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Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

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erotica

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

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

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

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

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

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

Verso, Recto

A spanking story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, suddenly, my prayers were answered.

The door creaked open, and you returned.

“Do you like my painting?”

I nod my head enthusiastically.

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

“It’s beautiful,” I reply.

“What do you see?”

“Humility, grace, and piety.”

“And chastity?”

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

“Submissiveness?”

“Oh yes.”

“Innocence?”

“Oh, very.”

“And yet, sometimes appearances can be deceptive…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shook my head. I did not.

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

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

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

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

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

“The Almighty sees everything, Child.”

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

“Forgive me.”

I begin whipping myself.

“Harder.”

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

“Harder.”

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

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

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

Please, forgive my obscene excitement.

Let me atone for the sins of my flesh…


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

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

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

“I know,” she replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I held my breath, and peeked…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, a hand painfully pinched my shoulder.

“Wicked child!”

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

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

“You disgraceful, filthy urchin!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded in acknowledgement.

“I saw behind your portrait.”

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

“I know,” she replied at last.

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

I nodded again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

“All is forgiven, child.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, suddenly, she stopped.

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

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

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

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

I could feel her beginning to lend forwards.

“Bend over.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have something to confess…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then

When I waked

I cried to dream again.

.

.

.

@spankingtheatre 2018

Verso, Recto – part 2

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


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

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

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

“I know,” she replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I held my breath, and peeked…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, a hand painfully pinched my shoulder.

“Wicked child!”

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

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

“You disgraceful, filthy urchin!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded in acknowledgement.

“I saw behind your portrait.”

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

“I know,” she replied at last.

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

I nodded again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

“All is forgiven, child.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, suddenly, she stopped.

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

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

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

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

I could feel her beginning to lend forwards.

“Bend over.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have something to confess…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then

When I waked

I cried to dream again.

.

.

.

@spankingtheatre 2018

Question of the Week: What happened to Rapunzel?

What did you imagine happening to Rapunzel at the end of the eponymous fairtytale?

Did she submit willingly? Or was she overwhelmed by her intruder? And if the latter, did you find imagining her violation arousing, despite the taboo?

Rape-punzel

A filthy fairytale

image

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have you been a good girl, Rapunzel?

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

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

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

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

Have you been a good girl, Rapunzel?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Obnoxious brute! thought Rapunzel.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have you been a good girl, Rapunzel?

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

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

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

I mustn’t.

I mustn’t.

But then, her fingers strayed.

That night, Rapunzel was a very naughty girl.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her sanctuary was about to be invaded.

Desecrated.

Violated.

Have you been a good girl, Rapunzel?

.

.

.

@spankingtheatre 2018

Runaway

spankingtheatre:

I wandered into their world at Hallowe’en, when the boundaries between our realities are at their thinnest.

The further I fled from the city, the lonelier the roads became, until I found myself quite alone, coasting down country lanes. Destination anywhere.

Just the hum of my car, the whirr of its tires, and all around me, the mesmerising colours of autumn. It was meditative, yet almost sublimely unsettling, driving into a forest that had once been so verdant, so full of life, but now was withering.

I sped through a beautiful melancholy. Around me, it felt as if the spirit of nature itself was dying – or fleeing, aware of the advance of a malign icy force lurking over the horizon. A presence that was slowly obscuring  the sun, concealing its light, lengthening the shadows. I could already feel its chill influence when I ventured outside, a frosty spirit that sapped me of energy, encouraging my primeval self to retreat back to my shelter.

For our ancestors the encroaching winter must have felt like a malevolent invasion, as if the world around them was fighting for its continued existence. Precarious, anxiously awaiting the chilling, killing, smothering shroud of snows.

I stared through the windscreen at the passing blur, feeling a lingering sorrow for the leaves, their lifeforce being inexorably extinguished by the cold enveloping mists. Never was the passage of time so evident, at Autumn we watch as what was once so exuberant shrivels with age, yellowing and tumbling before our eyes. Annihilated by an invisible, irresistible power, one scarier than any monster we can imagine.

