothes.

When he reappeared inside my little pool of light he was naked, with a riding whip in his hand. He began to spank me, and I could do nothing but struggle against my bonds, and feel the heat in my buttocks rising.

I remember staring at the mesmerising candle flame as he flogged me, watching the droplets of wax dribble downwards. At first, the molten wax hardened as soon as it touched the base of the metal plug. But it wasn’t long before the plug was coated in wax, which permitted the hot drips to run even further, right down to the very base of the plug and onto my bare skin. This wax momentarily burned my most sensitive parts, feeling like the impact of a tiny cane around my bottom hole.

The little pool of light we shared became dimmer as the last remaining candle diminished. As the flame got ever lower, I could see it flickering in the draught of his swishing crop. It did not escape my notice how skilfully he shielded the flame with one hand, as he spanked me with the other.

As the candle flame descended, the crust of solidified wax between my legs grew thicker, but I could also begin to feel the heat of the candle flame heating the steel of the plug in my bottom. As the heat rose, the burning heat from my flogging made me fear I was about to catch fire. I cried into my bridle, pleading for mercy with words I knew he’d never hear or understand.

Then suddenly, the candle spluttered out, plunging us both into absolute darkness.

Alone with just the sound of each others’ panting breath, we waited. Then I could feel the wax on my crotch cracking and crumbling, as he withdrew the plug from me,  leaving my bum hole abruptly exposed and gaping.

Now I could feel the heat of the Duke’s muscular body approach me. Moments later, my bottom hole was filled by something hot and moist, and stiff and long.

I moaned into my bridle, biting the rubber bar as we both convulsed in the dark.

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My fate was to become a sex slave.

I live in His opulent manor, that is the extent and entirety of my world now. Its high spiked railings mark the boundary of my universe, what lies beyond is of no interest. My purpose is service.

The Duke, my Master, is a strict, but honourable owner.

Whilst my esteemed Master is away, attending to affairs of state, I am left to wander my gilded cage. I drift around its immaculately tended gardens, its gloriously decadent rooms, and my favourite place of all: its soaring wooden-panelled library.

It is here in the library that I’ve been scribbling down my memories, I have no idea if anyone else will ever read these confessions, but it helps me remember the life I once had in that other world.

I am hiding my pages within the leaves of my Master’s books, He is always far too busy to ever read them. I suspect the true role of these towering shelves is really to signal His erudition to His visitors. Just as I am a means to demonstrate His exquisite taste for the feminine form.

Perhaps His descendants will find what I’ve written in decades from now, long after we’re both gone. But I have one last trick to play, something they can never take away from me. My language.

I have written my memoirs in English, a language no-one here understands. Those who discover my pages will find my weird writing baffling; but that is my intention. Mysteries make things valuable. My hope is that in time these pages will come to be treasured, copied, examined and scrutinised by curious curators.

I am dedicating my time to creating my very own Voynich Manuscript. As time passes, its infamy will grow, it will be that notoriously undeciphered text. This is the mystery that will spread it far and wide, becoming an obsession for amateur codebreakers and linguists.

Eventually, I hope, they’ll crack it and translate it, and be able to read it. The strange story of The Girl in the Mirror will be known around the world, the girl whose soul was somehow captured by a siren’s reflection.

But like all great fairytales, I shall embed within it my own subversive ideas. This society  seems to believe order demands freedom from choice. I shall describe  a mirror-image world, a world of sexual liberation, personal liberty and freedom of choice. I hope those who read it will begin whispering. Who knows, maybe such words might be the spark that ignites a purgative fire.

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But that is a future I know I will not see. I have now accepted my fate, and made peace with my new purpose. To please my new Master.

When my Master is home, I am not permitted to eat until He has been satisfied.

Now I crave pleasuring Him in the same way I crave food. I salivate in His presence, drooling from my gagged mouth and shuttered slit.

They conditioned me well at the Academy. Since when I grow hungry, I become horny as well.

My job is to pre-empt his pleasure. Sometimes I bring him his favourite whip, and bend over submissively. Or I let him discover me, dressed up alluringly, or not dressed at all, glistening with aromatic oils and stroking my own body.

And then I am spanked. He likes to spank me. To hear the slap of His palm on my perfect bottom, or the slap of His whip, the pretty marks it makes and the moans it provokes.

When He unfastens my bridle afterwards, He likes to hook His little finger into the gap of my slit, and dab my own arousal onto the tip of my tongue.

I have come to learn that the only taste more divine than the saltiness of my own cunt is what issues from His thick firm cock.

When He is satisfied, we eat together. I typically sit on His lap, my kind Master raising the food to my mouth, stroking my hair as I chew contentedly and appreciatively. He likes to feed me, like a favourite pet.

He likes to position me so my bare bottom hangs over the edge of one thigh, so He can fondle and spank my warm pink cheeks, whilst my own arm is thrown around his shoulders. I embrace Him like a doomed sailor clinging to a mast in a storm. He is my rock, my world entire.

