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Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

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erotica

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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:

Daydreaming

A spanking story

The door to the detention room had opened without warning. 

She looked down at what she’d written, now spanning several handwritten pages, initially neat,  but then steadily deteriorating in presentational quality. as she’d entered the Zone. That moment had unleashed a flood of words, in a sudden hot torrent of erotic self-expression whose candour had taken her completely by surprise. 

She’d been expecting his return for a while. In fact, he had promised it. He had left her here alone to write, alone in detention with just a pen and her thoughts, which ironically where the two very things that had gotten her into so much trouble in the first place.

She had finished writing about 10 minutes ago, having said everything she had intended to say. Enough for writer’s regret to set in, to become acutely self-conscious of the confession she’d just poured onto her pages. Which Sir would soon be reading, and from which Sir would soon learn all of her secrets.

For the past two hours, she’d been sitting alone in classroom 21A. Yet several hours before, she’d been sitting on the very same chair surrounded by her classmates, attending one of Mr Mortimer’s lessons. 

Strict, dreamy Mr M was her Maths teacher. He wasn’t toweringly tall, but he did have a certain presence, a quietly-spoken compelling demeanour, never domineering or bullying, but there was never any doubt his voice expected obedience from those who heard it. 

Yet she had disobeyed him. He had told the class to work on their own solution to a calculus problem, some esoteric application of partial differential equations. She normally excelled at this kind of challenge, but this morning she was distracted by more carnal thoughts. 

Her pen had hovered over her blank page, awaiting instructions from a mind that had decided to concentrate on matters other than higher-order geometry. Her eyes seemed to lose focus, as if the muscles responsible for their movement had grown weary, until she was absent-mindedly staring at her teacher. In her daze she hadn’t even realised how flirtatiously she’d been combing her fingers through her hair, and certainly hadn’t noticed her classmates’ sideways smirks. Not that her inattention was caused by indifference, on the contrary, Mr Mortimer’s class was the highlight of her academic week. 

She found herself lapsing into a daydream, a beguiling distortion of her current reality. Her mind began riffing on her teacher’s stern demeanour, the disapproving glance he’d given her when he’d noticed she wasn’t writing. Then, her imagination took over, escalating her situation into a thrilling fantasy. 

With surprising clarity, she dreamt her whole class had gotten into trouble. Each one of them having to write little confessions for Sir, who then lined them up at the front of the class to have their panties pulled down and their excitement inspected. 

She felt her pen move, clandestinely doodling…

It had been an extraordinary, pulse-quickening daydream. But just like the parabolic problem she was meant to be solving, her mental escape was fleeting, a trajectory that was always doomed to return to earth. Then reality resumed, her teacher’s characteristically stern voice asking her to remain behind and see him after class. As her friends tittered, a shock ran between her legs so intense that she almost peed herself.

She looked down in shock, and hurriedly turned the page with the obscene picture she’d scribbled, earnestly hoping no-one had managed to glimpse it.

She spent the remainder of the class calculating almost apologetically, not that her remorse stopped her panties from filling with a wetness of a very different kind. Eventually, the end of lesson bell rang, and she sat shame-faced, blushing brightly as her classmates filed past her, shooting a series of silent, teasing glances as they went.

When the last had left the room, she had stood, closing her textbook and gathering her possessions, before self-consciously smoothing down her skirt and advancing to the front of the class. 

“You wanted to see me Sir?” she’d asked, with a coy innocence that even she didn’t find particularly convincing.

He got straight to the point. 

“You are in my class to learn, young lady. This classroom is not a quiet place for students to drift off to their private little dreamworlds.”

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

She was shocked to hear herself apologise, basically admitting her guilt before she’d even had a chance to formulate an appropriate excuse. But Mr M was very charismatic, slightly intimidating even, and she didn’t want to lie to him.

“Report back here after lessons end today, young lady. Dismissed.”

“Yes Sir!” she said excitedly.

It took her a few moments to realise how ridiculous she sounded. She was being called back to be disciplined, probably to sit in detention like a silly little schoolgirl. Yet she had reacted to her sanction like she’d been nominated for some special honour. She hurried out of the classroom blushing furiously, not daring to meet her stern teacher’s gaze.

* * * 

At the end of the school day, she had arrived back in the classroom to find Sir waiting, and the subject of her detention essay already written on the blackboard in front of her.

“What I was daydreaming about”

She took her familiar seat, as he sternly explained his expectations. Her task for the afternoon was to write an essay on what had been so compelling that she’d zoned out of his lesson. He had other things to do, so would be back in two hours to read her work. 

On hearing this, she’d stammered a single question.

“M..must I write everything, Sir?”

“Everything, young lady.”

And then without another word, he left, closing the classroom door behind him.

She had spent the first 10 minutes alone utterly conflicted. Surely she couldn’t tell him the whole truth of what she’d been dreaming about – it was far too filthy. But what would she write instead? She suddenly felt very transparent, as if he had already read her like a book. She was sure he already knew that some kind of erotic fantasies were involved, even just through her giddy responses to his questions. If she made up something, she knew she’d just come across as silly and lame, nowhere near the adventurous young adult she believed herself to be.

Perhaps, she pondered, honesty really was the best policy. To admit spanking turned her on, and how she fantasised about him putting her over his knee almost every night, as she stroked herself to sleep.

So she had begun writing.

A couple of hours later, on his return, she’d handed her pages over, demurely and respectfully. He had sat down behind his own desk, and begun to read what she’d written, wordlessly and impassively.

Whilst she sat in trembling silence, awaiting his verdict.

* * *

Her essay went like this:

I have something to admit to you, Sir. I fantasise about you.

I fantasise about you being strict with me. I imagined it only last night, how you noticed my lack of inattention in class, my pen doodling aimlessly rather than scribbling studiously. 

In the interests of full disclosure, I include the image I was drawing in class this morning. 

As you can see, the scene depicts all 12 of our class bending over at the front of the room. I have drawn us all from behind, with our skirts lifted and our panties pulled right down, pooled around our ankles. You’ll note our socks were still pulled up high to the tops of our calves, as I’m sure you’ll agree, there’s no excuse for slovenliness. 