Perhaps our unease at this time of year fuelled folk tales of ghosts and vampires. Yet they don’t haunt our imaginations in the dark depths of midwinter, their time is at the end of October, when the world around us is visibly dying. Hallowe’en was a memento mori, a reminder that regardless of your youth or your power, vitality was transient. That everything you held dear, all you’d ever love and struggle for, all would ultimately shrivel and fall. It was inescapable, indisputable, immutable; whether meek or mighty, in time we’d all share the fate of the leaves.

A chill sensation ran over my skin, raising goosebumps. And it felt like everything and nothing had suddenly changed…

Keep reading

The alphabetical retrospective of stories reaches the eerie, metaphysical tale Runway.

This story was written for Halloween, but is not about ghosts or ghouls, but something I regard as much, much scarier: the sensation of feeling that we no longer belong.

It’s a tale written in the same magic realism style of Grimoire and Glimpse, and I hope it demonstrates a compelling spanking story can be written without describing a single swat.


What readers have said about this story:

“Very atmospheric, with an ending that was both satisfying and left me wanting more. So much feeling packed tight into such a short story.“

“This is a wonderful story, well written and very descriptive. The
description of the seasons is superb and I’ve been down a few autumn
roads as described. But I have always had a plan. If you’re running away from something without a plan then you are left with two chooses Left or Right. Take Your Pick.“

“A dream of a story in many ways – it teases you over to another world so
smoothly that you don’t even notice the transition. Beautiful, evocative
writing – her soul seems to blend with the landscape.“

“What I love about the spanking genre is the scope for such variety of
style and treatment. I guess this is magic realism, beautifully written. The heroine can’t stand to merely fade into a future without reason
for existence. She makes a bold decision to simply go, and discovers
that transition is possible, though she must accept it. Then follows
rejuvenation, unprecedented fulfilment and welcome…“

What do you think?

Share the joy of the written word

spankingtheatre:

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

You can also see this list categorised by theme if you’re looking for a particular style of story. 

Cast your votes and like your favourites!

Now updated with a few more new stories, including the just-posted The Caning Emporium, and Grave and Kitchen Table from a few months back. And Pride and Obedience has soared into 2nd place!

The Caning Emporium

A story about imagining

image

In the dark castle of your imagination are many rooms

You could spend a lifetime roaming its stark alluring corridors

Peeping through the keyholes

To be aroused and thrilled

By sights unseen


* * 1 * *

The opening door silenced the hubbub of two dozen voices. One of the idiosyncrises of their teacher, Mr Bowman, was he often arrived in class a couple of minutes late. As his new class would soon discover, he had a taste for theatrical flourishes, a penchant for engineering drama and building anticipation. As if the whole class was itself entering a story that had already started.

Even his clothes had the air of a showman. Today he’d dressed in a black thigh-length Edwardian frock coat. A snow white cravat bulging out from his iridescent blue silk waistcoat. He removed his tall top hat as he stepped into the classroom, doffing it respectfully to the young ladies present.

Mr Bowman’s class was incredibly popular. Always oversubscribed, it was one of only two classes in the school to have a waiting list. Preference was given to students with a strong academic record, as this was not a subject for the indolent or immature, but for grown-up minds who wanted to push their boundaries. A class of the school’s best and brightest. He entered the room to a buzz of expectation, to survey a sea of wide and eager eyes.

After all, who wouldn’t want to be able to write? To communicate, to reach out to and inspire and arouse their imaginations of strangers they’d never met. To be able to harness the most powerful creative force in the known universe, the one that covertly lurked between their own two ears.

He paused before the class, his eyes roaming his audience’s faces, nodding, as if in agreement with whatever they were silently thinking. He could sense their curiosity, the murmur of prolific potential straining to be unleashed.

Mr Bowman could feel himself being charged up by their enthusiasm, pulling off his frock coat and melodramatically flinging it over the hook of the nearby coat stand, before striding up to the blackboard. The chalk squeaked and scratched as he wrote two short words in neat block capitals.

