Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears



The Island of Bones


Trigger Warning: This is a Halloween horror. A gothic ghost story set amid the Age of Pirates, readers may encounter taboos of a violent past, like rape, hangings and gory death.

Here be monsters, sensitive souls should proceed no further.




The night the tempest hit. I dreamt of an island made of bones. 

Beside its idyllic turquoise waters, just beneath its strands of golden sand, lay bones. An endless stack of ivory white skeletons. Skulls and femurs, ribs and vertebrae, heaped high on top of each other, stretching all the way down to the abyssal darkness of the ocean deep. They were the mortal remains of all who’d ever been lost at sea, gathered and brought here by the ocean sweeping currents. Deposited together to form a grotesque pile of bones, disguised with palm trees and the trappings of paradise.

In my hubris, I thought I could outrun the hurricane. I had always loved storms, the astonishing violence of air and water. I loved to lie in my bunk, hearing the gales howl through the rigging and feel the boat lurch and tumble on a rollercoaster of swells. But this storm was different, a massive monstrous force of nature. As night fell, and I was plunged into a frightening darkness, I realised with horror that I had made a terrible mistake.

The hurricane tossed my yacht like a bath toy for several terrifying hours. I had to brace myself as my cabin repeatedly tumbled. Sometimes everything went almost vertical, producing a sickening moment of weightlessness before everything dropped, the whole vessel hurtling downwards into the trough of the wave, smashing back into the water in a shattering crash.

Until one time, my luck ran out. It must have been an enormous wave, enough to topple my entire world upside down, I felt myself go vertical, then fall backwards and the boat capsized. Something thwacked against my head, and everything went black. 

I woke lying dazed on the ceiling of my cabin. The emergency lights shed just enough light to see that beneath me was a dark pit of churning seawater. My precious sanctuary had flooded, my boat was likely only moments away from being dragged beneath the mountainous waves.

I kicked the hatch open with the fury of someone utterly desperate to survive, and escaped into the tumultuous seas, gambling that the waters of the Caribbean would be warm enough to keep me alive. Only my life jacket kept me above the surface, as mountains of water crashed down relentlessly, pummelling me into unconsciousness.

But somehow I woke to see the dawn. Miraculously, the sea had spared me.




* * 1 * * 

I lay on the sandy beach, choking as I struggled to clear my raw airways of salty water. My whole body was battered and aching, my head still throbbing from the accident. But I had just enough energy to crawl upwards through the surging surf, to reach the high water line. I lay sprawled amongst the seaweed watching the sky glow as the sun rose, the departing purple stormclouds illuminated with a golden light. 

Hunger drove my initial explorations, and I found sufficient fruits and berries to replenish my energy. I discovered I‘d been washed up on a small deserted island. It seemed like a coral cay, fringed by golden sand, and covered with tropical trees. It did not take me long to walk around its perimeter, an hour at most. It was essentially flat, I could see its highest point was a slight rise on its southern flank. That would provide the best lookout, so that was where I made my home. 

I spent my early days building SOS signs from driftwood, laying them on the beaches in the hope they’d be spotted by some passing vessel. I had been attempting to cross the Atlantic solo, and hadn’t even had time to send a Mayday call before I’d fled from my boat. I had no idea if anyone even knew I was missing yet. Let alone where to look for me.  

But I knew I couldn’t afford to lapse into despondency. Survival and self-sufficiency were my immediate priorities. I discovered additional sources of food, teeming shoals of fish that were prolific enough in the shallow waters to grab with my hands and then dry in the sun. I constructed rain traps to harvest fresh water. I created a rudimentary shelter from palm fronds, where I could escape the maddening solitude and find solace and company amid the theatre of my dreams. 

When alone, one takes comfort from such simple pleasures. I remember my joy when I discovered the tree with the paper-like bark. I was able to fashion my own quill from seabird feathers, and create a crude ink from ground fragments of coral, mixed with the blood of fish I’d caught. 

What keeps me going is the hope that one day, someone else will read these strange scarlet scrolls. Writing keeps me sane, the blank page provides an audience, it gives me someone to talk to, to describe my thoughts and confess my fears. I hope I’ll survive long enough to be rescued. But if not, I hope these words will outlive me. After all, I have such a strange and unnatural story to tell.

It began as I was exploring my tiny new realm. That was when I discovered the bones. I found them scattered beneath a tree. Initially I thought they were the remains of a seal or a washed-up dolphin. But then I saw the unmistakable curve of a human skull, now denuded of flesh and bleached white by the scorching sun. Amid the bones were a few items of jewellery, which glinted as I rubbed the grimy residue of age away, several elegantly thin gold rings and gem-encrusted ear piercings. This seemed to be the remains of a lady, and an affluent lady at that.

It seems crazy to write this. But later, in the darkness, I met her myself.

That night, I was lying beneath the stars, listening to the waves break on the beach, surrounded by utter blackness. I was suddenly startled when I thought I heard someone talking to me. It was the first voice I’d heard since I’d left port, several weeks previously. I jumped up from my improvised mattress of foliage, but saw nothing around me but the dark.

It felt like I was hearing the bones talking to me. Beckoning me. 

I walked under the pale light of the moon to where the bones still lay, undisturbed. She was waiting for me. The lady who must have died here. 

She appeared as a ghostly apparition, as ephemeral as whispers. She glowed like wan moonlight, her eyes mournful, as if afflicted by deep melancholy. She was barefoot, and what remained of her clothes were ragged and dishevelled, barely covering her chest and her waist.   

She spoke without moving her lips, yet her intense voice resonated profoundly through my own head, drowning out my own inner voice, displacing my own ability to think.

I AM HANNAH, the voice inside my head announced. 


I recognised her voice as having an English accent, prim and aristocratic. It was somewhat archaic sounding too, like the kind of voice in vintage archive recordings.

The dim pools of moonlight where her eyes used to be glowered in my direction, but did not look at me. I felt the unsettling sensation that this visitor was only dimly aware of my presence, that she couldn’t really see me, like we were neighbours separated by some kind of wall.

What… happened to you? I thought instinctively. 

