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Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

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Daydreaming

A spanking story

The door to the detention room had opened without warning. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She felt her pen move, clandestinely doodling…

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

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

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

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

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

He got straight to the point. 

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

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

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

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

“Yes Sir!” she said excitedly.

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

* * * 

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

“What I was daydreaming about”

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

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

“M..must I write everything, Sir?”

“Everything, young lady.”

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

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

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

So she had begun writing.

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

Whilst she sat in trembling silence, awaiting his verdict.

* * *

Her essay went like this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, I think I should explain.

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

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

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

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

M A S

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

M A S T U R

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

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

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

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

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

Your threat provoked gasps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

Sir was daydreaming. 

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

.

.

.

@spankingtheatre 2019

Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.

You’re welcome to reblog and share.

A dream of infernal ravishment #2

This is part 2, part 1 is here, if you haven’t already, do read it first.

An anonymous reader continues:

My life is a delirious cycle of pleasure and pain. There’s the chamber
of light – where they test the limits of my self control. Many kind
pople in white coats, touching me, washing me, toying me, telling me
not to cum with others standing, watching, taking notes.

After I’m soaking, I’m always put back in my thin nightgown with my
chastity belt childishly secured. This device is slightly more torturous
than those I had read about, as there’s a small plug that fills my
front bottom that keeps me in a state of nearly constant arousal, yet
fully insures there’s nothing I can do about it. And then I can only lie there, dozing off and on… until He comes.

My days are spent with the monsters. These depraved creatures feed off the
sexual energy of humanity and pay highly for the pleasure – my
pleasure. My belt is removed, and suddenly before me is a door. I’m led
through. Torches line the pathway. The stone floor is cold beneath my
bare toes. From every direction comes the sound of sex: flesh against
flesh, whimpers, moans. Through the bars and curtains of each archway I
can see all manner of depraved things…

Two girls are being hung upside-down by their ankles with their legs tied apart whilst
a creature of impossible blackness teases them with his fiery forked
tongue. I remember the feeling of the tortuous heat in my own slit. I
had him all to myself once, and the wonders the double edges of his
tongue could produce make me wet at the memory.

Across the hall, three cells down, is another of my favorites. He is
pleasuring a young lady with his tentacle cock. The recollection of the
suckers of his purple member tugging on the intimate skin inside me make
my nipples grow hard under my thin lace gown.

But this time I’m led to the final chamber and chained in the stocks within. My wrists
locked in beside my neck and my ankles lashed to its frame. It’s an
extremely vulnerable position. Teasingly, there’s a mirror in the corner of this otherwise bare room, and if I move my neck just right I can see what’s
happening in the cell across from me.

She is naked. He is huge, and covered in dark hair, polished spikes running
down his back to the tip of his tail. He is holding her cheeks apart.
Inhaling deeply. I can see her humiliation in the form of tears. Yet her
arousal too is evident too by the way her crotch glistens in the torchlight.
My stomach flips as he turns, and I can see his massive cock brush
against her thigh.

The cool air teases my wet slit and the ache inside me grows. I long
to be filled by the masterpiece I see across the hall. Alas, it is for her, not me. He crouches against the wall and sits her on his lap. At
first letting his length rub against her slit. Then he disappears inside
her. Her pussy lips greedily swallowing him up entirety. He fucks her
harshly. Huge palms lifting her. For every moan she’s awarded an even
harder thrust. I cannot imagine being pounded in such a way.

I hear shuffling behind me; my own creature has arrived. He turns the
mirror so now all I have to look at is the grey of the floor and the
dreary walls. I feel cold breath on my neck. A webbed hand palms my crotch
roughly. I hear slurping as my dampness is sucked from me. I hear a high
laugh. A sharp fingernail slices my gown away. He spreads my cheeks, and his
thin tongue snakes into my bottom. I flush at the humiliation of what
he may find there.

He moves in front of me, and I catch a glimpse of him. Short. Bald. Large eyes. Small cock. He
thrusts into my mouth, his rhythm so fast I barely have time for breath. I
feel a tongue slither into my ass, taking me by surprise. There’s some
garbled conversation – it sounds likes there’s two of them. My mouth is fully of his
sticky ooze. It tastes of mildew. He’s a nimble little fellow. Fucking
my face with confidence. I shriek as my ass receives an unexpected slap.

I can distinguish multiple laughing voices.
Judging by the sting it felt like I’ve received a whack from a leather strap. When I was tested it was
noted that few stimuli made me drip like a good old-fashioned spanking.
My cunt is filled with the squirm of a tongue, whilst a pointed finger is
mercilessly flicking my clit. The cock is forced back into my mouth.
Something cold and very hard is coaxed into my ass hole. Both of my
nipples are being sucked hard.

I recoil from another slap. How many of them are there? Slap after slap. Heat
growing. I feel it building in my stomach. I can no longer keep quiet and moan into my mouthful. My cunt is writhing against the tongue. I
long to be filled to my brink, just like my neighbor. Liquid spurts into my mouth, and I swallow the load delivered.

There is chattering. My ass is emptied of its intrusion, and immediately refilled by a pointed wiggling finger. My slit is licked
clean. I taste myself as a tongue invades my mouth. Then I am entered, and entered, and entered again.

Now every hole is filled. There is more than one cock in my vagina. I should
not have underestimated them merely for being small. They fuck me, until exhausted, I cum.
Loudly. Prompting a squeal of the high giggles.

And then they scurry away, leaving my covered in their strange icky slime. Legs shaking. Humiliated. Used. The kind ones
return and I am unshackled. They have brought a chair where I can sit whilst I
am thoroughly washed. They wheel me back to my bed, where I lie exhausted, only then realizing that I was not belted. I ache with a sensation that might almost be disappointment…


Thank you, dear reader. I’ve received quite a few messages hoping your tale would be continued. I admire the direction you’re taking it, that the “monsters” are paying for the privilege, that the protagonist might be in some inter-dimensional brothel, or a captive in some far-future inter-planetary sex dungeon. Or some illicit experiment with genetically modified chimera that’s exploring the boundaries of primal pleasure. Or maybe something else entirely…

I’ve always thought that given the written word has an unlimited production budget, why shouldn’t one write about something fantastical? That’s what motivated me to write stories like Stolen Essence, Grimoire. and Inevitable.

The web is full of generic stories about seemingly chaste young ladies meeting strict Doms or secret Daddies, cue a bit of spanking and some unexpectedly pleasurable humiliation, then finish off with some “mind-blowing” orgasms. But that’s not really blowing anyone’s mind. We writers can do better than that.

With courage, we can write about absolutely anything, and craft scenes that make readers’ imaginations buzz with their sheer audacity. Scenarios that readers find unexpectedly arousing, and don’t really know why. That is art.

Keep up the great work.

A dream of infernal ravishment #1

An anonymous reader writes:

I want to tell you about my dirtiest, darkest fantasy. Right now I’m
laying in bed. My panties are soaking wet and my stomach aches because
I just went through it all in my head and I’m so dangerously turned
on. But I decided I’d have to tell you about it first before I’m allowed
to do anything about the river between my legs.

It begins in a very clinical place. I’ve been captured and brought to some place,  bright, light and white. I awake in a room and a very
kind person (their gender irrelevant) is washing me. I am naked.

They notice I’m awake and begin a thorough examination, they
explain that I am here to serve a purpose. During these tests I am not
allowed to cum. I am fingered and toyed with objects of various
shapes, lengths and textures – in my ass, vagina, mouth, on my nipples and clitoris. Finally I am set onto a machine and made to ride and
ride, whilst many people are watching and taking notes, until I’m sure
I’m about to burst.

When they see I can stand it no longer I’m led into a chamber of
complete darkness. Cleansed of my great dampness, dressed in a thin
nightgown and tied to a bed so I cannot relieve myself. I fall asleep.
In the fog of dreams and reality I am visited by an incubus. I can’t
see anything but there are hands everywhere. It is warm and there are
many voices.

I’m soon soaked again. I am filled and emptied repeatedly all while the most salacious things are whispered in my ear. The demon hisses, warning me not to cum. In
that darkness I’m untied and made to ride the bedpost (yeah, I’ve come a
long way since boarding school). I can’t help myself. The cool of the
bulbous metal bedpost, the ache in my calves, the flicking of the
demon’s tongue on my clit, the hands on boobs, in my mouth… and I cum.
Loudly, painfully, shaking the bed as I do…

All
of the heat and whispers rush away at once. And I am left in the silent
darkness dripping on my bedpost wondering what comes next. I broke their
one rule. After several heartbeats I am hoisted off the post and guided onto a
decorative hook adorning the bottom of the bedframe. My ass is high in the chill air, my feet can barely touch the floor, my face rests on the mattress,
my vagina penetrated by the curve of the hook.

I wait. But nothing happens. I squirm enjoying the hook against my g-spot. I stupidly
think perhaps I’ve been disqualified and will simply be allowed to satisfy
myself. The mattress creaks as I rock forcing the curve further inside
me. Then out of nowhere. A hand is on my ass. A finger following the hook into my heat.

I hear a growl of disgust. The incubus has returned. I sense he is displeased
by my wetness. I feel breath between my cheeks. My dripping slit is
sucked clean around the protrusion penetrating me. For the first time I
allow myself to be swallowed by humiliation. He hisses into my ear that I
should have obeyed my warning. I would have known pleasure like no
other if I had but now, there would be pain.

It begins. Slowly. A caress. A harder slap. Something is plunged into
the unfilled hole between my cheeks and I’m filled with fiery pain.
Clenching provides no relief. There is a cock in my mouth. Sharp fingers
pinch my nipples. The curve of the hook seems less pleasurable now, yet still I gush. The hand lays a volley of hard smacks and with each I’m forced further onto the hook of the bed. My legs kicking. I’m sucked dry. After a
couple more minutes, fear tears through me as I soak myself, and worry
what will happen if I cum again.

Heat builds as each beat fills me with pain, that’s soon overtaken by pleasure. I
resolve to hold on to my dignity. This time I will not disobey. His slaps
turn again to caresses. I am lifted. My ass, mouth and crotch are
emptied. He places me gently on the bed. I face his though it is too
dark to see. He spreads my legs. His impossibly long tongue snakes
inside me. My nipples are nibbled, my mouth is filled. I hear the sound
of a match. A sulphurous smell. A nearby candle flickers into life.