“Erotic Writing”, he began, regarding what he’d written for a moment before turning back to face the class.

This was no ordinary creative writing class. His pupils were not silly little girls, but young ladies, each now keenly aware of their own simmering sexuality. The enlightened board of governors believed this course would help them express the powerful feelings that often surged through their febrile minds, and the pyretic urges that now surged through their burgeoning bodies.

Mr Bowman let the class stare at what he’d written for a moment. He wondered how many were fixated on just the first word, and what visions those six little letters had already conjured in their minds. He waited, then broke the silence.

“On our journey through life, each of you will write a veritable library of words. Instructions, memories, descriptions and proposals. Words of joy, expressions of sorrow, words of apology and gratitude. In your years at this school each of you has learnt how to write essays, poems and reports, the art of expressing the ideas within your head. Yet…”

“Hands up. Who’s ever imagined a scene of a sexual nature?”

A murmur of suppressed gasps swept the room. From his vantage point at the front of the class the variation in sexual confidence within his class was obvious, but unsurprising. There were the girls with their jaws open, taken aback by the bluntness of his question. Others were looking around furtively, waiting to see if anyone else had put their hand up…

A few bold girls duly obliged, some raising their hands proudly, others tentatively displaying their palms at shoulder height. Each palm emboldening its neighbours, as the more timid girls realised not only did everyone else seem to be having these naughty thoughts, but even worse, if they kept their hands down their teacher might pick them out, to publicly chide them: “Really, young lady? No fantasies…? Ever?”

So fifteen seconds after he’d spoken, a forest of hands swayed in front of him. He waved them down, and then directed his next question to one of his class. She was sitting in the front row of desks, one of the first to raise her hand. He lowered his eyes to address her.

“Have you ever written down any of your fantasies?”

Her body answered before her mouth could, provoking her to shake her head before adding: “No Sir”.

“That’s a shame”, he replied, “Because in a few years’ time you’ll have forgotten all about them. All that will remain will be a vague recollection, an afterglow of a once fiery inferno.”

“But why are your erotic thoughts important?”, he asked provocatively.

There was a pause as the assembled class digested his question. There was the obvious answer of course, that naughty thoughts got you off, but that seemed rather crass to say out loud. But eventually a couple of hands did tentatively rise to his challenge. He pointed to a girl with short black hair near the back of the class.  

“They’re important because they’re are ours, Sir”, she answered. He nodded, a flutter of his hand encouraged her to elaborate.

She coughed nervously before continuing.

“Er. Because if we don’t cherish our own thoughts, we’ll fill our minds with someone else’s. We’ll become consumers rather than creators”

“An excellent point. Very well made”, he nodded. “We all know there’s plenty of sexual content out there…”

That provoked an outbreak of coy smiles and a nervous giggles.

“… but all those pictures, all those videos, they’re other peoples’ view of sex. Not yours. Erotic writing is about expressing your own sexual identity.”

His gaze returned to the girl in the front row.

“So -”

“- Yuuna”

“So Yuuna, why haven’t you committed your fantasies to words?”

“Er…”, she squirmed awkwardly in her seat, “Um… I wouldn’t know where to start, Sir.”

“Ah. Well, you’ve come to the right class then…”

More giggles. She looked to the floor and smiled, her cheeks blushing.

“Interesting insights”, he observed, before looking up and addressing the whole class again. “How many of you know how to write a diary?”

Almost as one, everyone in the room raised a hand.

“And how many know how to write up an event, for say, a school newsletter?”

Everyone could remember writing something like that in English classes, so all the hands remained upright.

“Now how many know how to write a short story?”

Now arms began to wobble with uncertainty, and over half the hands disappeared.

“And how many would feel able to write a novel?”

At that, the remaining hands suddenly wilted, leaving only two self-confident palms hovering in the air.

“Ah! So what does that tell us?”, he asked rhetorically.

“You already know how to write. You just need to start from something familiar. Don’t intimidate yourself. Don’t write a novel. Well, not unless you want to…”

The pair who’d kept their arms raised exchanged glances and smiled, he waved their hands down.