The apparition answered, without me even having to vocalise my question.


What! Who? How? I stuttered.

And then, under the moonlight, I began to learn her story.

* * *

I sat on a fallen trunk, and closed my eyes, and she showed me everything.

Hannah de Chésery was born during the reign of William III. A descendent of minor Swiss nobility, she received a cosmopolitan education from a series of fine European teachers as she grew up in England. I got the impression she was a headstrong young lady who had soon learned to get what she wanted. She had discovered the joys of a bare bottom flogging through her youthful misadventures, and actually enjoyed teasing her tutors into producing the cane. Her family mistook her secret appetite for discipline as wilful naughtiness. 

Hannah was pretty and smart enough to become sought-after company in London society. She was married off to a dashing young man named Jonathan Fitzgerald, a London Judge and rising star in the Government’s Colonial Office. But the pair seemed to share a genuine affection. Soon, he was offered a prestigious overseas assignment, as the new Governor of a small Caribbean island. 

She told me her husband discussed the prospective posting, and eager for adventure, she had readily agreed. She was remarkably candid with me, telling me she had elected not to bear children, and that they had practised martial relations in what polite society knew as “the Greek Way”. I presumed that meant he fucked her in her bottom. Quite possibly a spanked bottom too.

They left England to cross the Atlantic in 1720. 

If I remember my history of this region correctly, the War of the Spanish Succession would have recently ended. I’d visited enough local museums to know these were turbulent times, with navies recalled and deployed, the Caribbean colonies became increasingly lawless. Pirates were raiding and plundering anyone without the means of defending themselves. Scared people flocked to port settlements, seeking the sanctuary that only the Royal Navy could provide. Stone walls in towns here often date from this period, those without them burned, those towns don’t exist anymore.



I am in a wood-panelled courtroom, on private benches reserved for dignitaries. I can see Hannah’s husband sitting on the highest seat, dominating the room in his full legal regalia. He will be judging this case, responsible for dispensing justice.

A dozen ragged individuals stand in the dock. Manacled in heavy iron chains.  

A white-wigged clerk is reading out the circumstances of the case. It seems the Navy, after a fierce battle, had just captured a Lady Pirate, the infamous Dread Pirate Penelope. My eyes scan the dock, one of the defendants is indeed a woman, she’s dressed in male clothes, breeches and a frock coat embroidered with gold. She’s the only one of the prisoners without her head bowed. She seems to regard the charges being read as a valediction, not an admonishment.

I watch the trial progress through Hannah’s eyes. Skipping forward between her memories, the moments of greatest emotional intensity. I feel her heart thumping with suspense as the verdict is announced. I feel the heat between her legs, and how her clit goes stiff and swollen as she watches her husband don his black cap, and sentence all the pirates to be hanged.

The next memory I see was Hannah visiting his private chambers after the court had adjourned. Immediately, I could see the bulge beneath his ermine-trim robe. He says nothing to us, and my point-of-view abruptly changes, as he pushes us unceremoniously over his sprawling desk.

I feel him grab our dress, urgently dragging the copious fabric upwards until our split bloomers are exposed. I feel his hand reach between our legs, gripping our crotch, and spreading our wetness around our tightest hole. I feel the swollen knob of his stiff cock pressing into us. Astonishingly, I feel everything, the pain and exhilaration as he enters and plunges deep inside.

I see the room as Hannah once saw it, peering over the edge of the desk, her view shaking violently with every thrust of her husband’s hips. He was a tall man, with a physique more befitting a soldier than a bureaucrat. He had been assigned to this lawless land because he could take care of himself. And he could take care of others. I feel him reach underneath me, pinching my hood moments before we both…

I awoke, lying on the ground, with a start. And I found that I was soaked. 

It had been so long since I’d felt such intimate sensations their intensity shocked me. But an instant after waking, they were gone, and my cunt had never felt so empty. 

I cried, sobbing, yearning to dream the same dream again.

But nothing happened. No voice spoke to me, only the silence of utter loneliness enveloped me. I looked at Hannah’s sorry bones pleadingly, desperate to see her ghostly presence. But she was nowhere to be seen.

When at last I did fall asleep, I dreamt not of fuckings, but of a mountainous heap of bones, stretching a mile deep beneath my bed of leaves.




* * 2 * *

The next night, as I stared at the waning moon, Hannah visited me again. My heart soared to see her, despite her eerie phantasmal appearance. When she finally spoke, her prim voice shattered the silence, booming through my mind.



I wanted to shout out: No! To reassure her that anal sex was nothing to be ashamed of, that over the past three centuries our world had moved on to more enlightened times. But it turned out that wasn’t what she meant at all.


The dark vanished, and everything was brilliantly bright. I was within Hannah’s memories again, staring at a sky of vibrant Caribbean blue. Hannah’s point-of-view is from a high window, which I guess is the uppermost floor of the Governor’s Mansion. Beneath us a crowd has gathered, their shouts and yells echoing within my mind. It is a noisy, excitable mob, corralled by red-shirted soldiers, razor-sharp bayonets glinting atop their muskets.

Then I realise where we actually are. This is the town square, and the soldiers are ringing a tall timber frame, from which an ominous-looking rope is dangling from the high crossbeam. This is a gallows, and this crowd has come to watch a hanging.

Through the seething crowd, I can see a cart drawn by two mules slowly approaching, its escorting troops pushing throngs of people out of its way. I can see a lone figure standing defiantly in the cart, hands behind his back and chains around his ankles.

I hear the Governor whisper into my ear. This will be the first of Pirate Penelope’s crew to hang, he tells me, the sadistic First Mate. The courtroom testimony of witnesses who’d survived this brute’s barbarity had been particularly harrowing. How he’d raped and slain an entire family. Slitting their throats and desecrating their mortal remains. And there seemed little doubt there had been many other heinous crimes that had left no witnesses.

Surveying the angry mob, I realise many in this crowd would have fled the pirates’ reign of terror. It was quite likely that some would have personally known his many victims. This isn’t mockery I can feel, but raw hatred; objects were being hurled at this prisoner, not just insults. 