You’ll see twelve bare bottoms staring out from the page. I have to confess that in a study period earlier this afternoon I embellished my original scribble to add additional accuracy, drawing the hairstyle of each of my classmates, so the odd lock of hair is the only aspect of identifiable individuality visible from behind their legs as they touch their toes.

I am there too, of course. My own legs parted, a few subtle pen strokes depicting the folds of my slit. I drew myself that way because in my fantasy, that’s how I imagine you wanting me.

I’ve drawn you too, Sir. You’re standing behind us, surveying our row of a dozen cute bare bottoms. You’re holding a long thick wooden ruler in your right hand – because we are all going to be spanked. 

I should explain that I drew you with a ruler because that’s what I use on myself when I’m home all alone, when I imagine you spanking me. 

You might also appreciate the fact that in my reverie, I imagined a whole backstory to this scene. Would you care to know how we all came to be bending over at the front of the class, with our bare bottoms on display?

Yes, I think I should explain.

I was imagining that you’d noticed how the concentration levels of our class had been waning. How our expressions had become dreamy and distracted. Understandably, this had displeased you, and we all should certainly have known better. After all, we are the most senior pupils in the school.

So you had decided to confront the issue with your characteristic candour. And we had arrived in class to find a single sheet of paper on our desks. You began to address us directly.

“I have a question for you all, class, And I want you to think about it very carefully.”

You turned to the blackboard, and began to write something slowly. 

M A S

I wonder if you could feel the weight of a dozen eyes on your cute backside. Lingering admiringly.

M A S T U R

There were chuckles and tittering as what you were slowly writing become apparent – and then inevitable, to everyone’s general amazement.

M A S T U R B A T I O N

“How many of you masturbate whilst thinking about me?” you asked us starkly.

A few shrieks of surprise were followed by nervous giggles. But no one dared break the subsequent silence.

“Well, since no one will admit to it, I’m going to have to line you all up at the front of the class, and check inside your panties.”

Your threat provoked gasps.

“Since I wouldn’t expect any pupil to attend my class with wet panties, I can only assume anyone I find with a mess in their underwear has been remembering what they get up to at night as I was writing on the blackboard.”

“So, before I inspect you all, and determine the truth, I shall offer you all one last chance to confess.”

“If I am the subject of your fantasies, and you masturbate whilst thinking of me, you may write out the nature of your fantasy on the page in front of you.”

“If you have nothing to confess, and I discover the insides of your panties are dry, you may assert on your page that you do not fantasise about me, and nothing further will happen.”

“If you fail to confess, and I discover your panties are actually soaked, I shall remove you from my class, and you will have the pleasure of old Mr Barnaby’s tutorage instead.”

You felt that was a much more threatening sanction than spanking the offending girl’s bottom. I think you know many of us lie awake in bed stroking to exactly that disciplinary eventuality. And so you sought to make use of that.

“If you do confess, you will be put over my knee and immediately spanked. As clearly what you crave is a good hard spanking on your bare bottom.”

“You have 5 minutes to write your response. Then your inspections will begin…”

By this point, I’m sure you’re intensely curious about what I would have written. So let me tell you…

Sometimes, when I get home before anybody else, I go straight to my room. I don’t even change out of my uniform, I pick up the thick wooden ruler I keep on my desk, and bend over. I imagine your deep, stern voice scolding me, telling me that I’m going to be spanked. Our school rules are strict and very clear, skirts will be raised and underwear lowered. So that’s exactly what I do, I bare my bottom in the little erotic theatre of my own bedroom.

I hope my candour isn’t too embarrassing for you, Sir. But you did ask me to include everything. 

I hold my ruler behind me, raising it up as far as I can – before I bring it down on my poor little bum with a dramatic smack. I imagine it’s you who is spanking me, Sir. I know you smack hard, but also that it’s for my own good. 

After I’ve given myself a dozen hard smacks, I place my free hand underneath me, and rub myself in urgent circles whilst I bring the ruler down, repeatedly, until I feel I can’t take anymore. Then I imagine being spread and inspected, I know regular inspections are a vital aspect of any good disciplinary regime.

When you’ve examined me, you send me to stand in the corner, placing the ruler between my sore pink cheeks. Just at the right angle so the edge of the ruler parts my swollen pussy lips, collecting the sticky dew that drips from me. I stand in the corner with my arms folded behind my back and the ruler jutting out from between my sore pink cheeks Sir, and I think of you.

That’s what I do when I’m alone, Sir. I spank myself until my bottom is hot and stinging, and imagine it’s you who is disciplining me. I’m sure the other girls would have similar stories, but I’ll let them speak for themselves. Perhaps they’ll find themselves seated where I’m sitting now soon, telling you their stories.

But I was also imagining what happened next, after you’d read our confessions.

There would have to be spankings. Long, hard, painful spankings on the bare bottom for every one of us. I imagined myself bending over at the end of the line, my skirt lifted, my messy panties already tugged down to the floor. You had already moved down the line, splaying our bums to inspect our excitement. Now we were being dragged from the line one by one, to the lone chair you’d placed at the front of the classroom.

I imagined peeping back on the unfolding scene through the narrow gap between my own slightly parted thighs. It was enough to see each one of my classmates being put across your knee. Once skirts were flipped up, and bottoms bared, I imagined you spanking each girl with the wooden ruler.

I imagined each one of my classmates kicking and squealing childishly as they got their thoroughly deserved spankings. You would spank each one to tears, then lead her back to her original place in the line. You’d tuck her skirt into her waist, and fold her arms behind her back so she couldn’t rub. Then she’d stand there sobbing and sniffling, and her bright pink cheeks displayed for your appreciation.

Eventually, it would be my turn. I’d feel your hand grip my arm, dragging me upright, then pulling me towards the spanking chair. Before I knew it, you’d have put me over your knee.

There would be the usual cursory bottom inspection, of course, tugging my cheeks apart to ascertain how excited I was. Whereupon you’d see my bare slit glisten, conspicuously and disgracefully.