“So, start simple. You could pretend you’re writing a diary. Everyone knows how to write a diary. The events of one day, written looking back. For example… someone shout out a fantasy…”

The room filled with nervous giggles again.

“Strict headmistress!”, called a voice to his right, provoking a short burst of laughter.

“That’s good! OK, so imagine you’ve just started at a new boarding school. What happened on your first day? You don’t need to specify plot or characters, it’s just like your first day anywhere, you’ve barely met anyone yet…”

“Perhaps you’ve only just encountered the headmistress, you don’t know anything about her yet. Maybe she gave an introductory address to the new pupils. What was it about her makes you think she’s strict? Did she mention school rules? Or punishments? How did she dress? Is her air of authority intimidating – or erotic?”

“Then, when you’ve finished, start writing the 2nd day. After that write the 3rd. Start elaborating. Start introducing elements of your fantasy. Perhaps you’ve heard rumours about what happens to rule-breakers. What goes on behind her office door? Is it true she conducts late night inspections in the dormitories? Whatever lights your candles.”

“What’s her backstory? What did she fantasise about when she was young age? Was she strict growing up too? Did she like to play spanking games? What were her formative sexual experiences?”

“Isn’t that simple?”, he announced, opening his palms like a magician at the denouement of a magic trick.

“Everyone can write a diary. No fancy plot gimmicks, just you, imagining a story unfold day by day. Everyone should be able to do that. Call out if you disagree.”

No one demurred. He turned to the blackboard again, the chalk squeaked and scribbled.

You already know how to write

“Our textbook has a story called ‘Cosmopolitan’, part-written the style of a magazine article, for those wanting to read an example of that kind of storytelling, and who’d like explore more.”

He paused and surveyed the classroom for evidence of furrowed brows, “Any questions?”

A girl in the centre of the class raised her hand.

“How do I turn an idea into a story?”, she asked.

“A good question”, he acknowledged.

“Your challenge, as a writer, is to turn an initial idea that you might be able to express in a few sentences, into a story that’s hundreds, or potentially thousands, of sentences long. But no one can keep that amount of detail in their heads. Instead, what you can do is initially write your story out in note form.”

“For instance: say you have a scene in a restaurant, the idea might be they flirt, tamely at first, then ever more outrageously, until they finally fuck each other senseless.“

He spoke unselfconsciously, he did not expect anyone present to be offended by his choice of language. In the scenario he imagined, fucking was the perfect term to describe the resulting crescendo, the finale to some unstoppable escalation of desire. Choosing the right words was important.

“So, how would you go about expanding that idea into notes? Just break it down. First the couple. Write 5 things you could say about them. Next the restaurant or their reason for being there, again 5 things. It doesn’t matter if they’re underwhelming, just get writing, you don’t need to use everything.”

“Do the same for the initial flirting and the outrageous misbehaviour parts. Perhaps they start by surreptitiously exchanging naughty notes, and by the end, he’s telling her to go to the ladies and bring back her underwear. Finally do the same for the wham-bam ending. That’s 5 notes for each of the 5 subparts – and bingo! Your initial idea has now been expanded to 25 lines.”

“Then, if you want, you can go back and refine each of those 25 points until the story has the level of detail you want. Finally, you’ll elaborate each point you’ve sketched out into prose, into proper sentences – and that’s your story!”

“And here’s a tip: write down the ending, or at least the idea of how the tale will end, before you write the story itself. A story needs a destination, if the destination isn’t worth reaching, the story isn’t worth writing. Telling a story is like telling a joke. It’s moving towards a punchline.”

“You’re going to be practicing expanding an idea into a story in this week’s homework assignment…”

He paused, and looked back at his desk, where a time-worn top hat sat rather incongruously. Beneath the table top, what looked like sturdy brass handles glinted.

“That was a good question. Who’s next?”

He pointed to one of the raised hands, floating in front of him.

“Why are kisses harder to write than penetration, kink and orgasms?”

“Oh! That is a good question. A marvellous one, in fact.”