Now amid the jeers of the angry crowd I can hear the mournful beat of the execution drums, like a slow funeral march. 

To anyone looking up at our window, I suspect Hannah would appear to be seated, with the Governor standing behind her. But unbeknownst to the crowds gathered below, she is bending over in front of him, her chest resting atop a high stool, a cushion providing some padding. She is naked beneath the waist. Her hands are tied behind her back, just like the condemned pirate. 

I feel what Hannah must once have felt. A sharp ache beneath the tummy. I feel damp and very tender. I look down between Hannah’s legs. Her cunt is bare and red, wet with her own blood. Her husband is naked below the waist, his cock already stiff, poking between her open thighs.

I see the cart is now trundling beneath the gallows. The beat of the drums is getting louder, the abuse of the crowd ever more vociferous, as if they have so much more abuse to hurl, and their target is fast running out of their range.

The drums suddenly fall silent, and the crowd hushes for a moment. The town crier stands before the cart, unfurling a scroll. Hannah blushes as she realises she has seen this document before. 

I witness her recollection, Hannah is sitting on her husband’s lap. He has a quill in his right hand, his cock deep in her bottom, and his left hand reaching around her waist to grip the hood of her clitoris. Ah yes, the Greek Way.

She rides him slowly, letting her thighs relax so her own weight lets her sink deeper. Her husband appreciates her initiative, having important matters of state to attend to. He is about to sign the first pirate’s death warrant. He pauses, asking Hannah when she next expects to bleed. She answers, and inadvertently sets the date of the pirate’s doom.

The original scene returns. A smartly dressed soldier has now climbed into the cart, he looks like an officer. He offers the pirate a blindfold, but he shakes his head to refuse it. The crier is reading out the long list of crimes for which the pirate has been condemned. Murder. Rape. Arson of several towns. Attacks on dozens of named ships. Piracy. I can feel the crowd’s anger building, their jeers now reaching fever-pitch. 

The officer places the noose over the pirate’s head, tightening it around his neck, the thick knot of coiled rope behind his ear. He nudges the convict forward, until he’s standing on the very edge of the open cart.

The drums begin beating again. This time it’s a fast, urgent tempo, like a countdown to something climactic. 

We feel the Governor shuffle forward, his cock pushing against her bloody entrance. He puts his hand past our ear, and out of the open window. I hear the drums rattle to a crescendo, and Hannah’s rapid heartbeat thundering in my ears. This feels both tremendously exciting and deeply horrifying. I can’t help wondering, is this justice – or is it theatre? Is the crowd here for restitution and closure, or revenge and entertainment?

I feel the hard potency of his authority, poised between my legs. His power over life and death. It excites me, disgracefully. His other hand slaps her bare bottom hard, several rapid smacks to the drums’ beat, hard enough to make Hannah yelp.

In front of my face, I see him clench his fist, at the very same moment his cock drives deep inside my cunt. Beneath us, a soldier whips the mules and the cart lurches forward. The rope goes tight, and I see the pirate fall.

I feel him thrust his stiff cock into Hannah’s bloody cunt. We writhe as he fucks us, as we watch the condemned pirate dance at the end of the rope. I sense Hannah’s thoughts, a deep visceral fear of losing her shield, her precious husband. How without him, she would be prey for the pirates, how her dying memory might be a brute’s cock stretching her bleeding hole, the cold sharp edge of a dagger scraping her throat as she pleads.

I can feel Hannah’s building excitement, as she watches the pirate dangle. My mind reels. How could she find a scene so horrible so arousing?

Hannah’s husband is now grasping her throat, tenderly tightening his grip as he thrusts deeper and deeper. I can feel Hannah gasping for breath, her eyes fixed on the dangling pirate, his legs still kicking in thin air.

Now I see something else. An earlier, even more terrible vision. Hannah is lying on a patch of grass beside a rutted muddy track. Her clothes have been torn from her, and her hands are tied behind her. There is a carriage nearby. Her driver is lying slumped on the ground, motionless, the breast of his ruffled white shirt now stained scarlet with his own blood. Above her, an unkempt brigand is leering at her nakedness. He has already pulled down his breeches, so his thick cock is pointing at her, threateningly.

The highwayman descends on her, his large strong hands grasping her throat, throttling her resistance away. His violation is bloody and excruciatingly painful, robbing her of not just her virginity but her dignity. But she does not show me all of this, some memories are just too agonising to remember.

The brigand left her for dead, in a bloodied heap by the side of the road. But he didn’t squeeze her throat quite tightly enough. She awoke in the rain, reborn as an avenging angel, yelling furious oaths as she swore that she would find him.

A sequence of more memories follow, tinted by a burning fury. Of the handsome young judge who defended her honour. He was the man who brought her violator to justice. Who led the troop of soldiers who captured him, and who sentenced him to hang. He was standing beside her as they watched him dragged to the gallows. He had his hand on the small of her back, reassuring her, as the trapdoor fell and the wretched bastard choked in the noose.

He was her guardian, her protector, her lover, and her husband. The only one who didn’t see her as tainted, but blessed by God. She had been given breath to live again, and been anointed with a righteous mission. To protect the weak, and bring justice to those who might prey on them.

Now I realise it’s the highwayman who Hannah is imagining dangling beneath her. That the hand around her throat symbolises all the formative forces in her life. Violence, violation, retribution, revenge, justice, arousal, excitement, protection, security, and love.

It takes several minutes for the pirate to cease kicking. The tender pressure on Hannah’s throat squeezing ever tighter, his cock pushing ever deeper. Until Hannah and I both experience an ecstatic climax, we go limp at the same time as the dangling pirate.

In that moment, I remember an old folk-legend I’d heard once at a Halloween party, as we’d been discussing the icky gross-out ingredients of witches’ cauldrons. One of those present was a girl who was most interested in crystals, mythology and arcane lore. She told us that when a man was hanged, he comes. That his semen drips beneath the gallows, and from it, the witch-root mandrake grows. But beware, any who dare pull this dread plant from the earth would be slain by its terrifying deathly shriek.