But my spanking would be different from all the others. I would take my spanking stoically, impressing you with my grown-up self-control. When it was all over, I’d be the only one standing in the line not crying. Standing proudly with my red bottom on display, a glistening wetness just visible between my legs.

So, now you know, Sir. That was what I was daydreaming. This has been my confession. Know now that I’m sitting in a little puddle of my own excitement. I must commend you, this assignment has been a most effective means of discipline. Now I see what I deserve with absolute clarity.

* * *

He said nothing when he had finished reading. He remained seated behind his desk, motionless, almost statuesque, not even acknowledging her and the filthy fantasies she’d written, or the obscene accompanying cartoon. It was as if the shock of her sordid behaviour had petrified him. And so they both sat there in silence, her heart thumping in her chest.

All she could do was watch and wait, studying him intently for even the tiniest clue to what he might be thinking. Was he disgusted by what she’d confessed? And now considering whether to throw her out of his class?  Or was he on the verge of abruptly standing, to haul his chair to the front of the classroom? She might only be seconds away from being grasped by the wrist, and put over his knee. She throbbed at the very thought.

Then, as she watched him, she noticed something. How his expression had subtly changed. He was no longer focused on her pages, but was now gazing idly at some indeterminate point far beyond. A visceral thrill ran through her as she realised what that meant. 

Sir was daydreaming. 

Unseen in his reverie, she sat in her own little sticky puddle, and smiled.

.

.

.

@spankingtheatre 2019

Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.

You’re welcome to reblog and share.

Oubliette

image

And then she announced:

“… the next item on the menu… will be bare licked cunt…”

She let her words hang in the air, where they seemed to charge the atmosphere between us like a tiny erotic thunderstorm.

In the vast treasure trove of my memories, that one moment blazes with an exceptional clarity. Somehow perfectly preserved, infinitely replayable.

Yet behind every memory is a story, a winding path of strange happenstance and improbable events that stretch back into the hazy mist of every experience. Stories lie submerged like icebergs, their brilliant summits glowing as vivid snapshots, their intricate genesis hidden, lost deep beneath our minds’ turbulent waves.

What could be more human than forgetting? We are not machines or paintings or books. We are biochemical repositories of circumstance, whose subtle complexities of existence are readily outshone by visceral moments of dazzling pleasure.

Yet, it is our stories that define us. Not those seductive, emotion-charged glimpses that we can summon on demand to burst like gratifying fireworks in our minds. Our stories are always there, lurking unbidden, the true substrate of our being.

Perhaps we were never meant to probe too deep, to pull on the loose threads of our memories, to let them unravel. Who knows what unexplored paths exist in the Minotaur’s maze? Perhaps they really are best left alone, unvisited and forgotten. Who knows where those passages might have led…


To those that enjoy dining well, there is one establishment whose reputation exceeds all others. One whose name is spoken with hushed reverence.

It is La Oubliette.

The Forgotten Place.

It holds no official awards, and appears in no guidebooks. No one can even say for certain where it really is, let alone how to make a booking. It is as if the outside world had indeed forgotten its existence, to become a closely guarded secret known only to an elite cognoscenti.

Some mock it as an in-joke, some dismiss it as a preposterous myth. Yet if it exists, it is a destination of intimidating exclusivity. No bribe, no level of celebrity will secure you a table there. Some say all guests must be personally invited. I know prominent individuals who had lived and died waiting for a coveted invitation, which never came.

Life had been kind to me, but I am neither rich or famous. Yet one morning last year, completely out of the blue, I received a powder-blue envelope in the mail. It looked expensive and classy, crisp artisanal paper, my address elegantly handwritten. And when I opened it, I was staggered to realise it was a message purporting to be from the famed Chez Oubliette. Somehow, for some inexplicable reason, they had sent me an invitation.

The single page missive stated that a table had been booked for me, and me alone, on the 28th of December. This date was not negotiable, if I wanted to accept, I would be met somewhere in Geneva by a member of La Oubliette’s staff. If I declined, the message politely assured me, I would never hear from them again. There was also an ominous warning: not to tell anyone else I’d received an invitation, or it would be immediately withdrawn.

The date they’d offered was intriguingly bizarre, just after Christmas. A time when most folk were still on holiday. Perhaps it was a quiet period, between two festivities. But I had no say in the matter, my only choice being to accept or decline. At stake was only a dinner, but something told me if I said no, I’d regret it for the rest of my days. Within the hour I emailed the one-time RSVP address, confirming my acceptance.

My rendezvous instructions arrived the following week. Soon after, I booked my plane ticket with quivering hands. But what exactly was I getting into?

The restaurant’s name suggested a place that wanted to be forgotten, but there was also another, more sinister and disturbing meaning. An oubliette is the term for hidden dungeon cell. Typically one with a concealed entrance, like a trapdoor in the ceiling. One difficult to find, and impossible to escape from. A place where people could be made to disappear, somewhere they could be permanently forgotten…


On a chilly day just after Christmas, I boarded an early morning flight from London to Geneva, anxiously hoping that the icy weather would not delay me. But we landed in good time, and it was easy enough to get a taxi to the Quai de Versoix on the shores of the lake. According to my instructions, someone would meet me here at 1pm, assuming the whole thing wasn’t an elaborate prank. In which case, I consoled myself, I would go chocolate shopping.

The unremarkable little pier was deserted and bleak, the trees lining the promenade now just a row of bare spindles against the grey lake and grey skies that seemed to merge together so seamlessly. There was a cafe nearby, its twinkling Christmas decorations providing welcome splashes of colour to a cold leaden afternoon. It also gave me a place to wait, somewhere I could sup a hot coffee and have a bite to eat, and watch perfect strangers come and go.

Until, someone happened to recognise me. Although I did not recognise him.

He addressed me by my name, and extended his hand for me to shake. His English was perfect, but spoken with an obviously French accent. He suggested we leave the cafe, to which I nodded, and followed him out onto the promenade. We walked down the short pier, out of earshot of any passers-by, to where a small boat was now moored.