“Perhaps it’s because a kiss is so familiar, we think we know it. We miss its subtleties, how it involves each one of our senses, in the time it takes for lips to meet. Have you ever thought how it starts? A glance, that bounces between the lovers’ eyes like two reflecting mirrors, faster and faster as the gap between the lips near.”

Too often, stories focus on the events of sex, not the senses of sex. The scents. The sounds

The tastes. The touches…”

“Let me give you an example”

He walked to the nearby bookshelf, scanning the spines until he found what he was after. He plucked a thick paperback, and quickly located the dog-eared page of interest.

“This description of a kiss is from the novel ‘Daughter of Smoke and Bone’ by Laini Taylor.”

“… She tastes like nectar and salt. Nectar and salt and apples. Pollen and stars and hinges. She tastes like fairy tales. Swan maiden at midnight. Cream on the tip of a fox’s tongue. She tastes like hope.”

He paused afterwards, replacing the book, and letting his audience render what he’d read aloud in their own minds.

“That, is how you describe a kiss. Sensually. A kiss is not an event, not a news report. It is a transient sensation, an emotion. The worlds of two characters intimately coming together for a moment, to share a scent, a touch and a taste…”

“A great question. Who’s next?”

“How do you write authentically about a scenario you’ve not (yet) experienced yourself?”

“Yes. Good! That’s a question that gets to the heart of creative writing. If we only ever wrote about personal experiences, the fiction section would be a small and tedious place. Shakespeare was not a king, Agatha Christie never killed anyone. And certainly no sci-fi author has ever been into space!”

“Creation is about using your imagination, going beyond what you’ve physically experienced. If you’d like to practice making things up, then I’d highly recommend Ms Goldstein’s after-school improv drama classes.”

“Next?”

“I worry that what I write won’t be stimulating, Sir.”

That question provoked both embarrassed chuckles and hums of agreement.

“Don’t worry whether what you write stimulates others. If it stimulates you. That’s enough. Because a writer writes because there’s a story to tell. Because if it isn’t told, the story dies and is lost forever. And if it arouses you, it will arouse others. Because there’s plenty of people out there who think the same way as you. Across the whole of humanity, we’ve more in common than our differences.”

The room was now full of raised arms as the class warmed to his challenge, and the questions were becoming much bolder in nature too.

“Sir? Is it alright to touch yourself, in, um… those… places.. while you’re writing…?”


* * 2 * *

Later that evening, Yuuna was in her bedroom, working on her writing assignment. Earlier, before the class had ended, their teacher had toured the classroom with a old top hat, inviting each of them to pick a card from it. Each card had a single sentence written on it, a writing prompt, a rudimentary story idea. Their challenge was to expand what was written on their card to 5 notions, and then refine each notion into 5 sub-parts.

Her hand had rummaged around inside the hat, feeling its soft silky inner lining and the pointy edges of the remaining cards pricking her palm. Her fingers quickly closed around one, which she pulled it out and read to herself: “A character goes shopping for a sex toy”.

Yuuna had contemplated the possibilities of this prompt during her walk home. One notion was obvious, the shopper. She imagined the shopper entering a shop – wouldn’t it be lovely if it was quirky and well-decorated, more like a boutique than a supermarket. Then her shopper would begin browsing, and perhaps try out what she was buying, and then take it home.

But what would her character buy? Something phallic seemed crude, and too obvious. If Yuuna was going shopping, she imagined being lured towards the cabinet of beautiful butt-plugs, but they weren’t really the kind of items you could try out in store, that wouldn’t make much of a story.

Yuuna contemplated the 5 parts of her putative story. There would have to be a shopper, and a shop. The shopper would browse, and then try out an item she liked. And then she would purchase it.

Shopper. Shop. Browsing. Trying. Buying. The five parts. That was easy! she thought with a smile. Now she just needed to refine them. To do what her teacher had advised, and  improvise.

Her hands hovered over the small black squares of her keyboard, close enough to feel the device’s warm breath blow across her fingertips. She began to type her first heading.