As I came I feel his seed dripping, then all goes black.




* * 3 * *

In the days and nights that follow, I meditate on all the gruesome horrors I’ve seen.

I try to make sense of it, reasoning that perhaps we eroticise what we fear. Even situations that might otherwise be socially or physically painful. Maybe that’s why the most common sexual fantasies feature authority and punishment, nudity and humiliation. By fantasising about violation, perhaps Hannah is seeking to control her fear, to bottle the lightning, to channel her powerful visceral anxieties into pleasure instead.

Yet I also needed to consider the possibility that these visions originated from my own mind, one driven mad by my isolation and the trauma of my shipwreck. They could be manifestations of my own unconscious fantasies, or intimations of my own mortality.

But if I was not imagining this, the implications were truly astonishing, It meant there was an existence after death. That some essence of us could survive, and return to this realm as ghostly apparitions. 

I found myself wondering why had Hannah been condemned to remain on this desolate island? Was she not a victim of violence herself? Why had her soul been denied peace? Was it because she took such pleasure in the torment and demise of others? And if so, I shivered at what hideous Hell her husband might be suffering.

Or has Hannah become some kind of warning, of the fate that lies in store for me, if I give up hope, and die in despair on this island of bones?

Or perhaps fate is now teaching me a lesson in humility. Here I am, alone in the middle of nowhere, at the mercy of forces far greater than myself. I am trapped and weak. I have no guardian to protect me. But like Hannah, despite all the odds, I had managed to survive and breathe again.

For a month, Hannah did not return. Every night I prayed she’d come back to me. I began to regret judging her so severely. I had been given glimpses of cruel and savage times, and to my modern eyes, they were barbaric. 

But in time I came to realise that the passage of time had made me a child of privilege. I did not grow up in Hannah’s world. I did not know what it was like to feel fragile, to live in mortal fear of rape and murder, to suffer such wretched violatation and be left for dead. To live beyond the cover of protective sanctuary that laws provide, to live in a world without a guardian to keep me safe at night. 

It made me think about authority, why some respect it and others rebel. Here I was, utterly free, ruler of my own realm, at liberty to do anything I wanted. But my freedom felt like a curse. I realised what I craved was the certainty of authority, I wanted to be told what to do. I began to fantasise about discipline and punishment. Imagining what it would be like to be trapped on this island with a man like Hannah’s husband. Someone who could protect as well as punish, who’d cup my crotch with his big warm palm to make me feel safe, and place the same firm strict hand on my bare bottom to make me feel grateful.

Maybe the predilection to spank – or be spanked – was a manifestation of a basic human need. The desire for direction, for order, for certainty. After all, spanking was a measured, almost ritualised application of force, rather than an act of indiscriminate violence. A good spanking was impactful, but transient, just hard enough for authority to be demonstrated and obedience earned, with no lasting damage done.

And of all the regions of the body that could be smacked, spankings happened to be delivered through the very same nerves that transmitted sexual pleasure, and were delivered when the recipient’s most intimate regions were exposed. Spankings were corrective nudges, of stinging pain, inseparably intertwined with the tingle of pleasure. 

Crucially, standing in the corner with a sore bottom afterwards was an opportunity for enlightenment. A chance for the spankee to admit to their behavior was improper and that rules existed for a reason. Those who had been spanked soon discovered something quite unexpected: that acceptance diminishes their discomfort, whilst resentment only exacerbates it. 

Our minds seemed hardwired to regard legitimate discipline as pleasurable. Perhaps that quirk of our psychology helped civilise our species. Social order required good leadership and consensual obedience. Our need for structure and discipline was as fundamental as our need for companionship. Spankings were reminders that being good would bring its own rewards.

It was only after that moment of clarity, that I heard Hannah’s voice again.

I was lying on the warm sand of the beach one night, staring into the infinity of space, at stars whose light had started its journey across the cosmos whilst Hannah had once walked these very shores. Small waves lapped soothingly on the beach, their foam catching the weak moonlight. Until a voice in my head ruptured the quietness. 


I jumped to my feet. Hannah was several metres away, a faint glow, indistinct, like an almost forgotten memory. She was not looking at me, but out over the horizon, to where the countless pin-points of starlight were abruptly swallowed by the vast inky expanse of the ocean.


I did not understand her question at the time. It seemed beyond my power to answer. But in retrospect, it was the most important thing she ever said. It took me months to realise she wasn’t even talking to me, but to another audience entirely. 


Memories began to wash over me again, like tumbling waves. I find myself watching through Hannah’s eyes from the high window once more. Bending over, with her hands bound behind her back, her husband’s thick cock is pressing against her tight little bottom hole. Another pirate is standing beneath the gallows, and the drums are rattling towards their fatal crescendo.

I see his fist clench, and he pushes into us both as the pirate topples, and dangles. I feel Hannah’s bottom stretch as the rope squeezes tight. He fucks in slow firm thrusts, his hand around his precious wife’s throat. It takes several minutes before the rogue ends his dance, time enough for him to take them both to the edge, and gasp climatically together.




* * 4 * *

It took weeks to hang the remainder of Penelope’s captured crew. They scheduled one public execution every other day, so the crowd wouldn’t get too blasé, and Hannah and her husband wouldn’t get too sore from their own secret macabre game of sexual satisfaction as they watched.

Hannah evidently didn’t remember much of these deaths, or at least she spared me the ordeal of watching them. Eventually though, there was only one sentence still outstanding, the execution of the Dread Pirate Penelope herself. The couple had debated what would be a fitting finale. It was actually Hannah who had suggested it, and to her surprise, her husband had agreed to it.

Now I was seeing something different through Hannah’s eyes, not the familiar view from their window over the square, but the white glazed tiles of a Georgian bathroom. 

I wonder if Captain Penelope was surprised when, on the night before she was due to hang, she was taken from her cell in chains, and brought to the Governor’s Mansion. I witness Hannah’s memories as she tells the guards to wait outside, and takes her prisoner into the bathroom to take care of her ablutions. 