“If we are to go any further Sir,“ he told me, “we shall have to establish some rules. If you agree, we may proceed. If not, we shall go no further, and I shall call a taxi to go back to the airport.”

As he listed his rules, I felt a strange apprehension. No restaurant had ever made such extraordinary demands of me. Yet given the circumstances, I felt I was powerless to refuse them. My predicament felt almost erotic, here I was being tantalised by a desire I’d cherished for so long, and was now being told its price was my absolute obedience.

I listened in shocked silence as the emissary detailed what was expected of me, before he concluded: “I do hope you’ll trust us, Sir.”

Something deep inside told me it was safer to decline, but if I did, I’d always regret it. Besides, the right to be bold to the point of recklessness had always felt like the epitome of male privilege. I agreed to his conditions.

The emissary extended his hand, waiting for me to hand over my mobile phone. I fished it from my pocket reluctantly, shutting it down before handing it over. It felt like I was relinquishing one of my limbs. Then I stepped down onto the deck of the gently bobbing boat, its tiny cabin was only large enough to shelter its pilot and a pair of passengers. The stranger stepped down after me, inviting me to take one of the vacant seats beside the wheel.

Then he took a wide black padded blindfold from his pocket. He’d warned me about this, no-one could be trusted to see the route to La Oubliette, so I didn’t protest as he pulled it over my head and covered my eyes. I felt a click too, as he fastened my seat harness, pinning me back in my seat, which only served to amplify the eroticism of my predicament. But I knew that my desire would require my obedience.

I heard the boat’s engine roar into life, acrid smell diesel fumes wafted past my nose. Then I felt movement, and a sway as the little boat lurched away from the pier and sped out into the lake’s choppy waters. My pilot didn’t talk as we sailed, leaving me alone with my thoughts. What had I got myself into? Where was he taking me? As I’d been faithful to my instructions, no one knew I was here.

I can’t say how long we spent on the water, because I must have dozed off, lulled into a nap by a combination of the rocking boat and my early morning start. It was only when I felt my guide’s hand on my shoulder that I realised we had stopped. I had no way of even knowing if we were even still on the Swiss side of the lake, or had crossed to the French side. He unbuckled my harness and helped me step out onto what sounded like the planks of another pier, before guiding me into the backseat of a waiting car.

I felt myself buckled into my seat again, and his hands by my face checking my blindfold was still snug enough to prevent the leakage of any secrets. He entered the car on the driver’s side and we were in motion again. With nothing to see, and soporific sway of winding roads, I was soon dozing off again.

I was woken by the jostling of a bumpy gravel surface. Soon, we had stopped completely, and I was being escorted out of the car into the icy evening air, to be shocked by my incoming breaths burning in my lungs. My guide walked me a couple of dozen paces before I could feel warmer air on my cheeks. I could feel the ambience around me change, we were indoors again.

And I heard a heavy wooden door slam shut behind me.


My eyes blinked painfully as light flooded into them once more. Someone had removed my blindfold. But even after my vision had become less blurry, my surroundings still offered few clues to where I’d been taken. Was this the fabled Chez Oubliette, or would I be taken elsewhere from here? From where I stood it was difficult to tell whether this was indeed a restaurant, or merely the entrance to someone’s home. It could equally well have been the lobby of a mountain resort, or the entrance hall to some remote Alpine chateau.

It wasn’t the man who’d driven me here who took off my blindfold, but a slim middle-aged woman in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo. She introduced herself as the Maitre D’, with the kind of stern sensual authority that immediately made me think the D stood for Domme. At that moment, I couldn’t tell if she had a warm meal planned for me – or a frigid dungeon cell.

She encouraged me to follow her, ushering me into a small bathroom to freshen up, before I was escorted down a plushly carpeted hallway into a private room.

The room was not elaborately furnished, and its decor was distinctly minimalist. It contained a small dining table, made of chunky exposed beams and a velvet-covered armless dining chair. In the corner was a rather contemporary looking wooden clothes stand, its elegant curved struts linked by short shelves. The table was draped by a pristine linen dining cloth, but was bare and unset. There wasn’t even a menu. Mercifully for my still sensitive eyes, it was only dimly illuminated by a several wall-mounted candelabras.

The Maitre D’omme spoke with a brusque confidence that made it clear she was used to people obeying her instructions, no matter how outrageous they might seem.

“We ask that our guests dine naked. Please undress.”

This was not spoken as a request, but as an instruction. I had already been warned. The price of this meal was my obedience. And the currency of obedience was trust.

I undressed as I was told, hanging my coat and jacket on the clothes stand, before self-consciously unbuttoning my shirt. The Maitre D’omme watched on impassively, as I removed my shoes and socks, even when I hesitated before unbuckling and pulling down my own trousers. Eventually I stood before her in just my underwear, but I knew that had to come down too. Moments later, my clothes were hung up or folded away, and I was completely naked in front of her.

“Thank you, Sir.” she said graciously, before walking over to the single chair and lifting it backwards, and inviting me to sit.

I took my seat.

“Would Sir care to place his hands behind him?” she requested.

I did as I was asked. What happened next might have surprised me, but I was rapidly becoming accustomed to how this peculiar place operated. She knelt down behind me, and I felt my wrists being gripped as she cuffed my hands behind my back. The cuffs were padded, with a long chord between so I could still sit with my shoulders in a natural position. Once she had restrained me, the world went dark again as she pulled the blindfold back over my eyes.

“I’m sure Sir understands, the palette is more sensitive when not confused by seeing.”

I nodded, not really being in a position to argue an alternative.

“Sir need not worry about his hands, we shall do the feeding tonight.”

The Maitre D’omme was standing beside me now, so I assume it was her fingers I felt sliding beneath my flaccid penis, lifting it from where it lay between my thighs as she squeezed, tugged and inspected it.

What kind of restaurant was this? It certainly felt more like an exclusive brothel than a gourmet brasserie. I was beginning to suspect why this establishment might be rated so highly by those lucky enough to be invited here.