THE SHOPPER

Its big bold capitals glowed on her screen, as if she had just inscribed a series of magic runes, some mystic enchantment capable of summoning the character into her imagination. Yuuna closed her eyes, and it didn’t take long for the imagery to emerge; her protagonist would be a professional lady, someone who wouldn’t be embarrassed by her intended purchase. The more she thought about her, the more details Yuuna could see: what she was wearing, her hair, her face, even what had motivated her to go shopping. This was good stuff! Her fingers landed gently on the warm flat plastic keys, and she began to tap out her imaginings to her screen, as she dictated her thoughts to herself under her breath.

“1 … she’s a professional lady, confident and uninhibited”

“2 … Christmas is coming, and she intends to surprise him”

“3 … he liked telling her what a naughty girl she was, and she liked hearing it”

“4 … she enjoyed feeling the heavy slap of his hand on her arse, and fantasised about receiving something stronger, something to take her breath away”

“5 … one day after work, she decides to go shopping for a cane in a hip area of town”

And that was the 5 points. Her story now had its protagonist; Yuuna felt like she’d just been introduced, that she’d felt the soft touch of her handshake, exchanged smalltalk and learnt a bit about her. Wasn’t it funny how putting what she’d imagined into words made it seem even more real? She tapped the return key a few times, held shift down and tapped eight more keys in quick succession.

THE SHOP

Yuuna closed her eyes again, and began to picture a street, a strand of glinting shop windows and distressed rosy brown bricks. This was an area of town once rundown, but now reclaimed, gentrified, safe to explore. A place of quirky stores, artisans and boutiques. It smelt of delis, baked pastries and flower baskets. One never knew what one might find here, and that was what lured its visitors. Her fingers began their keyboard ballet again.

“1 … she wanders down a quiet mews, windows filled with cashmere, cafetieres and kaftans”

“2 … and then, a window where the mannequins are dressed quite differently, maids and schoolgirls, amongst figures dressed in barely anything at all”  

“3 … tummy fluttering, she pushes the door, a small bell welcomes her”

“4 … inside is laid out like a small boutique, simple, uncluttered, just a desk with a few canes adorning the wall behind”

“5 … a smartly dressed gentleman appears and greets her, and asks if she’d prefer to talk to a male or female assistant, she says she’s happy to talk to him”

Her writing was quickening now, as her mind began to flow. She paused to imagine the interaction that might take place, would she be sheepish, or know exactly how to ask for what she wanted? Yuuna would have been mortified to be placed in her protagonist’s shoes, but this was her fiction, and she was in complete control, she could write it as she wanted it to be. She continued typing.

BROWSING

Now, thought Yuuna. How would one go about buying a cane, if the customer service was as attentive as those in a prestigious boutique?

“1 … she states what she’s interested in: a cane for her, for bedroom use”

“2 … he talks her through the options, explaining difference between whippy and thuddy canes, illustrated using pictures within a leather-bound folio”

“3 … this one produces thin stripes, he says, pointing to a glossy photo of a girl bending over a desk in a vintage schoolroom, rows of thin pink lines clearly visible on her bare bottom”

“4 … this one gives a more all-over blush, he explains, turning to a page showing a lady standing in the corner of a mahogany-panelled library, her bottom glowing a bright radiant pink”

“5 … the idea of thin stingy stripes makes her heart pound and her mouth dry”

Imagining the consequences of a proper caning had got Yuuna’s pulse racing. When she lifted her hands from the keyboard she could feel the moistness of her palms. But she couldn’t stop now, she was flowing, a cascade of ideas and imagery tumbling through her mind, and she found herself typing rapidly in an attempt to capture it all.

TRYING

Now Yuuna’s imagination demanded her character experience the cane for herself.

“1 … he selects a couple of canes and asks her if she’d like a demonstration, she gasps in surprise, but finds herself nodding, he invites her to follow him”

“2 … they enter a small side room, four metres square, decorated like a miniature classroom, maps and pictures on the walls, a blackboard and a teacher’s desk at front”

“3 … ‘Please remove your skirt, Ma’am, and bend over’, he says”

“4 … she experiences whacks of increasing force, then tugs up her panties to feel them on her bare cheeks”

“5 … being caned by a stranger feels outrageous, but so exhilarating!”