Penelope is still manacled as she is undressed, bathed, shaved bare and given an enema. Despite all this, and her imminent fate, Penelope maintains her wise-cracking defiance, a strength of character I could tell Hannah was finding most alluring. She could sense the aura of leadership, her authority, and why the crew had followed her to their deaths. Penelope was beautiful, but I could tell she was a siren, as dangerous and treacherous as any Odysseus might have encountered.

Yet I could sense Hannah was beginning to be drawn towards treacherous rocks, how fascinated she was by the other woman’s slit, as her cut-throat razor slid across her mound and skirted around her more intimate places. Their conversation had become increasingly flirtatious.

“Do you shave every pirate you send to the rope? Or only those you wish to fuck?”

“You have a sharp tongue, Captain,” Hannah had observed coyly.

“All the better to lick you with, M’lady.”

I feel Hannah’s tummy flutter, and notice how she surreptitiously glanced at Penelope’s bare cleft. There was something about her awkwardness that suggested Hannah had never made love to a woman, but thought of it regularly. In that moment, it felt like a seed had just been planted, one that would grow to fascinate her.

Hannah wraps a cloak around her prisoner, and calls for the soldiers, who make sure the captive does not attempt to flee as we move upstairs to the Governor’s apartments. The guards remain at the bottom of the staircase, as Hannah guides Penelope through the door to their bedchamber. The room is large, its windows now shuttered against the night. It smells civilized, of clean linen and coconut oil lanterns. 

“I have a gift for you, my love,” announces Hannah, removing the cloak of modesty from Penelope’s shoulders, and letting it fall to the ground.

The captain doesn’t flinch as she is exposed, but remains standing proudly upright, naked apart from her manacles. Her wrists are cuffed behind her back, her ankle cuffs connected by a short chain.

I notice how, as the couple’s eyes are roving across her, Penelope is scanning her surroundings. As if she was checking to see if any guards are present, or identifying potential weapons or routes of escape. She instinctively knew that anything that could be improvised in furtherance of her own survival. A motivation that became even more vital when she sees the noose hanging from one of the ceiling beams, and the wooden bench just beneath it.

“We are just planning to hang out this evening?” asks Penelope, nonchalantly. 

“Your sentence will be executed here, tonight,” the Governor informs her.

“Shame. The crowd will be robbed of the show they’ve been waiting for, all this time…” she counters, in a deadpan tone that belies her predicament.

“You flatter yourself, pirate. You’re just another murderous bandit in a boat.”

“But such an exceptional one,” she reminds him.

“Besides, it’s better this way,” the Governor explains, “The townsfolk will awake to news that the Coward Pirate Penelope took the easy way out. That she was too afraid to face justice in public, and hanged herself in her cell.”

I could see Penelope scowl at the implication. She gave me the impression that she was an inveterate narcissist, one who’d rather been looking forward to a glorious finale in the public square tomorrow. A chance to be the centre of attention one last time, to become an anti-establishment martyr, to die a rebel’s death, and inspire dozens of ballads that would ensure her immortality forever. 

“Do I get a last request?”

“Within reason.”

“I’d like to lick your wife’s cunt, and die with her taste on my lips.”

I could feel Hannah’s cheeks blush hot, and her skin prickle into goosebumps. She looks at him, and I see her husband smiling, lasciviously. 

“What do you say, my love?”

I sense Hannah grinning, and in lieu of an answer, she begins to undress. 


Penelope’s chains rattle as she folds to the floor, before looking upwards, open-eyed, obediently and expectantly. 

The Governor turns to face us, placing his hand between Hannah’s legs. I can feel his fingers slip through her slick lips. 

“Minx!” he cries, delivering a succession of hard slaps to her bare bottom.

“So keen to dance on a pirate’s tongue!”

The hot sting is still radiating through Hannah’s backside as her husband grasps her wrist and leads her towards where Penelope is kneeling. 

Penelope’s nimble tongue licks Hannah’s bare slit like her life depended on it. Skillfully exploring every fold as an expert navigator would, sailing into every secret cove, surveying every landmark with tender kisses. Criss-crossing the island, climbing the little hill and circling the hidden hollow. Until a sudden storm breaks, and Hannah drenches Penelope’s pretty face with a sticky gush.

Hannah staggers backwards on trembling legs, sitting down on the edge of their bed. Penelope remains kneeling, with her hands bound behind her, she has no way to wipe her face, and wears the glistening mess proudly on her face, like a badge of honour.

Out of sight, I know the Governor is watching us. When he comes into view again he has undressed, and his cock is hard.

“It’s time.”

He drags his captive off her knees by her arm, towards the bench beneath the rope. 

I’m surprised when he then sits down, pulling Penelope across his one of his knees, so she straddles his thigh, splaying her legs wide apart, exposing everything in between. He begins to spank her, with hard slow heavy slaps. As each smack lands, he scolds her as if she was a naughty little girl, for all the sailors her crew had drowned, and all the villagers they’d so cruelly robbed and murdered. 

“Harder, please Sir! I’ve been such a very bad girl.”

He is smacking with considerable force, each impact making her chains clink and rattle, his large strong hands leaving bright pink patches wherever they land. Occasionally he pauses, dragging his finger between her open cheeks, pushing his fingers into her holes, rebuking her for being so soaking wet.

“Oh Sir! I wish you’d been there to discipline me in my formative years. I would never have been led astray!”

He reaffirms her sentence as he spanks her, guilty of piracy and murder. 

“It is the sentence of this court you be taken to a place of lawful execution, and hanged by the neck until you are dead.”

He pronounces the dread sentence with a flurry of forceful whacks, as if he was rapping his gavel on the court bench, trying to restore order to a tumultuous court.

“No Sir! Please, I’ll be so good for you!”

I sense something new, something I haven’t felt from Hannah before. An empathy, a feeling that those spanked deserve forgiveness. It might even be pity. It is a feeling that intensifies as she watches her husband lift Penelope to her feet, and makes her step up onto the low bench. Then he reaches upwards, places the noose over her head, and tightens it around her neck.

“Come hither, my love!” he looks back to us encouragingly, “We shall enjoy this criminal before she strangles.”