Now, I see him. He is both beautiful and ugly. I also see that we’re not alone.
There is a hoard. One has his thick cock in my mouth. One has my
nipples between his pointed teeth. Another slips his tongue from my
slit. A pair are holding apart my legs. The candle he holds is thick. I
see immediately what he means to do with it, and I begin to squirm. I
am pulled until I face him with my other set of lips.

He holds my back with one hand as the other slides the immense candle
into my waiting depths. Searing wax drips onto my freshly shaved mound.
He says something I do not understand, I am helpless, able only to lie there, gazing into
his burning eyes as I’m ravaged by his hoard.

Later, I am led naked down a long hallway glimpsing
through each passing doorway a different creature defiling a human being
in a myriad of ways. A hoard of small winged beasts are buzzing inside
the crotch of a redhead. A mammoth creature is nearly splitting a raven
haired girl with his slimy tentacle. A double-dicked man-dog is fucking
a blonde…

Then depending on my mood I imagine the monster I am led to. And what he
does to me. All while being watched by the demon. I am rewarded by his
candle when I do right, and spanked harshly in the darkness when I displease.
One day though, I hope I will earn his cock.

Now if you’ll excuse me… I have
something to attend to…

[…Continued in part 2…]


Thank you, dear reader, for this wonderful submission!

I do love reading the fantasies of others, especially those written whilst aroused. Sitting in soaked, sticky panties, words flowing rapidly from your fevered mind to your fingertips, knowing that soon you’ll be finished, and you’ll be able to relieve the ache between your legs. It’s an exquisite kind of denial, like writing an essay in detention, whilst still on a spanked bottom you’re desperate to rub.

Your post brings to mind the fantastical imaginings of Hieronymus Bosch, dark visions of infernal punishment performed by demons and surreal chimeras. I liked how you were rewarded in the light, but disciplined in the dark. You seem to be in some erotic purgatory, slowly discovering how obedience and sexual submissiveness will lead you to the light.

I enjoy darkly gothic fantasies, a theme I’ve written about in several previous stories, like Fall and Stolen Essence. The idea that eroticism is a dark and mighty magic, with the power to bend reality. Which, in a sense, it is.

So I hope you’ll continue to visit the demon in your imagination, dear reader. Your lust may yet reveal the true nature of you both. That angels and demons are just labels we use. That one can not live without the other. That being violated and defiled, or ravished and pleasured involve exactly the same physical sensations. Are they really monsters, or just new lovers in crude and unfamiliar forms?

Your imagination grants access to boundless possibilities.

And if others would like to share their own fantasies with your fellow readers, please do. Feel free to submit or email (spankingtheatre at gmail dot com)

Weird. Dirty. Perverted. They’re just words used by the timid.

Do you have any stories where I’m forcibly regressed. Losing all the trappings and items that make me a young woman, turning me back to a time where I was looked upon as a silly little girl, shapeless and petie. easily controlled through punishment, forced to carry out the will of my guardian

Of course, regression is quite a popular fantasy.

Punishment Panties – my most popular story to date, features a strict governess who punishes a pair of wilful young ladies by spanking and dressing them like silly little girls.

Cosmopolitan is also worth reading, where adults play at being naughty schoolgirls for a weekend.

The Sit-Down Dance and Ups and Downs both feature a headmistress who controls naughty girls through punishments.

Christmas Present features a headstrong young lady who’s captured and punished like a little girl.

Fall is a tale of an impetuous young woman, who becomes a captive in a haunted house. And Runaway has a similar, spooky theme.

I know many readers fantasise about being captured, and being treated like naughty little girls and boys. If you’re one of them, I think you’ll enjoy imagining yourself as the star of these stories…

Control

A spanking story

Headmaster Thaddeus Winklethorpe bustled down the corridor, his rubicund face set in a mask of fixated fury, unstoppable as an avenging angel.

Doors seemed to throw themselves open before him without so much as a touch of his hand. As his ominous shadow sped across the windows of nearby classrooms, eyes widened and mouths gawped. A fearsome cane swung in his right hand, like some ancient sword of justice. Would-be miscreants squirmed in their seats, the sight of the rampaging headmaster meant school rules had been broken – and soon, certainly, the perpetrator would receive their comeuppance. There would be no escape.

The tip-off had been anonymous, but quite specific. Mischief was planned in classroom 18A, the elegant handwriting confessed. 2.30pm – the last lesson of the afternoon. Bring the cane.

He could hear the ongoing kerfuffle well before he saw it. The unmistakable shrill shrieks of unsupervised schoolgirls, a sound rarely ever seen, so quickly silenced were they by disapproving adult scowls. If they wanted to screech and squeal, Headmaster Winklethorpe would happily oblige, they could howl all they liked with their panties around their ankles and hot pink stripes across their behinds.

The corridor’s final set of double-doors flung themselves apart, as the Headmaster seared towards classroom 18A with the incandescent inevitably of a harbinger comet. Through the window he could see it was Miss Bernadine’s Sixth Form class, but their teacher was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there was a rowdy ruckus that called into question the right of those involved to call themselves young ladies. Little girls would have been shamefaced had they behaved as badly.

In that moment before the classroom door thundered open, he saw everything. Every one of the students was gabbling excitedly, some sitting in little cliques upon their desks, others absent-mindedly exchanging messages, tossing scrunched-up pages across the room in long parabolic arcs. And at the front of them all, Prefect Polly Alton sat daydreaming in her teacher’s chair, her shoulders thrown back as if she hadn’t a care in the world, her feet impudently resting on the grand wooden desk…

The headmaster burst into the room to the sound of panicking squeals, as if he were a predatory beast pouncing into a scattering herd. In an instant, the unruly commotion gave way to the scraping of furniture and the clamorous thunder of footsteps, as the students scurried back to their seats. Within eight seconds, everyone was standing respectfully in silence, their faces pictures of cherubic innocence. Everyone in their proper place, as if the disgraceful disorder Mr Winklethorpe had just glimpsed had been a figment of an overactive imagination, and had never really happened.

But then there was the detritus on the classroom floor, the obscene doodles on the blackboard, the dishevelled uniforms and developing blushes. The evidence of the class’s shenanigans was clear to see. He surveyed the shameful scene, and his verdict was succinct and unequivocal…

“Disgraceful!” he castigated, in a deep gravelly voice that caused the tummies of those listening to flutter and tremble.

When discipline became necessary, Thaddeus Winklethorpe was a man of few words. No speech was ever necessary, if one of his pupils deserved punishment, they already knew what they’d done wrong  – and its consequences. The school’s policy of Collective Responsibility was quite clear: those who misbehaved together would be spanked together.

The Headmaster turned to Polly, who shirked from his penetrating scowl like one dodging a gorgon’s gaze. As one of the school prefects, she had been left in charge, a responsibility she had happily neglected. He informed her she could watch what was going to happen next, because she’d be getting her own whacking in his study afterwards. Polly just gasped.

He addressed the whole class next, pronouncing their sentence. Six of the best on the bare bottom. The twelve girls present knew the painful price of dissent, and nodded agreeably at their penalty.

“Pair up. Panties off. And bend over your desks!”

These were familiar instructions, the standard disciplinary procedure when a whole group had misbehaved. It meant that each girl should pair up with her neighbour, then lift her skirt and tuck it into her waist, and pull her panties right down to her ankles and off. Once removed the white school knickers would be quickly rolled up, its owner would open her mouth and have her underwear placed between her front teeth.

Winklethorpe expected punishments to be conducted in silence, and had found numerous benefits in using a miscreant’s panties as her own gag. For one, it helped prevent pointless pleading and snivelling beforehand. It also helped muffle the cries that might otherwise occur as bottoms were whacked. And the gags certainly helped preserve the solemnity of the occasion afterwards, when those punished would be expected to remain in position with their sore bottoms on display.

The Headmaster watched as the girls hurried to their task, tapping the tip of his cane rhythmically on the front desk, whispering the countdown.

10 … 9 … 8 …

Once the first girl had her panties placed in her mouth, she would repay the compliment, baring her neighbour’s bottom and gagging her with her own knickers. Then both girls would hurry back to bend over the front of their own desks, compliantly placing their hands on the tops of their heads. Before the Winklethorpe had concluded his countdown, twelve pairs of quivering buttocks were presented for his inspection.

Polly did not escape this ignominy, but she had to pull down her own panties, roll them up and put them in her own mouth.

The Headmaster stepped forward to the first row of desks, tapping his cane against the first girl’s bottom, before delivering six quick hard whacks. The recipient gasped and moaned into her impromptu gag, but took her punishment in good grace, keeping her legs apart and her feet planted on the floor.

He moved to the neighbouring girl, administering her six strokes in less than twenty seconds. The sting he imparted, however, would linger much longer.

There were two more girls in the front row, he chastised them both without speaking, the only sounds in the classroom the nervous breathing of its occupants, the occasional creaking of desks, and the regular swoosh-swick-smacking of the disciplinarian’s cane.

Those in the third row at the back of the class had the dubious privilege of waiting in dread anticipation the longest, listening intently to the little moans as their classmates were caned, as the whacking noises grew closer. The glistening sheen between their legs suggested some found the experience rather exciting indeed.

The final stroke stung the bottom of the twelfth member of class, and silence resumed. Headmaster Winklethorpe returned to the front of the room to survey his handiwork. A dozen striped bottoms, pink blushes already beginning to radiate outwards, like heat from the bars of a filament fire.

The Headmaster told them all they would stay in position until the final school bell rang. That meant forty more excruciating minutes, to be spent bent over their desks with their sore bottoms on display. In absolute silence, naturally. Hands would remain on their heads, and there would definitely be no rubbing! He reminded them that they could be seen from the corridor, and passers-by would be all too happy to report them if they were seen or heard violating the post-spanking rules. Remember girls: collective responsibility still applied, so if one broke the silence or rubbed her bottom, they would all be caned again.