As she typed, she let her left hand stray to her lap, reaching under the hem of her uniform skirt. Her crotch was hot to the touch, her lips tender and slick with arousal.

BUYING

Yuuna fingers skittered across her keyboard, transcribing what her mind’s-eye could now see so vividly.

“1 … she enjoys one cane especially, it makes her bum sting and her clit throb”

“2 … sensing the sale, he closes the deal with six quick strokes, she calls ‘I’ll take it!’ on the sixth, back at the shop counter, she has the cane put in a tall thin box and gift-wrapped”

“3 … she sits squirming on her stinging bottom on the train home, imagining the erotic possibilities of their new toy”

Yuuna paused to contemplate too. The outline of her story was almost complete, she wanted to end it with some strong imagery, something that suggested the story would continue after her words had ceased. Something that would be elaborated by her readers’ imaginations to their own satisfaction…

“4 … maybe she’d borrow it, she imagines coming home from work, bending over the sofa or ottoman, maybe with a vibe inside, ipad in front of her, a kinky story slowly scrolling, and occasionally reaching back to give herself a well deserved whack”

“5 … somewhere under a christmas tree, a long thin box lies inconspicuously among the boxes wrapped in snowflakes and fat jolly robins. It was going to be a very merry christmas…”

And that was it, one line turned into twenty-five. Her assignment complete.

She’d left space at the top of the page for a title. She pondered it for a moment, then it fell into her mind like a plummeting fruit.

“The Caning Emporium”

Suddenly, the story came alive in her mind. She could imagine it as a book, with a moody ambiguous monochrome cover. Like a pair of knickers around feminine ankles. Perhaps they might be the underwear of someone being caned. Or perhaps they belonged to a reader masturbating as she imagined it.

Yuuna read what she’d written back to herself with quiet satisfaction. Homework done, she locked her bedroom door and laid back on her bed. What a good girl I am, she thought. I deserve a treat.

She wondered what her own classmates were writing about right now. And how many were are aroused as she was. Her friend Jane had pulled “A character is tied up and left” from the hat. Her friend Talia had pulled “Kisses in the countryside”.

As for Yuuna, images of canes and canings dominated her thoughts.

She laid back on her bed, and as her fingers strayed, her mind wandered.


* * 3 * *  

Yuuna finds herself in the warren of hip alleyways she’d imagined, with the smell of freshly baked croissants filling her nostrils. She is walking with purpose, after all, there’s one particular store she is eager to find.

She turns a corner, and there it is, The Caning Emporium. It’s wide windows uncluttered, merely revealing glimpses of the bare brick walls within. Yuuna strides quickly to the door, which opens with a welcoming tinkle.

Yuuna surveys the canes of varying lengths adorn the walls, each resting on little brass hooks protruding from the vintage brickwork. Canes to arouse, canes to smack, canes to fear and canes to whack.

Her reverie is interrupted by the assistant, an immaculately dressed gentleman, in an eye-catchingly iridescent blue silk waistcoat. She recognises him immediately as her teacher, Mr Bowman.

His deep eloquent voice welcomes her, then informs her she’s late for her appointment. Something in his voice suggests there will be consequences for her tardiness, but what kind of shop would punish you for being late?

Follow me please Madam, he requests.

Yuuna complies, without ever even asking what her appointment is actually for.

He stops by the wall, pausing to regard the row of canes illuminated by the elegant downlighter, before plucking one from its holders. He swishes it experimentally, causing a whistling whoosh that makes Yuuna’s slit ache.

Satisfied, he continues walking with the rod he has chosen, which to Yuuna now seems increasingly likely to be destined for her own bare bottom. But rather than turn and run, she follows her tutor obediently, to whatever he has planned for her.

They stop in front of a door, which he opens, before ushering her inside.