Hannah is moving more hesitantly now, but takes her place before the standing pirate, bending forward so her face is in front of her bare cleft. She places her own tongue on Penelope’s swollen slit. The taste is so intoxicating she begins to wonder if this is the flavour of fear, of mortal jeopardy. 

Perhaps her husband will allow her to choose another pirate to hang here, dangling as she keeps his hard cock in her mouth. Hannah had heard the Mandrake legend of hanged men’s seed too, and found herself pondering: whatever would happen if you swallowed it? And did women squirt with their final kick too?

As Hannah licks, I can see her husband between Penelope’s thighs. I see him placing his long stiff penis against her bottom hole, close enough for Hannah to push her tongue forward, and lick his shaft. We watch as he pushes slowly into our captive’s bottom.

Hannah continues to run the tip of her tongue up and down Penelope’s slit as her husband fucks her bottom. I notice how her legs, still manacled at the ankles, are trembling now, as she strives to keep her balance. What an end that would be, if she was to suddenly topple, she would dangle with the hangman’s cock in her arse, squeezing him tighter and tighter as she danced, milking him dry, and only releasing him from her grip when she fell still.

In between her moans, Penelope pleads for her life, trying to convince her captors she could bring them so much pleasure. And with a ship, a lot of treasure too.

Hannah curtails her pleas by pushing the tip of her tongue into the little bump of her clit. She sucks it eagerly, pushing her hood back with her lips, until Penelope’s staccato pleas are replaced by delirious moans. Then her knees buckle slightly, causing the rope to tighten and her voice to squawk. As Penelope begins to come, she grips his cock tight, which prompts Hannah to open her mouth and take her lover’s bare sac into her mouth. She sucks his balls tenderly,  until our lips feel his spasms as he empties himself deep inside the pirate’s bottom.

“Spare me, Sir! M’lady! I’ll do anything for you. Make me your slave. You know how appreciative I can be.”

The Governor ignored her pleas, withdrawing from her, and walking over to a small basin of water to clean his member.

“No, pirate. When I am hard again, you will hang.”

Hannah looks up at Penelope, whose calm demeanour is slipping, she looks increasingly desperate. I can feel him moving behind us, and his limp member already swelling between Hannah’s thighs. 

“We watched from our window as your crew of brutes were hanged. We fucked as the wretches danced, and now we shall do the same as we watch you,” he tells her nonchalantly.  

“Please! No!”

I feel him hard between Hannah’s bottom, rubbing her wetness around her tight little hole. He begins to push inside us, stretching a leg forward until one of his feet is resting on the low bench on which Penelope is standing. He pauses, then pushes deeper, I feel Hannah’s bottom stretch, and her legs grow weak. 

And then, a sudden thrust, and he topples the bench with his foot. I see Penelope fall, and hear the rope creak. Just in front of us, I can see her feet kicking frantically as the noose around her throat pulls tight

Hannah presses her tongue into her slit, eager to taste her final issue. He fucks us deeply as we watch Penelope’s desperate final dance. Her chains clinking as her fettered ankles kick and her hands struggle behind her back.

But then something quite unexpected happens. 

Hannah abruptly comes, her body overwhelmed by waves of intoxicating sensations, and her legs suddenly buckle.

My view swims for a moment, as Hannah sways and slumps to the floor, just in front of Penelope’s desperate kicking feet. Then I feel the scratch of toenails on her back, and a moment later, a heavy weight pushing down on top of her, as the gasping pirate finds somewhere to stand just before it’s too late.

Quite unexpectedly, Hannah now had Penelope’s fate literally on her shoulders.

“Please…” croaks Penelope, teetering precariously.

Beneath her, Hannah is still panting. I sense her thinking, collecting her thoughts. 

“I like this one. She has an eager tongue,” Hannah says at last, 

Hannah looks over her shoulder to her husband, and then suggests: “Let’s keep her, my love. At least for another night…”

He pauses, contemplating his wife’s proposal. And then to my surprise, he reaches up to loosen the rope from around Penelope’s throat. She jumps down from Hannah’s back, then collapses to  the floor beside her, planting a single kiss on her forehead. 

Afterwards, the Governor had Penelope returned to her cell. His expectation was that he’d fuck her again tomorrow night, and watch her swing. But Penelope’s lithe beauty masked a devious and dangerous mind. She had returned the following evening with a plan to seduce the Governor and his wife. And as it happened, she escaped the noose that night too.

Through Hannah’s memories, I witnessed Penelope’s skilful transformation into a sexual Scheherazade, repeatedly delaying her execution, insinuating herself into their lives, until she became not an inconvenience to be rid of, but their willing and irreplaceable fucktoy. Penelope had survived, just like she always did, whether it was a tumultuous storm or a ferocious battle, Captain Penelope always came through. A born survivor.

After winning her life, Penelope set about winning her captors’ trust. She was given her own room in the Governor’s mansion. She was still kept in chains, of course, as any sex slave would expect to be. They kept her naked, as clothes might conceal things, but the hot sultry climate meant she had little need of them anyway.

Eventually, Penelope became a collaborator. The Governor began to use her skills to plan raids against pirate strongholds. He even granted her the privilege of watching from the upper window as her one-time rivals were hanged in the town square below. She enjoyed watching the bulge in the condemned men’s breeches as the noose was fitted, and the wet patch that appeared between their kicking legs at the end of their dance, just as the Governor’s own seed filled her bottom. 

It was ironic that the restoration of the rule of law to the high seas owed so much to a pirate. But then again, Governor did believe in the redemptive power of discipline, he would regularly spank, strap, or cane Penelope, and she was always so gratefully appreciative for his generous correction.

Hannah also enjoyed putting Penelope over her own knee too. She liked to imagine that she was a strict governess, and her charge was just a silly little girl who enjoyed getting into scrapes with boys and playing pirates. A silly girl who needed to be spanked until her pretty little bum turned pink.