Polly looked over the pink bums of her classmates with quiet satisfaction, the panties in her mouth masking the slightest of smirks. Then she felt the crook of the Mr Winklethorpe’s cane hook around her upper right arm, and a tug towards the door. It was Polly’s turn now, she’d be taken to the Headmaster’s study in the manner reserved for the very naughtiest girls, dragged through the school corridors by the crook of the cane, with her white knickers visible for all to see between her lips. And once there, she’d be touching her toes for much more than just six of the best…


At least, that’s how Polly had imagined it, as she’d been daydreaming at the front of the class, her feet resting insouciantly upon the desk, as her peers noisily entertained themselves around her.

Polly had written the note inviting Mr Winklethorpe to stumble across her classmates’ anarchic rowdiness. She’d written it a couple of hours ago, just after Miss Bernadine had told her that she’d been called away for a late-notice meeting, and so would have to miss the last lesson of the afternoon. As a senior prefect, Polly had been put in charge, providing an opportunity that seemed far too good to miss.

Polly looked up at the classroom clock. 2.30pm. He’d be here soon, she smiled. She might even hear the approach of his thundering footsteps. He always took reports of mischief very seriously indeed.


Headmaster Thaddeus Winklethorpe shambled down the corridor, his rubicund face made even pinker by these unaccustomed exertions. The tatty trailing edges of his long academic gown contributed to his eccentric appearance, more a shuffling black cloud than an avenging embodiment of justice. As he approached, would-be miscreants knew they had little to fear, and as he receded, they chuckled at his impotence.

The tip-off had been anonymous, but quite specific. Mischief was planned in classroom 18A. 2.30pm. Bring the cane.

Winklethorpe could hear the ongoing kerfuffle well before he saw it. The unmistakable shrill shrieks of unsupervised schoolgirls, this was all very disappointing. He resolved to have a quiet word with Miss Bernadine later.

He peered through the glass of the door at the unruly Sixth Form class. Their teacher was nowhere to be seen, just a prefect sitting in her place, seemingly oblivious to the rowdy ruckus all around her. He cleared his throat, spluttering slightly,  and gripped the door handle, striding into the classroom with as much gravitas as he could muster.

“Now… now… girls!!!” he stammered, trying to make himself heard over the continuing racket.

The heads of those in the classroom turned slowly to see who’d entered, shoulders shrugging on recognition. One by one, they ceased their own excited conversations and reluctantly returned to their seats. The anarchic hubbub dying away to the murmur of sniggering whispers.  

“W… who’s in charge here?” the headmaster mumbled.

Good question, Polly found herself thinking, before standing up authoritatively.

When she’d been first been admitted to this school, Polly had found the Headmaster quite intimidating. But time, it seemed, had worn down and wearied poor Mr Winklethorpe. The man who’d once been the imperious head of the school, a bustling, inspiring, terrifying presence, was now bumbling and innocuous. In the seven years she had known him, he had dwindled as she had flourished.

Mr Winklethorpe eyed Polly with evident dismay. A look Polly returned when she noticed he hadn’t even brought his cane.

“It was rather raucous in here, Polly. Please try to keep your classmates under control. I’m sure you all have plenty of work to be getting on with.”

Polly tried her best not to scowl. This wasn’t at all how she had imagined his arrival. In front of her, she could already see her classmates exchanging little grins. But by now they should really have been bent over their desks with their panties between their teeth. What was this school coming to? Somebody should do something.

“I have to admit, I’m very disappointed. Please see me in my office after school, Polly.”

Polly’s jaw dropped, and Mr Winklethorpe shuffled out of the classroom without saying another word. After he’d closed the door behind him, a ripple of giggles spread throughout the room, they could almost have been mocking her.


Polly eventually encouraged her classmates back to work, and as they scribbled, Polly began her scheming. Snitching on the class had clearly failed miserably, she’d clearly overestimated his authority. But perhaps, that opened new possibilities. Exciting ones. Potentially very exciting, in fact.

So when the school bell rang, Polly sauntered to the Headmaster’s office with a spring in her step. Drawing a deep breath she composed herself, and knocked. His weary voice bade her enter.

Polly opened the door timidly, closing it gingerly behind her. Yet she spoke up first, having already determined to steer the direction of their conversation.

“Am I in trouble, Sir?” she asked coquettishly, her hands crossed at her waist, her eyes fixated on her own feet.

“Er…” mumbled Mr Winklethorpe, trying to remember the opening words of the little speech on authority and responsibility he tended to recite when prefects fell short of expectations.

“Oh Sir! My whole class got into trouble because of me. I’m so sorry! Do I have to get my bad little bottom smacked?”

She raised her eyes, risking a glance at her Headmaster to assess the impact of her words. On top of the jumble of papers on his desk, she could see the note she’d written. At the time, being put in charge had seemed too good an opportunity to miss. Now it was becoming clear that what was really needed was a bit of nudging in a more intriguing direction.

“Um… well…”

Mr Winklethorpe found himself lost for words.

“I’m so, so sorry Sir! I know I should have kept the class under control. I know discipline is so important…”

In the absence of appropriate words, her Headmaster found himself just nodding along in agreement.

“Oh Sir, won’t you put me over your knee? And give me the spanking I deserve with your big strong hand. On my bare bottom?”

There are three possible responses to such an audacious question. Yes. No. And stunned silence.

Mr Winklethorpe didn’t say no. In fact, his gawping mouth didn’t say anything at all.

Polly took that as permission to proceed, reaching under her skirt to tug down her panties to her thighs. She paused for effect, then wiggled her hips provocatively until her underwear had slipped to the floor.

“Ooops…” she said coyly.

Stepping out of her underwear, which she left conspicuously discarded where it had fallen, Polly fetched one of the high-backed chairs used by visitors and placed it in the middle of the room.

She beckoned him to stand, and then escorted him by the arm, taking him from behind his desk to sit on the seat she’d chosen.

“I’ve been such a naughty girl, Sir.” Polly said, with the earnest conviction of one who really meant it.

“Well, er… yes, you have…” confirmed her Headmaster with growing certainty.

Polly lurched forward before he could change his mind, bending over his lap, effectively pinning him in place, right where she wanted him.

“Lift my skirt, Sir. I know what has to happen to naughty girls.”

He did as he was told, hesitantly pinching the hem with his fingers, then lifting it higher and higher at Polly’s insistence until her whole bottom was bared.

“Oh Sir!” she exclaimed dramatically when she was fully exposed, helpfully spreading her legs slightly to allow a tantalising glimpse of her most intimate places.

“Naughty girls must be spanked hard on their bare bottoms. Isn’t that right, Sir?”

Admiring Polly’s smooth pert cheeks, Mr Winklethorpe found it impossible to disagree with her assessment. That she had indeed been very naughty. And she did indeed deserve a good hard spanking.

“Spank me now, Sir! Please!” Polly implored.

Thaddeus Winklethorpe might almost have been mesmerised. He found himself raising his hand above Polly’s pale cheeks as if under the control of some mysterious presence. He struggled to remember the last time he had spanked one of his pupils. Times and customs had changed during his tenure here. What it a coincidence that classes seemed be more unruly now? That the girls seemed less respectful, less focussed and poorly behaved. Perhaps this prefect was right, perhaps it was time to bring back some old-fashioned discipline. This could be an experiment, he reasoned. Yes. He would give this girl the spanking she deserved, and evaluate the effectiveness of his discipline afterwards.

On his lap, Polly held her breath, waiting for the first stinging slap to land across her cheeks…

Then the Headmaster’s palm fell, landing on Polly’s bottom as a good-natured pat.

Polly gasped in surprise at the timidness of the blow, she barely felt its impact at all. So she quickly encouraged her Headmaster to deliver another spank. But the next effort was barely any harder, more an innocuous tap than disciplinary smack.

“Harder, Sir!” she encouraged, “I’ve been so very naughty.”

Polly tolerated a dozen more ineffectual pats before her patience became exhausted. Then she dropped the coy little girl act, and decided to talk more candidly, adult to adult.

“Look, Sir. This isn’t working. It’s not hurting enough. It’s supposed to be a punishment. You’re supposed to be giving me a sore bottom.”

“Oh um, goodness, I am sorry! I will try harder…” Winklethorpe replied apologetically, feeling more than a little foolish.

But the next dozen spanks were barely any harder. Now Polly was growing increasingly exasperated by his ineptitude. It felt like this was the second time today her Headmaster had foiled her meticulous plans with his incompetence.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” she said at last, “This is just embarrassing.”

Polly stood up and purposefully marched towards the wall where a few canes were dangling. She could see little ridges of dust on the top of each crook, clearly these implements didn’t get used much. They were probably only here as antique decorations, more hipster coffee shop than kinky dungeon. She picked up a cane and whipped it through the air experimentally, it made an incredibly satisfying swish.

“Here Sir, take this – and hold it like this…”

Polly could barely believe that she was giving her own Headmaster a lesson on how to wield a cane. Once she was satisfied with his basic technique, she adjusted his stance, so he was standing just the right distance away from her, and then bent over in front of him, lifting her own skirt to the small of her back. Then Polly shuffled backwards until she could feel the cane resting flat against the lower half of her bare buttocks.

“That’s it, Sir. Now – pull your arm back, keep the cane parallel to the floor – and deliver the first whack.”

There was a swish, then Polly felt the sting of the rod’s impact. Not bad.

“Again Sir, harder this time!”

The next strike was indeed louder and stingier, that was a good sign. So Polly decided to mix some goading into her encouragement.

“And again Sir. When you discovered us this afternoon, I thought you’d spank us all there and then! Could you imagine that? Thirteen bare bottoms, all with pink stripes from your cane…”

The subsequent whack was the best yet, it almost took her breath away.

“Oh Sir! Do you find it exciting to smack the poor little bottoms of naughty young girls?”

That comment seemed to provoke a particularly sizzling stroke. Polly could feel a burning sensation spreading across her bottom.

“Oh Sir. Is this making you hard, Sir?” she goaded, parting her legs slightly to reveal her own glistening excitement.

That prompted another intensely satisfying whack. Polly looked across at Mr Winklethorpe, her eyes immediately drawn to the conspicuous bulge at the front of his trousers. She reached back, momentarily pulling her buttocks apart, flashing the crinkled pink ring of her bottom hole and the shiny folds beneath.

“Make the last one hard Sir! I’m such a naughty girl!”

His sixth stroke didn’t disappoint her, Polly felt its echoes tingling in her clitoris.

And that was six of the best, Polly concluded. She reached between her legs, stroking herself to collect some of her arousal, before standing to her full height and brazenly dabbing a little patch of her musky goo on his septum, right between his nostrils.