“We have a planned menu here, each item especially selected to appeal to your personal tastes. You must be hungry?”

I nodded.

“Then let me introduce you to your server for the evening…”

There was a pause, and what sounded like the door opening, then closing.

Then a second voice spoke.

“Good evening Sir…”

It was another female voice, with what sounded like a southern English accent – but one that sounded tentative, almost nervous, possessing nowhere near the same gruff authority as the Maitre D’omme. I wondered if my own nakedness had taken her by surprise, I found my mind suddenly racing: trying to determine whether I’d been singled out for special treatment – or a special kind of humiliation. I did my best to play it cool, to assume I was here for the former, not the latter.

“Good evening” I replied. I was unaware of the time, but my grumbling stomach suggested it was definitely dinnertime.

“I’m leave you in the care of your server, Sir. Rest assured, you’ll be attended to by the most capable hands. Bon appétit.”

I thanked the departing Maitre D’, whose departure was accompanied by the waft of the most delicious aromas. There was also a faint thud, and clink of dishes, which suggested things were being put down on the table in front of me.

The English voice of my hostess spoke again, this time louder and more confidently.

“Our menu begins with a selection of appetisers, Sir. We’ll begin with marinated crayfish in a brassica puree.”

I could sense something moving towards me, just before the scent of the incoming morsel drifted into my nostrils. I opened my mouth reflexively, and she placed it onto my tongue, before gently tapping the underside of my jaw to close my mouth. The taste was exquisite, the subtly spiced plump flesh of the crayfish dissolving into the mustardy tang of its puree as I chewed slowly in the most dignified manner I could manage.

My hostess must have been feeding me from a platter, as there were just two of each type of morsel, before she moved onto the next one. The tastes I experienced spanned the globe: I recognised latino tamales, Indian curries and several types of Mediterranean meze. And interestingly, there was no red meat. How did they know I ate fish but not meat? They seemed to know so much about me.

Occasionally she’d pause to offer me a drink, raising a glass of sumptuous wine to my lips and tilting it until it dribbled between my eager lips.

I could feel my dick swelling as she fed me. I tried to concentrate on the flavours on my tongue and those wafting onto my palette, rather than the eroticism of being cuffed naked to a chair and fed gourmet food by an unseen woman. I hoped she wouldn’t be offended by my growing erection, but she seemed too professional to mention its looming presence.

How strange to be so aroused by someone I’d never even seen. In my blindfolded darkness my imagination could run free. Right now I could be being fed by a supermodel, or a world-famous celebrity. She might possess a face of such beauty or familiarity that I’d spend my time staring at my hostess, rather than truly enjoying my meal.

All the subterfuge I’d experienced began to make more sense now. Denying my eyes would preserve the secret peccadillos of this establishment’s most famous patrons: that they liked to feed naked diners by hand in a covert mountain-top restaurant.

Was that the reason behind its strange name? Somewhere celebrities could visit incognito, where they could act as if they’d been forgotten. Because what would you crave if you’d spent your entire life in front of cameras, perpetually in the public eye? Any chance to be anonymous would be so precious.

I found myself wondering if the lady serving me had once worked as a waitress, perhaps as she’d struggled to break into the world that would ultimately make her a household name. And maybe here she was, waitressing again, but this time, she was the one in control, this time the white middle-aged male diner was not leering at her, but naked and helpless, unable to even feed himself, opening his mouth when he was told, and then chewing obediently.

I was fully erect now, my cock stiffening to the extent where it could support its own weight, I felt it rise from between my legs and point crudely at my unseen host. But suddenly, I felt my lust tainted by a queasy embarrassment. I imagined what she’d be seeing right now, just another stiff cock pointing at her, just like all the other ones. The cocks of all the bullies, oligarchs, sexpests and supplicants that had sought to claim her body over the years.

I wondered if I should apologise. Or complement her. Or make a joke of it. Or even ask her if I was on the menu too. But I was too intimidated by her invisible power to open my mouth. I remained silent, and obedient to her promptings.

“What a naughty boy!” she said mockingly, gently twanging my erection with a finger.

I could feel my heart pounding, suddenly terrified I’d offended her. That the next thing I’d hear was the door slamming shut behind her, that my lack of self-control had grouped me in with every other dismal male she’d ever encountered, causing her to walk away in sneering disgust. I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears as I waited impotently for her response.


After what seemed like an age, she spoke again.

“Do you know who I am?”

Weirdly, her voice did sound somewhat familiar, but I couldn’t really identify it. I might have heard her on TV, or in a film? A politician, even? It was so difficult to say.

An equivocal, almost apologetic, “I don’t think so…” was the best I could manage.

“There are some delicious sauces accompanying these dishes. It would be a travesty to waste them.”

She dabbed my lips with her finger, smearing them with a sweet spicy puree. I licked my lips eagerly, she was right: its flavour tingled intensely on the tip of my tongue.

“More?”

I nodded, and then felt movement just in front of me. It seemed as if my hostess had sat down on the table, and placed her feet on the seat of my chair, either side of my hips.

I felt her fingers cup the back of my head, tugging my hair, and pulling my head forwards. Suddenly something warm and fleshy was pressing into my mouth. At first I thought I’d bumped into her forearm, until my lips registered the unmistakable contours of a nipple. I realised my host was topless, and had smeared some of the sweet spicy sauce on one of her breasts. I suckled her slowly and respectfully, circling her nipple, exploring the little dome beneath until I’d cleaned all the stickiness from her skin. In response, she cooed her appreciation.

She smelt intoxicating, a faint floral perfume, with an odour of intense femininity that reminded me of the scent when you pull down a lover’s panties to discover she’s already wet. I pressed my nose against the smooth soft skin of her breast and inhaled deeply, she smelt of contentment, of a picnic in a meadow of wildflowers, of sunshine and warm blue skies.

As I rested against her, it seemed like this was the slowest time had ever passed.

And then she announced:

“… the next item on the menu… will be bare licked cunt…”

She let her words hang in the air, where they seemed to charge the atmosphere between us like a tiny erotic thunderstorm.