I exist to serve.

I am The Girl in the Mirror now.

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@spankingtheatre 2019

Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.

You’re welcome to reblog and share.

Erotic Ghost Stories

spankingtheatre:

As
a writer, I like to think there’s more to eroticism than just
descriptions of sexual activity. Sure, there are plenty of kinks to
describe, and no end of possible scenarios exploring every avenue of
powerplay and pleasure. But I believe there’s also a darker, more
psychological side, exploring shadow themes like trepidation and
anxiety, transgression and escapism, and suspense and uncertainty.

That’s
why each Halloween, I set out to write an erotic ghost story. Those
familiar with the Gothic style will recognise the tropes, the pained
reminiscences of a narrator, haunted by visions and tormented by their
own desires.

You
might think an erotic ghost story is an oxymoron. So here are a few
ideas for enjoying darker stories, and creating a playtime with a
macabre twist…

The Captive

Imagine
you’re held captive in a dungeon. Tie a wrist, a collar or your panties
to the frame of your bed. Alternatively, tie your ankles to the front
legs of a chair to hold your legs open. If your chosen scenario demands
you are kept quiet, put your panties in your mouth to muffle your
screams. Turn off the light and read the story illuminated by just your
screen.

Why
are you imprisoned? Perhaps you’ve been kidnapped or captured for
ransom, perhaps you’re a rebel or pirate awaiting execution. Spank,
pleasure and torment yourself as your imagination demands.

The Candle

Sit
cross-legged and naked, with just a single long thick candle for
company. Put a condom on the blunt end, light the wick at the other, and
turn out the lights. Put something underneath you (like scrap paper) to
catch any dripping wax, then read the story as you masturbate with the
candle — without letting it go out.

If
it does go out, give yourself a two-minute spanking in the dark as a
forfeit before you re-light the candle. If you like the burning
sensation of molten wax, play with the candle above you, otherwise angle
the candle away from you, with something underneath to catch the
dripping wax. Perhaps you’ll be creative and use your candle to roleplay
a witches’ coven, or an exorcism, or a seance…

The Magic Wand

Put
on your wizard/witch’s robe (a sheet will suffice), with nothing
underneath. As you read the story, cast spells with your magic
wand — they might be protection spells, seeing spells, or punishment or
pleasure spells that allow you the magician to vicariously experience
aspects of the story.

If
you own one of those old-fashioned wands — a stick, ruler or rod — cast
your spells with smacks to your hands, thighs and bottom. If you have
one of those new high-tech vibrating wands, you may cast your spells all
over your body (and not just between your legs).

You might even want to go for a ride on your broom. Have you ever noticed how a witch rides with her broomstick right between her slit, tilted upwards to press her clit? Then you should read this.

The Bedtime Story

Get
someone to put you to bed, and read you a creepy story by candlelight.
The reader doesn’t need to be in the same location as you, they can read
it over a video chat. If they are nearby, it means reassuring hugs,
rubs and cuddles during the scary bits. You might even find the story
literally scares the pants off you.

Just
be sure to ask for your storyteller’s permission before touching
yourself, or your might find yourself pulled out of bed for a spanking,
before being made to stand in the corner with a sore bum in the dark…

Halloween
is a great excuse to explore and experiment with darker, more shadowy
themes like trepidation and anxiety, transgression and escapism, and
jeopardy and torment. If you have a partner, and like the idea of
Halloween-themed playtime, you might want to share this post with them.

Invite a story into your imagination

If
these ideas have piqued your interest, and you’d like to read something
darkly erotic this Halloween, here are a few suggestions:

  • Fall
    is set on a Halloween night, in 1950s New England. The spooky
    woods where witches were once said to dwell have since been replaced by a
    staid and boring suburbia. And a group of teenagers, now too old for
    pumpkin parties, embark on their own pulse-quickening
    adventure.
  • Runaway is a story about escapism and erotic submission. Because you can’t run away without ending up somewhere.
  • Glimpse
    is one of my personal favourites. A dark ghost story of erotic
    temptation and punishment. A warning though, this is no story of cartoon
    ghosts, this is a Halloween story in the spirit of Poe and MR James, as
    dark and disturbing as a bottomless pit.
  • Grimoire is a tale of invaded minds and dark obsessions, of enchanted books and well-spanked bottoms.
  • Stolen Essence mixes the supernatural and the kinky, featuring passages
    that are surreal, fantastical and dream-like. Heavily inspired by
    Gothic tropes, this one is a dark, psychological story which, which rewards the careful reader with several possible interpretations as to what
    actually occurred…

The best erotic ghost stories are eerie, bleak  – and  yet – exciting.

If you must have nightmares…

They should be marvellous, panty-soaking nightmares.

What do you think readers, time for another Halloween story?