“Oh Sir…” she teased coyly as she straightened his tie, “Just smell what you’ve done to me…”

Now she could see his eyes blazing, with a coruscating intensity that had been quite absent when he’d shambled into her classroom earlier this afternoon. I think I might just have his full attention now, thought Polly. It was time for her manifesto.

“I think there just isn’t enough discipline imposed in this school any more. Things are getting out of control. We need to take back control, don’t we Sir?”

Mr Winklethorpe nodded vigorously in agreement. His prefect was just articulating what he’d long been thinking. Too many of the senior girls had indeed lost their respect for authority. Almost every day his staff reported impudent high-jinks, of gangs of silly young ladies running amok. Strict discipline was clearly required, wrongdoers needed to learn that misbehaviour had a price, and that price was a sore bottom.

“Do you know, Sir, all the outrageously naughty things that go on at this school behind your back?”

He was forced to admit he did not.

Polly recited a few provocative examples with relish. Like the unnamed Sixth Former whose boyfriend had given her a butt plug, and who had spent today wearing the plug under her uniform. Her feat of daring had already been approvingly whispered half-way round the common room.

Then, there was the elusive and secretive Drink Club, (first rule of Drink Club: do not talk about Drink Club), with their hidden stash of beers and spirits. Or the so-called Homework Factory, a cadre of the cleverest with an entrepreneurial spirit, they’d complete any assignment, to any deadline – price on application.

“Perhaps, we might come to some kind of arrangement, Sir?”

The Headmaster nodded encouragingly, intrigued to hear the prefect’s suggestion.

“I propose bringing instances of rule-breaking to your attention, Sir. Those identified will, of course, need to be punished, so all such individuals will be summoned here to your office.”

He nodded his agreement; what Polly was proposing was eminently sensible. School rules were worthless without the ability to enforce them, and what his prefect seemed to be offering was the covert intelligence needed to uncover the mischief, and bring those who thought themselves untouchable to justice. Some might call her a tattle-tale, or a snitch, or an informer – but they were such pejorative terms! She was merely helping to ensure the good name of the school was respected. And what could possibly be wrong with that?

“I further propose all rule-breakers be spanked on their bare bottoms. Minor offences by a hand-spanking over the knee. Moderate offences by the wooden ruler whilst touching their toes. And serious offences by caning whilst bending over your desk.”

Again, her Headmaster concurred, that sounded like a perfectly appropriate menu of punishments.

“I also propose that I be present to witness all spankings. As I’m sure you’ll agree, a female presence will help make intimate discipline less awkward. Likewise I suggest I be made solely responsible for the pulling down of panties and the placement of said garment in the mouths of those to be punished.”

Her Headmaster nodded once more, a female presence was an entirely reasonable suggestion. Placing panties in the mouth was a fascinating proposition, after all, those being spanked should endure their punishment in silence. Clearly his prefect had thought all this through, she did seem to be very knowledgeable when it came to matters of discipline. He wondered where she’d learnt it all.

Polly took a deep breath as subtly as she could manage, and hoped her poker face would hold for the final and most extravagant term of her proposal.

“And I also propose that the administering of spankings is shared between us, fifty-fifty. That is, every other girl who finds herself in your office will be disciplined by me.”

Thaddeus Winklethorpe had to smile at her bravado. The girl was certainly bold, and she pushed a hard bargain. But as he considered the details of her proposal he realised the strength of her negotiating position. Put bluntly, without her information, no miscreants would ever be caught. Fifty percent of some spanked bottoms was a much more alluring prospect than one hundred percent of no spanked bottoms. Besides, he quite liked the idea of watching this headstrong young lady spanking her classmates, he could watch it all sitting behind his desk. It would certainly help conceal his inevitable intumescence.

Polly watched him ponder her proposal, and held her breath.

After what seemed like an age, he extended his hand.

“Agreed, young lady.”

Polly accepted his handshake with a grin and a resolute grip of her own. He did have lovely strong hands, she’d see he put them to good use.

“Excellent, Sir! Then we shall take back control of this school together! I think you’ll find I can be very imaginative…”

And as if to emphasise her point, she ran her fingertip down the unseemly bulge at the front of his trousers. It was at that very moment Polly realised just how much power she now wielded. The Headmaster, and by implication the whole school, was now – quite literally –  under her thumb.

The prospect of her new power was thrillingly intoxicating. With it, Polly knew she could now denounce anyone in the school, and guilty or not, they would end up here, whimpering as she pulled down their panties, their eyes pleading silently as their own knickers were placed in their mouths. And if any of the silly little girls cried, she’d dab away their tears with their own underwear afterwards.

Perhaps she should insist on inspections too. Bend over and touch your toes, girl. Legs apart. Oh… what’s this? You’re soaking wet! Filthy girl! Well, if the prospect of a spanking excites you that much, you may have double.

Oh yes, she liked that idea. How the offender would moan plaintively against her gag when she heard her sentence had been doubled, begging for a chance to explain herself, but knowing deep down the shameful evidence was be incontrovertible.

Polly could already imagine putting the naughty over her knee, or making them do the bend-over dance to the beat of her ruler. She could almost hear their snivelling as she spanked their bare bottoms. And how exciting it would be to wield the cane, and paint rows of hot pink stripes onto trembling cheeks. To luxuriate in the pleas of the peasants as they prostrated themselves before their new queen.

Yes, telling tales was rather treacherous, but weren’t rules a good thing? Surely restoring order to the school was a noble endeavour. Didn’t that make her one of the good guys now?

As for those lingering traces of guilt – well, thought Polly, there’s no better cure for a guilty conscience than a well-smacked bottom.

“Now Sir…” she said teasingly, shepherding him back to sit on the high-backed chair.

“Your hand-spanking technique is quite atrocious. I think we’d both benefit from some practice…”  

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@spankingtheatre 2016

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.

You’re welcome to reblog and share.

Stolen Essence

A Gothic Spanking Ghost Story

“… and as she dangled before the assembled townsfolk, the wicked witch cast her most terrible curse. Its infernal power magnified by being spat out by her dying breath. All those watching as the hanging witch choked in the noose suddenly felt a fiery grip squeeze their own throats, as if they’d each been assailed by an invisible strangler. They flailed helplessly at their necks, staring at their neighbours with panicked, bulging eyes…”

“… and then, at the very moment the witch’s feet stopped kicking: the entire population of the town fell to the ground. Stone. Dead.”

Evelyn delivered the denouement of her tale with a clap of her hands, sending a shudder through the seven other girls listening. Her friends sat cross-legged in a circle, their faces shrouded in darkness. Surrounding them was a ring of white candles, whose timid flickering flames also seemed to tremble at Evelyn’s revelation, straining as if trying to hold back the encroaching blackness.

There was a murmur of approval for Evelyn’s story – definitely the creepiest and most disturbing so far. The Ghost Story Circle had become a tradition at Jessica’s Halloween parties, with everyone expected to take their turn as the storyteller. Some even spent weeks researching, writing and memorising their stories. Everyone knew Evelyn was a perfectionist, and had chosen as her inspiration the hoary old local folk tale of The Village of the Damned.

Some say, long ago in times of old, that a band of travelling tinkers once stumbled across a deserted village. Empty of people – but full of skeletons. Their bones scattered across the town square like an abattoir floor. They told of a single vacant noose dangling from the gallows that loomed over the silent village square. But what had really happened there? An epidemic of pestilence? A bandit massacre? Who can say for certain? Perhaps there’s a grain of truth in every ghost story, and that’s what really scares us.

Almost everyone had told their own story by now. There had already been tales of serial killers and ghost ships, dread pirates and horrific contagions that made the skin blister and bones melt. The stories had definitely been getting gorier as the friends had got older, as they’d become intimately familiar with blood and bleeding. More recently, their imaginations had assimilated new vocabularies from horror movies, and the psycho-sexual dramas of the gothic.

Now, it was Evelyn’s turn to pass the candlestick to her left, to the next girl in their circle. The storyteller would be the only one illuminated, a single flame lighting her face as her audience sat timorously in the dark, the speaker’s words conjuring sinister visions between their ears…

Amelia took possession of the old iron candlestick, desperately hoping that inspiration would strike. She’d known she’d have to tell a story tonight, and had made up something she’d thought was rather scary at the time. But now, after hearing the exceptionally crafted terrors of her friends, her own tale seemed tame and – even worse – embarrassingly childish. She wracked her brain, frantically searching the archives of her mind for something horrible, a long-forgotten memory of something that once shocked and frightened her. But her imagination remained as dark and devoid as the room all around her.

Until, unbidden, one memory did materialise in her mind. But it wasn’t at all what Amelia had been trying to remember.

She remembered a night she’d been doing her homework. She had needed to write a story, but try as she might, her imagination had deserted her. It was late, and soon Daddy would be up to put her to bed and turn out the lights, and she’d never complete her story. She’d go to school the next morning, be asked for her story, and be humiliated in front of the whole class.

No one had ever been spanked at her school, but a wholly unexpected sequence of images suddenly flashed through her mind. Being put over her teacher’s knee. Having her skirt lifted. Having her panties pulled down. Having her bare bottom spanked with the wooden ruler until it was hot and pink. And then having to take her seat, sitting down on her sore bottom as all around her classmates giggled.

Amelia could remember exactly how the fear bubbled inside her, like the contents of a foul and fetid cauldron. She could feel her heart thumping, her clammy skin beginning to tingle, her tummy fluttering and churning. And a sudden wetness between her legs.

She clamped her thighs shut, aghast at the terrible realisation that she might have wet herself. She could feel the tingling sensation between her legs now, her hands immediately flew to her crotch, hoping to hold back the pee whilst she fled to the lavatory. Her fingers found her pyjama bottoms were wet; but it was a completely unexpected kind of wet.

In the distance, Amelia heard Daddy’s footsteps approaching, plodding slowly up the stairs. She turned off her light, and retreated under her bedcovers, exchanging goodnights when he opened her door, then resuming her explorations when he’d gone.

That night, she dreamed about her wetness; where it had sprung from, and why. It soon became a recurring dream, endlessly embellished and elaborated upon until it had become one of her favourite fantasies. Whenever she summoned it, she always took care to place a flannel in her pyjamas, to soak up what she inevitably spilled. What she saw in her mind somehow felt more than fantasy, like somewhere within it was a grain of truth, an aspect of reality that wasn’t entirely imagined.