I lowered my head, slowly tracing the contours of her chest with my tongue. I could feel the bump of each rib, rising and falling as she breathed. These were not slow steady breaths, I noticed, but the quick shallow panting of someone excited. I had to arch my back to go lick lower, but my cuffed hands weren’t secured to the back of my chair, providing enough freedom of movement for me to leave a wet trail down her torso.

I reached her tummy, ticking her firm flat flesh with the tip of my tongue, eliciting little giggles. Her coy playful laugh made my heart swell and my balls ache.

My tongue explored further, moving cautiously downwards. My chin encountered her thighs, spread just widely enough to act as guide-rails, as if she was keen to prevent me from veering off course. Keen to ensure the only direction I could proceed was downward.

As I encountered the curve of her mound, the musky scent of her arousal filled my nostrils, making me almost light-headed. Her mound must have been just waxed, it felt so exquisitely smooth. Her giggles had become appreciative murmurs now, like a small bird cooing. Then my tongue found the little dip of her cleft.

I pursed my lips together, suckling her hood for a few moments before descending to explore the folds of her slit. I was exploring by touch, my mental picture of her most intimate places solely constructed from sensations from the tip of my tongue. Her clitoris was a firm little bump, hiding under a tight arch of flesh. Her labia were small and elusive, easy to lick but difficult to capture and suck. Her vagina was already creamy when I found it, gaping permissively. My tongue intruded inside easily.

She was, quite simply, the most delicious single thing I’d tasted all night. An intoxicating blend of salty, tangy stickiness. In retrospect, erotica most often describes a licked slit as sweet – but that’s the emotion it engenders, not its true taste. Sweet pussy suggests it’s like candy, a treat for immature little boys. But pussy is not an indulgent dessert, it is a main course for adults, intended to be savoured by connoisseurs.  

I licked her long and hard, up and down every inch of her slit, until my tongue began to ache. I suckled her clit until she purred, until she seemed to be teetering on the very edge itself. And then, I stopped.

I heard her emit a long moan of frustration, then her hand gripping my erection tight, as if trying to squeeze the cum out of me.

“Did you enjoy your bare licked cunt, Sir?”

I told her it was absolutely delicious. But didn’t tell her what I was really thinking: how it might be even better skewered on my own fleshy spit.

“Might I interest you in dessert, Sir?”

Of course, I replied. I was eager for more.

Her feet moved from where they’d been resting on my chair, and I felt her get up from the edge of the table where she’d been sitting. There was a pause, accompanied by the clinking of steel and porcelain that suggested the table was being cleared. Things were happening in front of me, then she announced:

“Your sticky chocolate fudge pudding is served, Sir.”

I waited, sitting upright, waiting for a finger to dab on my lips, or for a silver spoon to hover beneath my nose. But nothing appeared. I could hear her heavy breathing, and sense she was still in front of me, so I lowered my head towards the table inquisitively, until the aroma of warm chocolate filled my nostrils.

I followed the smell to its source, and bumped into soft bare buttocks of my hostess, now obligingly bent over the dining table. My tongue soon located a large dollop of sticky chocolate fudge between her bottom cheeks, provocatively smeared around her bottom hole. I chuckled in appreciation of her deviously naughty imagination.

My tongue began to excavate the euphorically sweet mush between her cheeks, with my hostess helpfully spreading apart her buttocks so I could push ever deeper, the tip of my tongue circling around the wrinkled hollow of her bottom hole, until I’d licked her completely clean. It felt and tasted unbelievably decadent, like something from an orgy during the last days of Rome.

I could feel my head buzzing, and not just from the exceptionally rich fudge I’d consumed. My cock was still almost painfully stiff, and even though I couldn’t see it, I knew it was pointing at my hostess’ bare wet cunt, still bent across the table with her legs spread. If I stood, I’d probably be able to slip into her tight little slit in seconds. But that seemed exceedingly poor table manners. Very rude, in fact. Quite ungentlemanly.

Eventually she broke the tense silence.

“Your self-control is admirable.”

“I don’t even know who you are, Madam.”

“I had wondered if you’d be able to guess by now.”

That comment only served to fire my curiosity. I might have heard of her? I wracked my memory, replaying what I could remember of her voice, searching desperately for some kind of match. As I pondered, I heard something rustling, then a tearing noise, then something cool on the tip of my cock. It seemed my hostess had taken the initiative, and was now rolling a condom down my stiff shaft.

“May I mount you, Sir?”

I swallowed reflexively, suppressing a cough. I’d never had sex with a complete stranger before. Whatever was the right answer to a question like that? Was this how the bill was settled in this strange establishment? Not with a credit card, but with a climax?

“By all means.” I said, as nonchalantly as I could manage, as if this was the kind of situation I found myself in all the time.

I felt her body heat against my thighs as she straddled my lap, until she was standing just above my stiffness. She grasped me, guiding it to the edge of her entrance, and then sat on me flamboyantly, impaling herself in one swift motion, and making both of us gasp.

I felt her fingers intrude into my open mouth, they still tasted of the rich chocolate I’d licked from her bottom. My tongue lapped at them greedily.

She left her fingers inside my lips as she rode me with increasing salaciousness. Squeezing me with her tight cunt, varying her rhythm – speeding up, then abruptly stopping, alternately mewing with pleasure and giggling provocatively.

I felt like I was going to burst, but somehow every time I seemed on the brink of spurting, she rode even harder, taking me even further. Deliriously, I began to wonder if my wine had been spiked with powdered blue pills to keep me from coming.

My hostess, however, was subject to no such constraints. She tugged my head forward until my face was pressed to her chest, so a stiff little nub poked into my lips. I obediently suckled her nipple again, hearing her demure moans deepen into guttural grunts as she got closer and closer, as she fine-tuned the angle of her hips so I hit just the right spot.

I felt her convulse as she came hard on top of me. She bucked wildly, until she lost the strength in her limbs, and flopped exhausted against me, her arms now folded around my neck in an intimate embrace.