In time, Penelope was permitted to sail again, across the deep blue sea she’d missed so much. The Governor had her sent under guard on a raiding voyage to prove herself, it was a spectacular success, with the voyage returning heavy with plundered Spanish gold. Soon, she’d earned her own ship, albeit one manned with spies who’d slit her throat if she betrayed her duty. But still she remained loyal, returning without fail, often laden with treasure, to share Hannah’s bed.

Until, one month, she sailed, her ship did not return.

The seas could be so cruel. Hannah was heartbroken.




* * 5 * *

After she showed me the painful memories of Penelope’s shocking disappearance, I did not see Hannah again for several weeks. I was left alone with my thoughts, and all she had shown me. 

I began to see Penelope in my own dreams. Walking naked out of the surf, as beautiful as Hannah remembered her, to seduce me. I would be powerless, kneeling obediently before her, eager not just for her approval, but her tongue.

Until one night, I heard Hannah’s voice again. Not booming through my mind this time, but distantly singing a lament so wistful I felt my heart might break. She sang in a language I could not understand. Perhaps it was a plea for mercy, for deliverance from bitter tears and the desolation of a vanished love. I wept at her despair, as her sweet voice faded in silence.

When she appeared to me again, it was to be the last time I ever saw her. 



I am looking through Hannah’s eyes again. This time I’m surrounded by an expanse of radiantly blue water. My heart leaps when I realise I am at sea again. 

Strangely, Hannah appears to be entangled, I can feel the rough scraping of rope around her wrists. She is standing on a spar beam, several metres above the deck on a large frigate, its vast sails cluttered with rigging. Her back is flat against a thick mast, she seems to be tied to it. Her clothes are tattered and torn, and stained with what looks like soot and blood.

Beneath her a rowdy crowd of sailors are jeering at a manacled prisoner. A wooden plank is jutting out from the deck, and one of the crew has just walked carefully along it, to throw the yucky contents of a galley barrel into the water below. A red stain blooms in the still waters beside the ship, which is suddenly bisected by the unmistakable triangular fins of huge sharks. 

I sense Hannah’s fear and desperation. The man below is her husband, captive and at the mercy of these pirates. Hannah looks beseechingly towards the quarterdeck, and I recognise the captain of this ship: it’s Penelope.

Now I see what Hannah remembers. How she and her husband left the island colony to return to England, only to be intercepted by a fleet of pirates led by Penelope. It seems some never change, underneath her beautiful face, she would always be a scorpion, duplicitous and treacherous.

Penelope had waited years for the chance to avenge her hanged crew, to finally break the shackles that had bound her. She had kept back a portion of what she had plundered, and used it to buy allegiances. When the pieces were in place, she contrived her disappearance in a storm. 

And then she had waited, until the Governor and Hannah were due to return to England. Her fleet had ambushed the Governor’s lone vessel. She had instructed her crew to take him and his wife alive. After a fierce struggle, they were now the only survivors from their ship. 

I have had time enough on my little island to contemplate the nature of fear, of what might be the worst horror a human being can experience. My primal mind has ancient fears, of becoming prey of something grotesque and overwhelming. Like being enveloped by the sticky rubbery tentacles of a giant Kraken, or having my blood sucked dry by an enormous hairy spider. 

But my higher mind can imagine far worse terrors. Such as the horror of seeing a loved one die.

I realise that is what I’m about to watch. The pirates are laughing as they chain a small wooden keg around the Governor’s chest. A dribble of viscous red blood dripping from one side. They push him to the end of the plank with their cutlasses. His last glance is upwards, towards his darling wife. His everything. 

That last glimpse is the most heartbreaking single moment I’ve ever witnessed.

And then he falls into the water. The keg of leaking chum keeping him afloat as he is torn apart by thrashing sharks. 

Hannah screams so loud, everything goes black. As I finally understand what she has been trying to tell me.

* * *

Hannah’s subsequent recollections are joyless and bleak. Monotone memories, in bitter contrast to the vivid sensual experiences she once shared with me. 

Penelope had kept Hannah alive, but for a different fate. She was brought here, to this very island, and marooned. I watch through her eyes as she stares mutely at Penelope’s receding ship, as it sails westward, into a golden sunset of sublime beauty. Alone and utterly abandoned. For social beings, no greater torment exists.

As a mercy, Penelope left her with a small net to catch fish, a small knife to gut them, and two buckets to catch rainwater. And then she threw a noose over the branch of a nearby tree, for when her isolation became too much. 

I witness Hannah’s crushing solitude, alone on this tiny God-forsaken speck, disconsolate with bitterness and grief. She wakes every morning in hope of seeing the sails of a rescuing ship on the horizon, and ends the day wracked by guilt and sorrow. I feel her hope evaporating, as she begins to regard the island not as her prison, but as her purgatory. That she’d been put here to suffer for all the death she’d witnessed.

On the trunk of the tree where they’d left the noose, she’d scratched tally marks each morning, Until, eventually, there was no more space for her marks. That was when Hannah finally used the rope they’d left for her. She undressed, and stood on the bucket. Knowing one more footstep and she’d topple and fall – and for one glorious moment, she’d feel her husband’s loving hand gripping her throat one last time. Before everything went black.

Except she didn’t. 

Rage had overtaken her. She refused to give wretched Penelope the satisfaction of victory. Her survival would be her triumph. She’d stay alive long enough to be rescued, to bear witness to the murder of her husband. She’d survive to see her violator hang, just as she’d seen the highwayman choke. She loosened the rope and elected to fight on.

I do not know Hannah’s final fate, whether she succumbed to hunger, or grief, or ill-health. Death did eventually find her, but it finds us all, no matter how far away we try to hide.

I am looking through my own eyes now. 

Hannah’s apparition is staring through me, as if distracted by some infinite sadness. I want to console her, to hug her, but she seems barely aware of me. She continues to stare into the black starless night, as if surveying an unseeable horizon. Then she slowly fades away, until I’m left all alone again, in the dark.

When I finally realise the sin that condemned Hannah’s soul. It knocks me backwards, like a cannonball between my eyes. 

I understand everything now, how Hannah is wracked by self-hate. How she has condemned herself, because her actions set in motion a train of events that caused the death of her one true love. Three centuries later, she has still not forgiven herself.