In the darkness around her, Amelia heard giggles. The familiar fear of humiliation began to bubble inside her, like the baleful froth of a pernicious potion. She could feel her skin, clammy and tingling, like a hoard of insects had begun crawling across her flesh. And between her legs, the wicked slick of her wetness.

You know what happens when you get wet, girl; said an imperious voice deep inside her head. Why don’t you tell them?

When Amelia next opened her mouth, it was her voice, but it felt as if someone else was speaking for her. A river of words began to flow, and soon it had swept her disbelieving audience away.

In a realm beyond our seeing, Amelia announced ominously, a devious magical being dwells.

The Warlock is a sorcerer. An alchemist. He exists outside time, now immortal, having long ago discovered the secret of eternal youth. Yet mortality stalks him like a fearful spectre. To preserve his vitality he must imbibe it. But he can not concoct it. So he must steal it.

The Warlock is a thief. An abductor. To keep death at bay he must seize the vital essence on which he depends. From any one of us. Because the essence he seeks is a dew that seeps. It is the product of our most intimate lips.

And so he watches our realm, his consciousness hovering above us, in the ghost dimension we can not see. Watching. Sensing. Like an octopus floating just above its buried prey. His tentacles feeling, probing. Waiting to plunge, and whisk you away.   

But the Warlock’s selection is most particular. Those made wet by their lust are of no interest, he seeks only the naughtiest girls, those whose wetness arises from some sin. Those who act out of pride, or sloth, or envy. Shall I tell you where the Warlock found me? And how he caught me?


It was a warm beautiful autumn day, and I was sneaking out of the house, tip-toeing carefully down the stairs with a little pack on my back. I was dressed for mischief, wearing my favourite light pink summer dress.

I knew there were chores to be done. Visitors were coming to our house later, and my Mum was already busy cleaning. I knew if I was seen, I’d be certain to be roped into some drudgery. But I wanted to go out and play. To be more precise, I wanted to go out and play with myself. Underneath my dress, I was not wearing any panties.

Ever since I was a little girl I’d been exploring a little island of woodland near our house. I began to venture deeper and deeper, drawing maps at first, plotting all the tracks and the paths. Giving names to places: there was a Bluebell Grove and Old Mr Oak, Brambly Thickets and Hollybush Hollow.

I had come to regard it as My Wood, my private little kingdom – because in all my time I’d spent trudging through the place, I’d never encountered another soul. Dog walkers kept to the nearby common, as technically there wasn’t any public right-of-way; I had to traipse across farmland to reach My Wood, simply ignoring the weather-bleached “Private Property” signs. But no-one ever confronted me.

As I got older, I came to appreciate its seclusion for another reason. I had discovered the pleasures that lurked between my legs, but my bedroom door had no lock to hide behind. An intense rubbing in the shower or behind a locked toilet door could take away the craving, but if I wanted to play for longer, to explore without arousing suspicions amongst my family, I needed somewhere with some privacy.

That’s when I remembered the wood I’d explored so comprehensively when I was young. So whenever I felt the craving to play I’d venture into the woods, along its familiar tracks and trails, until I reached a little clearing on a mound. My ordnance survey map labelled this place a tumulus – an ancient barrow grave. Goodness knows what skeletons lurk beneath my feet. But I loved it because it was a perfect vantage point, somewhere I could hear anyone approaching, long before they caught sight of me.

As I began to visit the mound regularly, I started to bring a little yellow and black picnic blanket in my rucksack. I liked to spread it on the ground, so I could lie down and unbutton my jeans, then tug down my panties and play, the foliage of the ring of trees surrounding me, muffling my naughty gasps.

Soon the mound began to appear in my dreams, I’d imagine sneaking off to play, only to find a strange man waiting for me in the clearing. He’d tell me he knew exactly why I was coming here, and that I was a very bad girl who needed to have her bare bottom smacked. Somehow he had one of my bedroom slippers in his hand.

There’s a couple of small trees on the mound, and I noticed my stripy yellow and black blanket was already draped over one thick branch. The stranger led me by the hand until I was standing in front of it, then pulled my pyjama bottoms right down. The branch was slightly too high for me, so he wrapped his hands around my hips and lifted me up, until I was bent over the branch, my hands and feet dangling in mid-air.

Then I imagined he spanked me, long and hard, until I was crying profusely, my tears trickling down my face, and dropping into little craters in the dusty earth beneath my kicking feet.

After that, my fantasies became ever more elaborate, I’d imagine leading you all into the woods, and the stranger would make us all undress and examine each other. And then, under his meticulously strict supervision, we’d take it in turns to spank each other hard, until all of our bottoms were pink and sore.

I became bolder in my own real-life playings too, when I arrived at the mound I’d sometimes undress completely, imagining the strange man was somewhere in the bushes watching me. I’d lie down on my blanket and spread my legs, so my imaginary voyeur could get a better look. As I played, I’d give him quite a show.

I started bringing a wooden ruler in my rucksack, just so I could imagine the stranger interrupting me just before I came. He’d scold me and lead me to the special spanking branch, covering it with my blanket. I’d bend over it, hauling myself up so my feet were dangling off the ground – and then I’d spank myself just like I imagined he would have done, reaching round to whack my bare bum with the end of my ruler.

Soon, my spanking branch also became my favourite wanking branch. I’d straddle it, my legs dangling on either side, and slowly grind myself upon it. I loved to watch the birds and the bees flitting through the canopy all around me as I rode the tree’s rough bark, its knots and nodules just underneath my thin woolen blanket providing such varied sensations to my tender lips. Sometimes, if I was aroused enough, I could even push myself over the edge by spanking myself, grinding my button against the thick branch, climaxing as my feet kicked in the air and my bottom burned.

I liked to look down at my little pile of discarded clothes, imagining the drama if I was to climb one of the highest trees and someone was to come looking for me. If they accidentally stumbled across my secret glade and saw my clothes, they’d think I’d been abducted for sure! I especially enjoyed imagining looking down from a lofty perch high in a towering tree as everyone I knew fretted and searched for me. No matter how down I was, that would always cheer me up. I would climax believing I was actually very important, that although no one ever said it to my face – secretly everyone really cared.

So I began fantasising about my own disappearance, plotting the details, and imagining how much I’d be missed. It made me wet. Soaking wet.

And that’s when he took me. As I masturbated self-importantly as my mother slaved away in the house, wondering where I’d gone, doing all the chores I was supposed to do.

Everything I’m going to tell you next happened within the blink of an eye.

One moment I was in the wood, straddling my branch, my fingertip frantically rubbing my little pink button. I could hear my heart thundering in my chest, the thumping in my ears quickening as I sped urgently towards my climax.

The very next moment I found myself chained by the neck to a cold stone wall.

I was naked. And I was not alone.


Two shocked faces stared back at me, as if they’d suddenly just noticed something obvious in the corner of the room after several hours of overlooking it completely.

Like me, both had heavy iron collars around their necks, which were connected by a chunky chain to a rail fixed to the wall. The chains allowed each of us only enough freedom to shuffle along our beds, which were set against three of the room’s four walls. The fourth wall had an opening, where one might have expected a door to be, it was the cell’s only aperture. There were no other windows. The stones of the cell glowed with a cold wan light.

Unlike me, my cellmates were clothed. On the bed opposite me was a young lady of oriental appearance. Pale-skinned, with shiny neck-length black hair, she was dressed in a sailor-style school uniform. To my left, on the bed facing the doorway, was another pale-skinned young lady, but this time one with auburn hair. She was dressed in what looked like an old-fashioned full-length white linen nightgown. I hadn’t been wearing anything when I was playing with myself in the woods a moment ago, and I still wasn’t wearing anything now. Fortunately I was able to wrap myself in a sheet from the bed to keep myself warm and preserve some of my modesty.

My first action was to stand and walk forward, until the cruel collar choked me back, craning my neck to try to look out through the doorway. What I glimpsed made me teeter with giddiness.

Outside our cell was a vast cavernous space, in the far distance, a constellation of light twinkled in the darkness. At first glance, I thought I was looking out into a clear starry sky, only to realise the lights in the far distance were actually cells just like my own. It became apparent that this was an enormous prison built into the sides of a grim mountain range. When I peered down into the chasm of a mist-shrouded valley beneath us, it might well have been bottomless. Above me, towers and turrets clung to the tops of the highest peaks and crags. The sky was the darkest of blues, the colour of the deep ocean, just before the last vestiges of sunlight are swallowed by the abyss.

I staggered back to the bed disorientated, my head swimming with questions.

Constance, the redhead in the nightgown introduced herself first. She spoke with a refined English accent, and her language was rather archaic, as if she was trying too hard to project an air of superiority. The girl in the sailor uniform turned out to be Japanese, her name was Hanae. But communication with Hanae proved more laboured as her knowledge of English was quite limited.

Neither girl knew how long they’d been captive here, but both knew the identity of their abductor, a powerful being they called The Warlock. What we could see through the doorway was part of his castle, a vast structure of towers and dungeons, home to countless numbers of captives, just like us.

But why us? I wondered if it was a coincidence that I was naked the moment I was brought here, and was the only one of us unclothed. So I asked my cellmates: what was the very last thing you remember before you arrived here?

Constance said she was lying in bed. Hanae said she was in her school’s lavatory. That would indeed explain what we each were wearing. They were naturally curious why I was naked, so I lied and said I had been in the bath, which triggered the exchange of knowing looks. They knew something, I realised. So I probed Constance a bit further.

After some cajoling, Constance revealed her story, a curious tale of sisterly rivalry and a pilfered chocolate cake. It seems a dinner party had been planned for the Queen’s coronation, and Constance had been quarrelling with her younger sister Clarice, over something utterly trivial, as siblings are want to do.

On the day of the party itself, Constance had been doing some chores in the pantry when she had stumbled across a newly baked chocolate cake. Deep within her, a devious plan began to boil. She wrapped the cake in a towel, and secreted it away from the kitchen and upstairs to Clarice’s room. There, she carved out a slice and enjoyed it guiltily, before hiding the remaining cake in her sister’s bedside table. Finally, Constance had gathered a handful of dark brown crumbs and scattered them conspicuously outside her sister’s room and the nearby landing. The plot was complete once she’d cleaned her teeth, washed the chocolate from her fingers and lips, and innocently returned downstairs.