Suddenly, light split my darkness and dazzled my eyes.

She had removed my blindfold. I snapped my eyelids shut, shielding myself from the dim but still painful light, opening them cautiously as they slowly became reaccustomed. Initially, she was merely a blur, like a ghost, or a partially-forgotten memory. Then she came into focus, smiling, wide eyed. Beautiful.

I did know her.

It was Amber.

We had been lovers once. And she was just as cute as I remembered. Her short auburn hair glowing in the candlelight, with that coppery hue that always made her name so appropriate.

“My God…” I sighed.

How funny that divine invocation should be the instinctive reaction on encountering a long-lost lover. As if those glancing up to the heavens were looking in the wrong place. Surely if the greatest power in the universe was love, then God would not be found floating somewhere above our heads, but by staring into a lover’s eyes.

I stared at her open-mouthed. Just like I did the very first time I met her.

“I love your little fragment of neutron star,” I observed.

She giggled, clutching the gold pendant that hung by a delicate chain around her neck.

Those were the first words I’d ever said to her. She was so beautiful, so intimidating, looking into her eyes was like staring into the centre of the sun. So I’d lowered my gaze to her gorgeous slender neck, and her pendant of gleaming gold. In moments, I knew the silence between us would become irretrievably awkward, I was desperate for something interesting to say, some bon mots that would make me seem intriguing and attractive, and not lame and predictable like all the guys.


How strange that our destinies would be intertwined with another moment, a cataclysmic event in the incomprehensible abyss of deep time that is the distant past.

Somewhere in the endless emptiness of space, two scorchingly bright spheres, each as wide as a city, are about to end each other’s existence. Each had been suns once, fiery giants blazing into the lifeless black void for billions of years. Eventually exhausted, their inconceivably dense embers had pirouetted around each other for eons, drawing ever closer with the slow inevitability of a lovers’ kiss.

And then, inevitably, they touch. They do not just explode, they annihilate each other, with such savage violence they tear the very fabric of space and time apart. In that moment, a cascade of impossible atoms are forged. Among them would be gold, in countless trillions.

After drifting for an eternity, the new particles would find themselves within an immense dust cloud, one so big it would ultimately collapse and coalesce under its own enormity. Squeezed by exceptional pressures, a rocky planet would form around those miniscule atoms of gold.

Once the planet’s broiling surface had cooled, a quirk of in the fabric of nature would lead to some of the neighbouring molecules beginning to organise themselves. A runaway biological reaction would begin, from which an awareness of extraordinary sophistication would emerge. It would achieve something the universe had never been able to do before: collect the gold, an interstellar substance older than the planet itself, and craft it into art.

Six billion years after that stellar collision, a being of awesome biological complexity would happen into existence, and wear that lustrous lump of neutron star residue around her pretty little neck.


That first time, Amber had laughed at my dorkiness. And then again at its preposterous impossibility.

It seemed just as improbable that the two of us would ever get together, that in this huge wide world, we’d somehow bump each other, and manage to overcome our mutual suspicions and anxieties. That our minds would recognise kindred spirits in each other, and that against all the odds, we had somehow connected.

After we’d first met, we’d eventually gone to bed together a few times and fooled around. I remember teasing her one night, binding her hands and stroking every part of her increasingly slick and sticky folds. All whilst I whispered details of how her imminent orgasm was only possible because of supernova stardust, ancient atoms embedded in the astonishing marvel of her metabolism. Her eventual climax was biochemical reaction of staggering complexity, an emergent eruption of trillions of molecules. It delighted me enormously.

Now we both were laughing, our eyes damp from the ludicrous improbability of somehow meeting again.  

I pulled further on the threads of my memories, and was shocked to realise the last time I’d seen Amber in person was just after Christmas, ten years ago. Almost certainly ten years to the very day, come to think of it. We’d last seen each other at Heathrow Airport, crossing paths after spending the holidays with our own families, before each flying onto new year parties in separate continents.

As we’d hugged and said cheerio, the thought didn’t cross my mind that I’d never see her again, but other things had just happened. We’d each embarked on new flings, too busy with the work commitments of our fledgling careers. We were young and impetuous back then, living for the future rather than the present. So over the following years we’d gradually lost touch. We’d shared emails over the years, but then our communications dwindled, we never quite did get round to seeing each other again.

She remained impaled on my stiff aching shaft, rocking up and down more gently now, as she got her breath back.

All the pieces began to fall into place now. This wasn’t a place to be forgotten, it was a place of  Forgotten Lovers. That was why a table here was only ever extended by invitation, and why some were never invited at all. Only a long-lost almost-lover could invite you, and a shared regret had to linger in both your hearts. Perhaps we would both have an evening, alone in the privacy of this little room, to discover if the spark still glowed, and whether we could be lovers once more.

“What would you do if I released you?” she asked.

I opened my mouth to answer, then abruptly stopped. A sudden wave of awareness had surged through my mind. Of all the questions she could have said, why had she say that? Not: how have you been? Or: so good to see you! But what would I do if I was liberated?

I thought back to the version of me that she once knew. The one so eager to be nice to her, to win her attention. She had changed. And, I realised, I had changed too.

I looked deeply into her beautiful pale green eyes, into the dark black pools of her pupils, and held her gaze.

“If you untied my hands, I’d put you over that table and spank your bare bottom.”

“Goodness! Why?”

“Because I’ve wanted to do that ever since the very first night we met.”

“God! Why didn’t you ever say?”

I wasn’t quite sure of the answer to that. I think I was just too naive back then, too eager not to cause offence to my brilliant, elegant, sexy friend. I thought she’d think poorly of me, that I was a thug, a misogynist. I so wanted to earn Amber’s approval, I silenced any desires I thought I might offend her. In doing so, I’d made myself bland, an unappetising dish just as she’d begun dining in a gourmet world.

She rose from my lap, letting my still stiff cock slip from her slick slit, and then stepped backwards, so she was no longer straddling me.