Share the joy of the written word

spankingtheatre:

New readers might be interested in this master list of all my stories, ranked by popularity. The up arrows indicate stories that have moved up the leaderboard, whilst new icons show stories that you might not have encountered yet.

Or there’s this list categorised by theme for those seeking a particular style of story. 

Do share your favourites!

Updated again with recent stories. How many have you climaxed to?

Waiting

spankingtheatre:

I’d never been good at waiting.

But his instructions were quite clear.

“Stand still, be quiet — and don’t turn around.”

So I just stare at the wall and listen to footsteps walking away. He stops after 10 steps. Behind me, a hinge creaks. There’s some clattering and some rustling. What is he doing?

There’s a hulking wooden cupboard at the back of the classroom. It’s always kept locked, like some ancient reliquary. What exactly lies within has been the subject of many speculative conversations among my peers, but no student has ever looked inside. He must be looking for a suitable implement to punish me with. What will it be, I wonder?

The suspense is building, my breathing quickening, but I dare not turn around. That would be asking for trouble. Yet, my curiously is an itch that must be scratched. Restraining my impulsiveness has always been my weakness. Maybe just a peek, I’m sure he won’t even notice me. I can’t even hear him, he must be still rummaging inside the cupboard. I take a chance, quickly turning my head — only to see him looming over me. His voice chastises my disobedience.

“I told you not to turn around”.

Keep reading

Next in the alphabetical retrospective of spanking stories is Waiting.

This school-set story also happens to be the very first post I made on this blog. It wasn’t the first spanking story I’d written, I’d been writing stories privately for a while, but it was the first I considered sufficiently good to risk posting publicly.

I had no idea how it would be received, whether those stumbling across it would think I was weird or perverted, or scoff at its amateurishness. My advice to new writers is not to let such petty concerns silence them before they’ve even started. All creative art has its critics. Write what you always intended to express, and those who imagine things the same way will find you, one by one.

The audience for this blog grew slowly. I posted several stories in the first few months, including Cosmopolitan and Carrot and Stick, to accumulate a body of work that might leave new readers eager for the next one.

I also made a point of talking to early followers via messaging, to discover what they thought of the stories, what worked and what didn’t. After all, the reason why I chose Tumblr for my writing was a community of readers already existed, one where you could share (by reblogging) the stories you liked, and which you thought would interest those you knew.

So, to those who have shared and encouraged these stories over the years, a massive thank you. This blog, and these stories, would not exist without the faith you showed. Your support has not just led to thousands discovering and exploring an interest in spanking, but tens of thousands of bedtime orgasms and well-spanked bottoms.

And this is how it all started

3 New Spanking Stories

I posted a brand new story this week, a treat who all those who love to drift off into naughty daydreams. In case you missed them, my last three stories are:

And as a special bonus, readers might also appreciate this popular recent post:

Share the joy of the written word

spankingtheatre:

New readers might be interested in this master list of all my stories, ranked by popularity. The up arrows indicate stories that have moved up the leaderboard, whilst new icons show stories that you might not have encountered yet.

Or there’s this list categorised by theme for those seeking a particular style of story. 

Do share your favourites!

With a brand new story just published, it’s a good time to update the list of all the tales I’ve written so far.

What’s been your favourite?

I’ve enjoyed your work for a while now, but I recently had occasion to read several stories from authentic Victorian erotica (namely from the pornographic magazine The Pearl from the early 1880s) and I was really struck by how similar your style is to a lot of the work there, minus the hilariously awkward Victorian euphemisms. Anyway, I just wanted to compliment you on your authenticity and elegantly old-fashioned style while keeping it fresh and modern.

Thank you for not just those immernsely kind words, but for giving me an excuse to introduce readers to The Pearl. For those who haven’t encountered it, The Pearl was a 19th century periodical of erotica – and here’s an archive of what it published, before it was abruptly shut down by prudish Victorian authorities almost 150 years ago.

Some of its posts are very lewd, some are unexpectedly erudite, probably reflecting the diversity of sexualities of those who wrote for it. As Wikipedia explains: “the general format of the periodical was to publish three serial erotic tales simultaneously, devoted to sex in high society, incest, and flagellation, respectively.” 

High society sex is an interesting reflection of the Victorian class obsessions, whilst incest is one of those transgressive taboos that also features in the French erotic book The Young Girls’ Handbook of Good Manners, written a few decades later. And spanking and flogging were just as popular in Victorian days as they are now. 

Perhaps you’ll see a certain formality in Victorian erotic writing, an appreciation of process, of scene and character. All attributes that I value in storytelling, which lead to that teasing sense of anticipation that I hope I’ve been able to capture in my own writing.

I encourage interested readers to explore, who knows what you’ll uncover in the dusty musty archives of the internet, an infinite library with no shelves, which our Victorian ancestors would have loved deeply indeed.

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