The hullabaloo started an hour later when the cake was reported missing. The anxious servants had begun an urgent house-wide search, soon stumbling across the helpfully laid trail of crumbs, which they fastidiously followed to discover the stolen cake in Clarice’s bedroom. Summoned in front of their mother, Clarice was understandably unable to account for its presence of the cake in her room. Constance had to smother her smirk as it was announced Clarice would be spanked at tonight’s dinner party and sent to bed early.  

That evening, Constance dressed up in her fanciest clothes, making her feel very grown-up and important indeed, whilst her sister suffered the ignominy of attending the dinner table in her nightclothes. When the time came for dessert, and what remained of the cake, Clarice’s shabby crime was announced. To tuts of shame and disapproving shakes of the head from the assembled guests, she was led from the table in disgrace by their father. Clarice was then made to kneel on an ottoman, her hands on the floor, and in full view of everyone, the hem of her nightgown was raised to her back, exposing her bare bottom for all to see. If she was going to steal like a little girl, she could expect to get spanked like one too, without modesty.

The honour of disciplining Clarice was given to Reverend Smight, the local vicar.. A vivacious middle-aged family man with three teenage daughters of his own, he was well aware of the importance of Christian discipline. Thus in the large bible he carried everywhere, he used a heavy leather strap as its bookmark. Tonight, before he performed his solemn duty he gave a brief reading on moral rectitude from Proverbs, and a short lesson on the virtuous effects of a spanking on wayward young ladies.

As she related her story, Constance admitted how she watched transfixed as their vicar placed the thick strap against her sister’s quivering bottom. Constance said she’d never been more excited, she could even feel her own wetness seeping in her drawers, her little button made hot and hard.

The first whack reverberated through the dining room, the first of a dozen that left bright red bands on Clarice’s poor bottom. She took her spanking stoically, trying not to make an embarrassing scene in front of the distinguished guests. Constance could see how her sister fought the urge to squirm, gripping her thighs closed tight, lest she reveal the furrow between her legs. But her lunging position meant she was powerless to prevent her buttocks parting, so everyone got a peep of the little pink ring of her bottom hole.

After a dozen whacks, the reverend admonished Clarice and retook his seat, leaving the poor girl with her hands on the floor and her spanked bottom high in the air. Clarice then had to listen as the guests enjoyed the delicious dessert behind her, whilst pointedly discussing issues of modern morality and declining standards of behaviour. When the time came for the dinner table to be cleared, Clarice was eventually allowed to rise, apologise to all those present, and was duly sent upstairs to bed.

Later in the reception room, Constance overheard discussions between the vicar and her father. She was delighted to learn her sister would be receiving some remedial instruction after Sunday School on each of the Ten Commandments. It was agreed that this lesson would be most effectively delivered with her dress lifted, bending over her desk rather than sitting behind it.

For Constance, the whole scheme had been a stunning success. Her sister’s reputation had been thoroughly besmirched, whilst she herself had shone like a model of probity. And the whacking she’d got to witness had been thrillingly exciting, she couldn’t wait to get to bed that night and rub away the ache. She knew she had sinned, but was absolutely soaking. No one had mentioned the wages of sin felt this good.

In the darkness of her bedroom, she replayed Clarice’s spanking behind her own closed eyes, rubbing her naughty place in tight quick circles. Glimpses of another fantasy flashed through her fevered mind, watching bare-bottom canings at her Sunday School. Of course, she deserved a good hard whacking too, and she reached the edge of her climax just as the good reverend lifted her dress.

And that’s when The Warlock took her. That was the last thing Constance said she could remember.

So it seemed we’d both been snatched away whilst we’d been masturbating, on the very brink of orgasm. But there was a little detail of Constance’s story that lingered frustratingly in my mind, like a loose thread dangling from a sleeve. She had mentioned the new Queen’s coronation – but she also seemed to be English, so how could that be? Who was the Queen? I asked. Constance looked down at me like I was a particularly idiotic little child, and sighed: Queen Victoria, silly!

Her answer hit me like a slap; in fact, I remember physically recoiling from the shock of its implications. If Constance was telling the truth, she had just been transported here from the year 1838. Which meant if all this was not some elaborate contrivance, she had either been imprisoned here for almost 200 years. Or time had no meaning here at all.

Bewildered, I urgently asked Hanae for her story. Her English was imperfect but understandable, a product of attending an American-run ladies college in Kyoto. She claimed to be eighteen years old and insisted the current year was 1960 – a revelation I found most disturbing indeed.

It seems Hanae was the head girl of her school, and took her responsibilities very seriously indeed. With a bowed head and a meek contrite voice she readily confessed that she enjoyed getting her peers into trouble, since breaking school rules meant a spanking from Headmaster Kido-san. And Hanae always got to watch.

As head girl, Hanae was obliged to manage the ritual of corporal punishment. That meant escorting rule-breakers to the detention room, consulting the school rulebook and determining the consequences of each miscreant’s transgression. Hanae would then write their name, crime and sentence on a little card, which she’d fix with a safety-pin to the tails of the offender’s blouse.

As a mark of respect and penitence, girls were expected to be already bent over and bared when their headmaster entered the room, with their hands grasping their ankles. Thanks to Hanae the first sight he’d see would be a row of pale quivering bottoms, each captioned by a carefully placed card above, which explained both the offender’s crime and her expected punishment.

School regulations dictated all spankings be administered to bare bottoms, so Hanae was also responsible for unbuttoning and removing each girl’s skirt, and pulling down her knickers. In the interests of meticulousness, Hanae had taken it upon herself to conduct an unofficial bottom inspection of those due to be spanked, adjusting each girl’s stance so her feet were kept a ruler length apart. That did result in an inevitable loss of modesty, so Hanae helpfully checked each girl’s anus was clean, and her vulva wasn’t glistening with signs of sexual excitement. A quick wipe with a tissue would resolve both issues, and prevent any embarrassment when the headmaster ultimately arrived.

On the last day Hanae could remember, one of the younger pupils had dutifully handed her a packet of cigarettes and a lighter they’d found dropped in a corridor. The items had probably belonged to a teacher, as smoking amongst pupils was strictly forbidden, and Hanae should really have just handed them into the staff room. But in the illicit items, Hanae saw a marvellous opportunity.

She discreetly placed the packet in the senior girls’ common room, and then left, watching surreptitiously from just outside the door. The cigarettes were soon discovered, initially unclaimed, and then excitedly shared around those present. Soon, they were ignited too.

Moments later, Hanae strode purposefully into the common room, and into the stinking, choking fog. She’d already written down the names of those who’d been smoking as she stood in the doorway, and now read them aloud as the guilty hurriedly tried to discard the incriminating evidence. Those identified were to told to report to the detention room after school – and all knew they’d be going home with stripes on their bottoms. Those who took the bus home knew they would spend the journey standing.

Hanae visited her headmaster soon afterwards, reporting how she’d caught twelve of her classmates smoking, and respectfully requesting his presence in the detention room after school to dispense the necessary punishment. She had barely been able to hide her excitement.

Later that day, Hanae bowed to her waist as Headmaster Kido-san arrived to restore the school’s honour. The twelve girls had been divided into two groups on either side of the room, each facing the wall. Kido-san moved solemnly along both lines, reading the cards, familiarising himself with the names of the naughty. In all cases, the crime and sentence was the same. Caught smoking. 18 strokes of the cane.

The next time the headmaster moved down the line, he was carrying a long thin bamboo cane. Each girl was whacked six times before he moved on to her neighbour. He wielded the cane with the elegant artistry of a kendo master, covering the ground with the minimum number of footsteps, his rod arcing through the air in perfect curves that would have made a calligraphy master proud.

He moved through the girls three times, until each had received the 18 stripes their offense had required. Hanae admitted that she watched from behind in a state of silent excitement, her damp knickers clinging to the swelling folds of her slit. She wanted so much to touch herself, especially when the headmaster’s cane smacked the trembling bottoms of those she considered her rivals.

When the caning was complete, Hanae respectfully took the cane from her headmaster’s hands, returning it to the rack on wall. Hanae bowed as her Headmaster left, without saying another word. He did not believe in scolding, those with sore bottoms would have plenty of time to rebuke themselves for their own indiscretions before their marks faded.

Hanae left the twelve girls bending over in position for 30 minutes, time enough to stroll down the two rows, inspecting the thin red lines that had been painted on each buttock. When the time came to get each girl to step into her knickers, she checked between their legs as she pulled up their underwear, and wasn’t surprised to see most of her classmates had glistening lips too.

By the time she’d pulled up everyone’s panties, Hanae confessed that she was desperate with desire. She told the girls to put on their own skirts and dismissed them, before hurrying away to a single room toilet a few corridors away. Door locked and alone at last, she pulled down her own panties to reveal a sticky, gooey mess, and an urgent ache in her slit that required her immediate attention.

Hanae freely admitted that she sat on the lavatory seat and rubbed herself wantonly, any lingering guilt about getting her classmates punished now banished from her mind. Instead, she replayed their whackings in her head, every swish and smack, and every stifled sniffle. She spread her own thighs wide, stretching her sticky knickers taut between her ankles, arching her back, feeling the cool air tingle her gaping lips as she prepared to come hard.

And then everything changed. That was the moment the Warlock took her, and Hanae found herself alone in this cell with the collar around her neck. Overcome with guilt, Hanae’s initial reaction was to burst into tears. Constance had materialised out of thin air some time later, an answer to Hanae’s prayers, someone to keep her company at last.

As a Buddhist, Hanae thinks this place is the Bardo, and she is being punished for her selfish wickedness. I had to admit, given the depravities we’ve each been guilty of, it’s as good an explanation as any. One thing seems clear, we hadn’t just been brought here from different places, but from different times.

Perhaps the Warlock’s world is a realm outside our time. I know for a fact the year is 2016. Yet if Constance is who she says she is, I’m looking at someone who has been dead for at least one hundred years. I’m looking at a ghost. Hanae will have been withered by age, and perhaps she too is dead. I may well be in the company of ghosts.