And then she paused, naked in front of me. Her smile replaced by an opaque, thin-lipped expression, as if daring me to stare at her gorgeous naked body, daring me to condemn myself with my own lustful stare. It felt like a challenge, a test to see if the nice little boy deep inside me would surface to apologise for finding her so attractive. Instead, I just smiled. It was the smile of someone who had learned hard lessons on the absurdities of life, who had come to appreciate its unpredictability. It was the smile of someone just looking at a lover.

Moments later, a similar smile broke through on her face too. She stepped behind my chair and released my hands from their cuffs. As I stretched my arms and shoulders in relief, she walked back in front of me, provocatively standing between my seat and the table with her back to me.

I stood, grateful to stretch my legs again, and wrapped my arms around Amber’s chest. I hugged her close, feeling the heat of her back against my chest. My lips reached her right ear, and I whispered the most romantic two words in the English language.

“Bend over.”

She obeyed without comment or complaint. Shifting the sole item remaining on the table, the half-empty bowl of sticky brown dessert, so she could lie fully across it.

I moved behind her, pushing her feet apart with my own until they were on either side of the table legs. This position served to stretch her buttocks into small round globes, and reveal the sticky swollen slit between them.

“You have been a very naughty girl.”

This wasn’t delivered as a question, or an observation. It was a statement.

She responded by wiggling her posterior provocatively, so I dealt with her. Swinging my open palm back and then downwards, spanking her bottom cheek with a resounding smack.

I looked at the tiny patch of pink I’d created, a mark I’d waited a lifetime to deliver, but had never previously been bold enough to try. Amber didn’t attempt to say anything, content to simply emit a low quiet moan. I spanked her again, this time as a flurry of quick stinging whacks. Her submission, her acceptance of the pain I’d inflicted thrilled me.

I spanked her for being a little tease. For the subterfuge that brought me here. For fucking me and leaving my balls to ache. Every now and then I would pause, cupping my hand between her legs, massaging her slit, letting her wetness seep onto my palm. But I was in control now, I would take her to the edge and leave her yearning.

And I would take her as I pleased. My almost painfully hard cock entered her swollen slit easily. As I slid in and out, I used a finger to rub her wrinkled hole, smearing it with the leftover chocolate sauce. Her arse was much tighter, so I told her that would be where my cock would go next. She didn’t protest, merely moaned.

Then I resumed her spanking, alternating flurries of smacks with my finger intruding ever deeper into her tight sticky gap.

When I was ready, I let the tip of my stiff cock rest against her bottom hole, its sheath glistening with her wetness. I began to prod her tight entrance, threatening to enter. But then Amber surprised me again, pushing back on me, impaling herself with a shrill cry of delight.

I fucked her spanked bum slowly, reaching over to feed my chocolate encrusted fingertips into her mouth. She obediently licked my fingers clean as I pushed ever deeper into her bottom.

Her arse was so tight, after a dozen deep thrusts I could already feel myself approaching my limit. I slowed down, smacking what I could reach of her bum and upper thighs when I slid out, feeling the wet kiss of her sticky lips against my shaved sac when I pushed deep. Our breathing matched my rhythm. In and out. Shallow and deep.


As I try to delay the inevitable, I think back over all that’s happened today, and all that’s ever happened between us, and wonder what on earth I’m going to be able to say to her once our fucking ends. Once we’ve both got our breath back, once our waves of ecstasy abate, and the starkness of reality resumes.

I shall suggest we dress and go outside, to cocoon ourselves in our sex fug, and stand in wonder beneath the clear night sky. Hand in hand, we’ll look up at the awe-inspiring starscape twinkling infinitely high above our heads, letting our eyes scan the million points of light sparkling on their stark velvet canvas.

I’m thrusting deep again. I am going to come now. Amber’s right hand is gripping the edge of the table, I grasp it, pushing it beneath her, between her legs. Then I lean forward, to growl my final instructions into her ear.

“Put your fingers on your fucking cunt.”

Later, with our bodies still trembling, we’ll venture outside, and snuggle together under the timelessly vast heavens. Our flushed faces slowly numbing in the chill alpine air. We’ll hug and whisper our hopes and our dreams, our joys and our sorrows.

We’ll talk of pasts and futures, of nebulae and neutron stars.

.

.

.

.

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@spankingtheatre 2019

Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.

You’re welcome to reblog and share.

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…

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.

Verso, Recto

A spanking story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, suddenly, my prayers were answered.

The door creaked open, and you returned.

“Do you like my painting?”

I nod my head enthusiastically.

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

“It’s beautiful,” I reply.

“What do you see?”

“Humility, grace, and piety.”

“And chastity?”

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

“Submissiveness?”

“Oh yes.”

“Innocence?”

“Oh, very.”

“And yet, sometimes appearances can be deceptive…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shook my head. I did not.

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

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

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

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

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

“The Almighty sees everything, Child.”

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

“Forgive me.”

I begin whipping myself.

“Harder.”

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

“Harder.”

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

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

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

Please, forgive my obscene excitement.

Let me atone for the sins of my flesh…


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

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

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

“I know,” she replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I held my breath, and peeked…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, a hand painfully pinched my shoulder.

“Wicked child!”

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

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

“You disgraceful, filthy urchin!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded in acknowledgement.

“I saw behind your portrait.”

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

“I know,” she replied at last.

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

I nodded again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

“All is forgiven, child.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, suddenly, she stopped.

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

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

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

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

I could feel her beginning to lend forwards.

“Bend over.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have something to confess…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then

When I waked

I cried to dream again.

.

.

.

@spankingtheatre 2018

Verso, Recto – part 2

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


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

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

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

“I know,” she replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I held my breath, and peeked…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, a hand painfully pinched my shoulder.

“Wicked child!”

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

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

“You disgraceful, filthy urchin!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded in acknowledgement.

“I saw behind your portrait.”

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

“I know,” she replied at last.

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

I nodded again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

“All is forgiven, child.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, suddenly, she stopped.

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

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

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

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

I could feel her beginning to lend forwards.

“Bend over.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have something to confess…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then

When I waked

I cried to dream again.

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@spankingtheatre 2018

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