Her lust had kept Penelope alive. She had perverted the course of justice. Saving the pirate from the noose that night, when she should have pushed her off her shoulders, and left her to strangle. 

I wonder, did Hannah ever escape this island? Part of me hopes she did, that she tracked down Penelope and had her revenge. Yet another part of me realises the futility of that fate, such retribution would never fully redeem the sorrow that wracks her soul.

My mind is swamped by questions. 

What is this place? Why am I here? And whose bones did I really stumble across? 

Are they Hannah? Or Penelope? Or some other castaway? Am I looking down upon the remains of my own corpse?

* * *

I am alone on a deserted island, surrounded by deep tempestuous seas. My reality is becoming slippery, often I awake cloaked in a misty haze. I am no longer sure who I am anymore. Did I live Hannah’s life once, or just experience moments of it?

My yacht, the storm, how I got here, it all seems so nebulous, as if all were figments of a story I’d once overheard. Did I really survive that hurricane? It now seems so unlikely, being lost like that in the middle of the deep blue sea. Perhaps I was dragged beneath the tumultuous waters, and into the yawning abyss below, disintegrating into bones, until I was gathered by the ocean, and became part of this mysterious island.

Yet my memories of Hannah and Penelope are still so vivid. I cling to them like a wrecked sailor hugs flotsam, they bring me such pleasure to recall in every intimate detail.

But I don’t think I sleep anymore. I can’t remember the last time I ate. I may have become eternal. Something beyond death. I may now be a mere vessel of memories, drifting languidly amid the doldrums of time. But perhaps that’s all that ghosts really are.

From my beach, I stare at the horizon, and watch a trillion dawns. 

Time is accelerating, the sun streaking repeatedly across the sky like a searing meteor. Aeons pass, and I perceive the orb in the sky glow redder. Yet still no one has rescued me, because there’s no-one left on Planet Earth. I’m utterly alone, marooned beneath a dying, swelling sun. 

I watch the sea begin to steam, then bubble and boil. Its waters receding, finally exposing the heap of bones beneath me, the bones I always knew were there. I witness the sand and ash of this scorched island trickling away, seeping into the eye sockets of ancient skulls. Until I’m left standing on the summit of a towering mountain of bones. High above what once was seabed, now sun-baked plains miles below,.

The doomed sun looms overhead, a giant incinerating ruby. No clouds exist anymore, just a colossal red furnace in a dazzlingly bright sky.

I find myself longing for companionship, the warmth of human touch. 

The simple pleasure of a firm hand on my bare bottom. 

Or at the very least, the company of ghosts.

And so here I wait, in the silence. 

Alone on a mountain of bones.

Staring beyond an empty horizon. 

Yearning for Hannah to return. 

To whisk me away from here.

Into her sordidly beautiful dreams.






@spankingtheatre 2020

Originally posted at

World Building

What makes a good erotic story?

It’s a common question in my inbox, so I’ll try to answer all the different variations of that question here.

I believe the
defining feature of visual pornography is titillation – where there’s no reason to think deeply or care about what’s going on. It’s just
like the ‘action porn’ blockbusters that are really just sequences of evermore outrageous fights and things
blowing up. 

Some written erotica falls into the same trap. It hurries into explicit descriptions of sexual acts.

Now, I love the cold open narrative technique, where the story jumps straight into the action and then provides some backstory when it’s hooked the reader by their eyeballs. But it’s easily abused, some stories just carry on describing the opening scene, until it becomes the whole story, and it ends.

Cold opens only work if the storyteller is willing to pause the ongoing drama, backtrack and do some exposition. Without changes in dramatic tension, there is no chance of building that most crucial aspect of an erotic story: sexual tension.

A story devoid of sexual tension is unfulfilling. Titillating stories offer no
opportunities for emotional investment. There are no characters to care
about, no points of view to take sides on, no ambiguity, no drama,
secrets or surprises.

If you’re telling a story – and this applies to any story, from a two-page short story to a two-hour movie, you have to make things matter.

For me, the most enjoyable part of writing is World Building. There is nothing so satisfying as fleshing out a complete imaginary world, deciding on its setting, anticipating its past, present and future, and crafting it until it’s logically consistent and believable.

World Building is the defining characteristic of fantasy novels, because they’re set in imaginary worlds. The best create a ‘universe’ with its own history and geography. Think of Harry Potter, or Star Wars, or Middle Earth or Westeros. These are immersive worlds for the reader to get lost in, to be thinking about long after the story ends. 

I like to think of my stories as meandering waters, I don’t aim to write tales that are flood torrents, a few pages that sweep readers away and they’re gone. I prefer to write stories that take time to tell, which will describe an imaginary world, and take readers on a satisfying journey.

The latest story, Head Girl, is a good example.

Like Inevitable, it’s set in an imagined world, a future that might yet come to be. The world of Head Girl feels competitive and impersonal, it features familiar tropes in unfamiliar settings. And it explores how new technology, like ultra-high definition immersive virtual reality – has the potential to alter our perceptions of what really constitutes our reality.

And you’ll notice, none of this is to do with sex. Great erotic stories are rarely just about sex. They’re adventures, expeditions into the unknown. Opportunities to experience something only our imagination can provide. A chance to vicariously indulge in danger and risk, taboos and boundary-breaking.

And where better to surprise and delight your readers than in an detailed imaginary world – somewhere beyond anything they’ve ever been able to imagine before… 

Do you have any stories about not being able to touch ones’ self? Possibly including a chastity device?

Denial and chastity feature in a number of my stories, some of the following  contain chastity devices, others more inventive kinds of denial…

No touching.

Share the joy of the written word


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?



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:


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. 


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


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


“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

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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.


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.






@spankingtheatre 2019

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Throne of Shame


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.

Jung believed these archetypes came from our common psychology, the
thoughts, dreams and values we share with every human being ever born.
These universal stories form the foundations of our shared culture.

I believe fairytales have a special, secret magic: that each story
shares the same words with its darker twin, hidden in plain sight, which
we can see if we read the tale just slightly differently. Through a
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.

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…

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