Yet as I pondered my predicament, I could feel the moistness seep between my legs. I must confess I’d found my cellmates’ stories rather arousing, and discreetly slipped my hand underneath my sheet to try to satisfy myself. But I could not, I found a powerful force repelled my fingertips – cruelly foiling any attempt to touch between my legs, as if it were the coming together of two similar magnets.

Suddenly, the light that illuminated us was extinguished, plunging us all into a frightening abyssal darkness. With no other sanctuary, we curled up in our beds like frightened little girls until we are smothered by the blessed blanket of sleep.

That’s when he comes for us.


Days do not exist here. We do not eat, or drink. When not staring out into the grim eerie void, we spend our time chatting. We have jokingly come to call our new home The Faraway Land of Naughty Girls.

We talk and share stories until, eventually, our light is extinguished, immersing us into a terrifying, absolute blackness.

We cower in our beds, trembling until we fall asleep, until we plunge into intensely lucid erotic dreams. It took me a while to understand what is happening, but I think I understand it all now.

The Warlock is farming us.

He is harvesting us for the precious dew that drips from our slits when we are excited the most. He knows the highest quality essence comes from those long denied, that’s why we’re kept in a state of enchanted chastity, unable to touch ourselves. That’s why we’re kept in bondage, he knows our predicament torments us, yet it also excites us. He leaves us to ripen, our empty minds eagerly filling themselves with naughty thoughts, not just our own fantasies but those of our cellmates.

Then, when we’re wet enough, he comes for us in our dreams.

The Warlock appears differently to each of us. When he comes for Constance he assumes the role of Reverend Smight. Hanae and I share her dream as wordness witnesses, we are dressed in Georgian finery, all ruffles and petticoats, seated at the dinner table. This time, there are no other guests.

Where once was the ottoman Clarice knelt on for her spanking, now there is furniture of a very different kind.

I have come to call it the milking plinth. It is exquisitely sculpted, a knee-high column of the purest white marble, topped by a tall angled dildo with a round bulbous head. Little ridges and undulations protrude from its shaft, this is a device designed to amplify its sitters pleasure, thus maximising the essence she drips.

From the dinner table I see Constance is naked, her mound hairless and smooth. The reverend guides her towards the plinth, she kneels as instructed, in some obscene parody of prayer. Below her crotch, the thick knobbly protrusion parts her lips, lurking just beneath her glinting entrance.

The reverend has the black leather strap in his hand, he begins a short sermon, telling Constance that she has sinned, and this is the hour of her repentance. Constance begins to sink lower onto the protrusion, moaning as it fills her. She takes it all, surprisingly deep.

Now the vicar swings the strap, slapping Constance’s bum with a vicious smack that rings in our ears. She recoils, sliding upwards on the dildo, before sinking down to its base again, emitting a long low groan of pleasure as she does so.

The milking process couldn’t be simpler, her whacking nudges her up the dildo, before gravity ensures she sinks back down on it. Meanwhile Constance’s arousal runs down inside the tiny channels engraved on the shaft, and into a crystal collecting vessel. There is also a curved dish in front of her mound, to catch and collect any vital essence she might happen to squirt.

The reverend spanks Constance long and hard, sometimes stopping to splay apart her hot red cheeks and plunge a finger deep into her bottom hole. Hanae and I watch in stupefied silence as Constance convulses upon the dildo, trickling ever more dew into the tiny shimmering vial.

When Constance has been milked to the point of delirious exhaustion – our shared dream fades, and becomes the turn of Hanae, or myself.

Hanae walks contritely into her school’s detention room to find the marble milking plinth waiting for her. Constance and I watch in silence from the back of the room, impeccably dressed in our cutesy sailor uniforms. Hanae is naked, and kneels submissively on top of the plinth, obediently placing her hands behind her head, and lets herself sink downwards, mewing as the dildo stretches her pussy.

Then the Warlock enters in her headmaster’s guise, bamboo cane in his hand. Without saying a word, he begins her whacking, elegantly swiping the thin rod against her trembling bottom. Hanae recoils forward, before gravity pulls her back, sliding back down the shaft until she is fully impaled. That’s when the next stroke lands, the process repeating until Hanae is rhythmically sliding up and down like a piston.

Hanae rides the dildo crying out imploringly in a language I can not understand. Perhaps she is pleading an apology, or urging her disciplinarian to whack ever harder – to make an example of her. Constance and I fiddle with the hems of our skirts, powerful forces preventing us from reaching up any further. By the end of her ordeal, Hanae’s bottom is a grid of bright red lines, a final volley of artfully placed strokes spanks her to a gasping climax, and we see her little vial is almost full.

Then it is my turn.

I find myself walking naked into my little clearing in the woods, it is vividly real, I can feel the little twigs on the ground scratch my feet. Ahead, I see the strange man waiting for me. I turn to run, but he overtakes and catches me easily. He cuffs my hands behind me with a cable-tie, and leads me back towards the clearing. The milking plinth is there, ready and waiting for me.

He makes me straddle the dildo and kneel, I feel it push between my soft wet folds. Stretching me, massaging me. I can already sense my wetness dribbling down its long bobbled shaft.

The stranger admonishes me for venturing out into the woods all alone. Hadn’t I read any fairytales? Didn’t I know what horrors might befall me? I feel his hands close around my throat, tatty rough leather gloves, throwaway gloves, the kind a serial killer might wear. I’m suddenly possessed by mortal fear. The others were spanked, but perhaps I’m due to suffer a different fate. Strangled in the woods, milked of my precious essence as I dance on the dildo, my excitement intensified as I struggle for my life.

Spank me I plead. I’ve been so naughty.

I hear the stranger kneel behind me, and unzip his trousers, and then the hot sticky knob of his cock presses against my bottom hole. His hands are wrapped tightly around my throat as he penetrates me. I can not see Constance and Hanae, but I know they are watching. Probably high up in one of the surrounding trees, watching in a state of confused excitement as I’m so indecently violated.

I’m sliding up and down the dildo frantically now, pleading to be spanked, begging for my life, but his squeezing fingers reduce my pleas to a croaking whisper. I impale myself deeply on both intrusions, feeling my essence streaming between my legs. I’m now unable to talk. Please, I’m now thinking. Please let me live. Please, I’m worth more to you alive than dead.

My terror makes my muscles clench, is this how rigor mortis begins? I feel my bottom hole clamp against his cock, tighter than I’d ever squeezed before. Moments later a hot spurting sensation fills my bottom. My assailant continues to fuck me as plunge up and down on the dildo. My last breath was so long ago, my vision is dimming, I am so dizzy, only the presence of his hands around my throat is preventing my head from lolling to the side.

Then suddenly, he withdraws. I feel his hands loosening from my throat. A moment later he slaps my bottom with all of his might. And again, and again until I come.

A combination of sheer relief, empty lungs and the nefarious dildo make me climax harder than I’d ever come before. Unlike a cock, which evolution has merely streamlined into a plunging implement – a glorified water pistol to shoot semen deep into its target receptacle, the dildo of the plinth has been meticulously designed to maximise the essence it extracts from its sitter. As I convulsed upon it, I could feel my body squeezing against its myriad protrusions as if I was trying to wring out every droplet of my pleasure.

And then we woke in our beds, knowingly used.


The next time the Warlock came for us, everything was different.

This time we accompanied Constance to Sunday School, we in our Sunday best, she completely naked. The plinth was waiting for her in the classroom, she knelt as in prayer as the reverend caned her. She came with her tutor’s middle finger deep in her bum, whilst repeatedly taking the name of her God in vain.

Hanae found the milking plinth waiting for her on the stage of her school assembly. She was whipped naked in front of everyone after a tearful confession. The whole school got to watch her ride to climax too; she was sobbing uncontrollably as she came.

And I stumbled across the plinth as I wandered deep into the woods. The stranger tied me up and made me ride it, half-choking me with his thick cock as he fucked my snivelling mouth. I came deliriously as he spurted his sticky mess all across my face.

And my next time was different still.

I was lost in the depths of the woods, desperately searching for the path that would lead me back home. Instead I found a noose dangling from a branch, and beneath it, the plinth. I turned and ran, but once again the stranger caught me, tying my hands and hauling me back to the clearing.

When I mounted the plinth, he put the rope around my neck, tugging the free end, squeezing my throat as I was lifted to the top of the dildo. He left me there to flail and struggle, the bulbous head of the intrusion just inside my entrance, I could feel my wetness dripping from me as I gasped. Then he suddenly let go of the rope. My weakened body immediately slumped back down onto the dildo, taking it deep, to its fullest extent. In my woozy state I could feel myself gush, as the knot at my throat mercifully loosened.

But my respite was brief. The stranger pulled the rope tight again, lifting me upwards until I was dancing again on the tip of the marble cock. My hangman milked me skilfully, ensuring my toes never left the ground, but hoisting me up and down the dildo until I finally came, convulsing on the protrusion in a state of breathless exhaustion.

Before all went black, I found myself wondering: did witches come hard as they were hanged?


Eventually, I lost count of the number of times we had been milked. I had begun to despair of ever being released from this infernal place. Perhaps Hanae was right, that we were captives in some kind of limbo. Or perhaps I had been murdered by the stranger I’d glimpsed in the woods, and these elaborate fantasies were the fevered imaginings of a dying brain.  

The Warlock came for Hanae first. He appeared at the entrance to our cell, the first time any of us had seen him as he was, and not the guises he adopted in our dreams. His appearance was that of a tall, cadaverous young man, clad in scintillating sky-blue robes so bright it hurt the eyes to look at him directly. When he unfastened Hanae’s chain from the wall, she instinctively hugged us goodbye before he led her outside. She never returned.

Was the Warlock actually the Reaper – that grim visitor found in every known culture? Some said Death is itself a climax, the orgasm of life. Is that what I’m experiencing, the end of my life visualised as some kind of erotic analogy? Repeatedly being brought to the plinth until I’m finally ready to relinquish control, to let my corporeal body dissolve into orgasmic ecstasy? Perhaps my lascivious mind visualises his instrument of dissolution as the plinth, where country serfs might once have seen a scythe. Is the Grim patiently waiting to transport me to the afterlife, after one final dance impaled upon his mystical phallus?