Somehow Yuuna steps into Mr Bowman’s familiar classroom, his meticulous writing from today’s lesson still legible on the blackboard. To her considerable relief, the room is empty.

He walks towards the bulky wooden desk on the low raised stage at the front of the class, laying the cane reverently on the tabletop. Come here please, he says. Yuuna shuffled forward as instructed.

Perhaps you’ve noticed the special feature of this fine old Edwardian school desk?

These brass hoops at the front aren’t what you think. They’re not handles, there are no drawers on the side that faces the classroom.

Let me introduce you to the tethering rails.

Undo your tie please, then take it off and give it to me.

Yuuna does as she is told, and handing her teacher her thin black school tie, which he passes through one of the brass hoops, forming a knot to fix it tight, so its free end dangles down towards the floor.

Stand in front of the hoop please.

Pull down your panties.

Yuuna feels her legs tremble at his instruction. This is how naughty girls get spanked, isn’t it, their bottoms bared.

She complies without complaint, reaching underneath her skirt to locate the elastic of her underwear, then pulling it down towards her knees.

Legs wide apart, he tells her, and then – to Yuuna’s genuine surprise, he reaches between her thighs to fetch the end of the dangling tie, pulling it back through her legs so it rests on the panties stretched between her knees.

Bend over.

His command makes Yuuna’s clit throb.

She does as instructed, stretching over the desk, nervously feeling the cool breeze beneath her skirt as it edges up her thighs, teasing her tingling slit.

Any moment now, she thinks, he’ll lift my skirt and lay the cane against my poor bare bottom.

Except, he doesn’t. He surprises her by grasping the free end of the tie and tugging up upwards, so she suddenly feels it rubbing against her slit. He feeds the end of the tie underneath the waistband of her skirt, tugging it tight until she could feel it intruding between her lips.

Then, a further surprise, as he pulls her panties up, before tying the loose end of her school tie into the waist of her panties. And in a final flourish, he flips up Yuuna’s skirt, and tugs up the edges of her panties between her buttocks so her cheeks are exposed.

There, young lady, he announces with some satisfaction. Consider yourself tethered.

When this desk was made, he explains, it was customary to leave those about to be caned in this position, with their own school tie tight between their legs.

Yuuna was now excruciatingly aware how her own tie was intruding between her wet lips, and the growing heat as it rubbed against her bottom hole as she squirmed. Yet frustratingly, the tie was just at the wrong angle to touch her clitoris, no matter how much she tried to grind against it.

Place your hands behind you please, on either side of your hips, palms upwards.

When she does as she is told, he takes the cane off the desk and places it on her fingertips, adjusting it so Yuuna could feel the cool rattan rod against her own bared buttocks.

I’ll be back later to cane you, young lady. You’ll find it an exquisitely tormenting experience. The whacks you’ll receive will make you squirm against your tether. Rubbing on what will be, by then, a soaking wet and highly sensitised vulva.

And with that, he leaves her.

The door closes, and she is alone.

Tethered.

Exposed.

Vulnerable.

And yearning.


In her bedroom, Yuuna lay across the beam at the bottom of her bed. Aching to visit the Caning Emporium she had so vividly imagined.

Her school tie undone, one end tied to the beam, one end tied into the waist of her panties. Tightly tethered, just like all naughty girls should be.

She rocked her hips, grinding her tender slit against her tether.

Anticipating the moment her tutor would return.

Imagining canings.

Beautiful, hard, strict canings.

Beautiful, hard, strict canings on her bare bottom.

Imagining canings.

Until she came.

.

.

.

@spankingtheatre 2018

Share the joy of the written word

spankingtheatre:

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

You can also see this list categorised by theme if you’re looking for a particular style of story. 

Cast your votes and like your favourites!

Many thanks to all those who comment and share. Most erotic pictures
routinely get hundreds or even thousands of likes, but written posts
rarely achieve a fraction of that. Yet original writing is the result of
a great deal of creative effort, and it needs its own champions. So, if
you find erotic words arousing, do share your favourites, and help
spread the magic of the written word!

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