Even more disturbing possibilities surfaced in my mind. When he visits me in my dreams, I always seem to come whilst panting for breath, with my hands tied behind my back. What if all my memories, and all I’d ever experienced, were just the dying hallucinations of a gasping witch, dangling in a creaking noose?

He came for Constance next. We hugged and kissed goodbye, my heart heavy that we never had the chance to meet in the real world. We would have been fine friends. I never saw her again.

And then he came for me.

The Warlock led me out of the cell and onto a narrow path outside, overlooking a perilous precipitous drop. If I dallied, he tugged the chain attached to the collar, like I was a dog. We must have walked past hundreds of cells just like mine, I peeped inside to see women of all ages, some naked, some dressed in garments I’d never seen before.

Eventually we reached a stairway carved into the mountainside, climbing higher and higher until we arrived at the pinnacle of a tower, one that was open to the stygian sky. From here I could see the true expanse of the Warlock’s vast castle sprawling vertiginously beneath me, and the absolute nothingness that surrounded the crags beyond. It was as if the surrounding world had simply been erased.

The top of the tower was dominated by a huge marble statue, his immense white hands reaching down to the floor. The stone had an eerie glow, as if lit by moonlight, even though the moon was nowhere to be seen.  

My collar was tugged, dragging me reluctantly towards the Marble Giant’s outstretched palm. At the Warlock’s bidding I straddled it, gasping as I felt the cold stone against my desperate lips – it was the first sensation my pussy had felt since I was brought here.

The Giant’s index finger is folded back towards its palm, its thick fingertip resting against my entrance. Its wrist is bent, angling its palm slightly downwards, so as soon as I’d straddled it, I could already feel myself slipping backwards, slowly impaling myself deeper on its monstrous finger. If I had control of my hands I would have clung onto the statue’s wrist, but I find my hands are magically pinioned above the small of my back.

To my surprise the Giant’s hand began to lift upwards, leaving my legs splayed wide, dangling helplessly on either side of the massive palm that was cupping my crotch. The statue’s other hand moved too, I struggled desperately as the tip of its mammoth index finger pushed towards me, seemingly on course to crush my poor throat. But it stopped just short, beneath my chin, lifting and directing my head upwards, leaving me locked in a stare with the Giant’s munificent gaze.

The Warlock stood alongside me, I was lying level with his chest. He placed his hand on my bare bottom, stroking and fondling, I could feel the tips of his long bony fingers parting my slit, exposing my wet little hole.

Without his lips moving, I heard his whispers in my mind. Grave, slow and hollow, like the tolling of a distant bell.

Naughty girls drip the most exquisite essence.

I would savour you longer.

But your blink is almost over.

You must be returned.

Before your reality misses you.

I didn’t understand his words at first. They sounded like just another cruel tease.

Then I felt the Warlock’s palm spank me, hard strong smacks that reverberated through my groin. I could feel my vagina enveloping the protruding finger, as if I’d become a viscous fluid, beginning to flow around the marble intrusion. Each perfectly placed spank made me squirm and kick, bringing my inevitable climax closer.

I looked up into the Giant’s brilliant gazing eyes, two full moons staring deep inside my soul. I prepared to surrender, to open my locks and let this thief steal my treasure. Beneath me, I could already feet the hot wetness streaming from deep inside my cunt, as I spilled my essence into the giant’s marble palm, to trickle away into a little crystal vial.

The Warlock knew precisely how to spank me, exactly how to make me come.

I lay sprawled on the statue’s palm, my body taut with tension as the climax tore through me for far longer than I’d ever thought possible. My legs quivered uncontrollably, dancing in mid-air as my back arched so sharply I could feel my spine ache. All the while my sodden cunt contracted wildly around the protruding finger, spilling little showers of my precious essence. I was overcome by a cascade of potent emotions, excitement and humiliation, lust and shame. All I could do was roar out my lungs, crying out with pleasure until I began to go dizzy.

And then everything changed. Yet nothing was different.

I was back in the woods, at the end of my blink. But I had no memory of what had just happened, any recollection of my recent ordeal had utterly vanished. I had been taken on the cusp of my orgasm, and before I could stop myself, I came, grinding against my wanking branch as I shrieked with delight.

I think I am alive again. Real again. Though who can really tell?


Her face basked by candlelight, Amelia suddenly realised she had been speaking, but she couldn’t remember anything of what she’d just said. She felt a sudden hot wetness pooling between her legs, as if she’d suddenly wet herself, and her bottom tingling, as if she was feeling the lingering echoes of a long-ago spanking.

Around her, Amelia’s friends sat open-mouthed and gob-smacked, exchanging looks of disbelieving shock.

Each girl shifted bashfully, already feeling the physical effect of Amelia’s extraordinary story. Exacerbated by sitting cross-legged, eight pairs of damp panties clung tight to their owners’ clammy lips. Evelyn felt an almost overwhelming yearning to stop telling ghost stories, and start playing spanking games. Whilst Jessica felt a compelling urge to excuse herself, fetch her hairbrush and push the handle deep between her legs, as far as it would go.

Echoes of what Amelia had described swarmed through her own head, like figments of a long-forgotten fairytale. She was dimly aware of some really quite filthy revelations, how much of that had she just told her friends?

Amelia blushed in the half-light, and reached left to pass on the candlestick, unaware that in the gloom, at the very fringe of the wavering candlelight, a dread shadow lurked.

“But it’s only a story…” she added, uncertainly.

.

.

.

@spankingtheatre 2016

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.

You’re welcome to reblog and share.

Filthy Fantasies

An anonymous reader writes:

When I masturbate, my mind fills with the filthiest fantasies.

Like I imagine being made to strip to my underwear, and then my headmistress puts me over her knee and spanks me on the bare. Afterwards, she pulls my panties up over my sore stinging bottom and leads me to the locker room, and makes me stand facing the corner in the shower. I’m rubbing inside myself as I imagine all this, and it makes me feel like I’m about to pee.

So I imagine pleading to be allowed to go. But she refuses me. I hold on for as long as I can, crossing and clenching my thighs together, but that only intensifies the urge. I can’t hold on any longer. Then suddenly, I imagine I wet myself. As I imagine the gush of hot liquid filling my panties and streaming down my tightly clenched thighs, that’s when I come. Sometimes I even feel a squirt of wetness on my hand as I writhe and moan.

So there I am, just after wetting myself in front of my headmistress. I beg to be allowed to take off my sodden panties, but she says I have to keep them on, because they and I are so disgusting. So I
have to clean myself with my wet panties still on, and she stands there behind me, watching as I
soap myself, making sure I don’t miss a spot. But my clit is so sensitive now, and as I soap and rub my panties between my legs, I just know I am going to come. I can’t help it. I climax right there, right in front of my headmistress, knowing there and then that I’d just earned
myself another spanking…

I leave my rinsed underwear in the locker room to dry, and spend the rest of the day nude in her office, with
my hands on the wall, my sore red bottom jutting out, my legs spread wide apart so even my
pussy can be seen, swollen and slick with arousal. I am there on display even as she has her
after-school meetings. I do my best not to be noticed, but know
everyone present can see me. It makes the heat low in my belly grow, it makes me want to be rubbed, to feel someone’s hands – anyone’s hands – stroke my private places.

I’m rubbing myself again. Imagining the shame, feeling my own wetness on my thighs. Then in my head one of the teachers
comments on the disgraceful wetness of want dripping out of me, and I
nearly cry. And then I climax. And I climax really hard.


Thank you for sharing, dear reader, and the glimpse you’ve offered us into your exceptional imagination. A wonderful account of how extremely vivid fantasies featuring taboo subjects can be channelled into the most intense climaxes. The erotic mind is your own private playground, somewhere the normal rules of reality no longer apply. Where up can be down, right can be wrong, and humiliation can be joy.

I wonder if other readers have a favourite fantasy they’d like to slip into the confession box?

Filthy Fantasies

An anonymous reader writes:

When I masturbate, my mind fills with the filthiest fantasies.

Like I imagine being made to strip to my underwear, and then my headmistress puts me over her knee and spanks me on the bare. Afterwards, she pulls my panties up over my sore stinging bottom and leads me to the locker room, and makes me stand facing the corner in the shower. I’m rubbing inside myself as I imagine all this, and it makes me feel like I’m about to pee.

So I imagine pleading to be allowed to go. But she refuses me. I hold on for as long as I can, crossing and clenching my thighs together, but that only intensifies the urge. I can’t hold on any longer. Then suddenly, I imagine I wet myself. As I imagine the gush of hot liquid filling my panties and streaming down my tightly clenched thighs, that’s when I come. Sometimes I even feel a squirt of wetness on my hand as I writhe and moan.

So there I am, just after wetting myself in front of my headmistress. I beg to be allowed to take off my sodden panties, but she says I have to keep them on, because they and I are so disgusting. So I
have to clean myself with my wet panties still on, and she stands there behind me, watching as I
soap myself, making sure I don’t miss a spot. But my clit is so sensitive now, and as I soap and rub my panties between my legs, I just know I am going to come. I can’t help it. I climax right there, right in front of my headmistress, knowing there and then that I’d just earned
myself another spanking…

I leave my rinsed underwear in the locker room to dry, and spend the rest of the day nude in her office, with
my hands on the wall, my sore red bottom jutting out, my legs spread wide apart so even my
pussy can be seen, swollen and slick with arousal. I am there on display even as she has her
after-school meetings. I do my best not to be noticed, but know
everyone present can see me. It makes the heat low in my belly grow, it makes me want to be rubbed, to feel someone’s hands – anyone’s hands – stroke my private places.

I’m rubbing myself again. Imagining the shame, feeling my own wetness on my thighs. Then in my head one of the teachers
comments on the disgraceful wetness of want dripping out of me, and I
nearly cry. And then I climax. And I climax really hard.


Thank you for sharing, dear reader, and the glimpse you’ve offered us into your exceptional imagination. A wonderful account of how extremely vivid fantasies featuring taboo subjects can be channelled into the most intense climaxes. The erotic mind is your own private playground, somewhere the normal rules of reality no longer apply. Where up can be down, right can be wrong, and humiliation can be joy.

I wonder if other readers have a favourite fantasy they’d like to slip into the confession box?

One of my earliest stories, now on Medium. But the notion of the fantasy roleplay weekend is, in my eyes, still just as hot…

Cosmopolitan

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