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Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

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femdom

Naughty Game #21: Inspections for Boys

This is the long-awaited follow-up to Inspections for Girls! This game describes how to intimately inspect those blessed with male anatomy.

Of course, here Boy and Girl are used in the controlling sense, it should go without saying these games for consenting adults. Also bear in mind this game is not cock worship, the aim is to take charge, to inspect the masculinity of a grown man, objectify him, and (if that turns you on) to make him feel like a naughty little boy. After all, you may need to spank him when it’s over.

Like Inspections for Girls, this is a slow game of self-control, where you (or your partner) learn to appreciate yourself visually. This game may be a different kind of play to what you’re used to – the aim is not pleasure the subject. Instead the inspector should keep their touches to a minimum, and when somewhere sensitive is touched, it should be done to further the examination, rather than stimulate for pleasure. At least until ejaculation is intended.

No additional equipment is needed for this game, but a few items might come in handy:

  • a mirror (useful for self-inspections)
  • cotton buds or paintbrush (to help minimise touches, and provide unique sensations)
  • a glass of water (for dipping fingertips / buds / brushes)
  • a butt plug, for bottom stretching
  • lubricant, for deeper anal examinations or prostate massages

The inspection game can be played alone (inspecting yourself), or with a partner (one of you being inspected or both, taking it in turns).

How to Play

The aim of this game is for the observer to visually inspect the subject, (who might be the same person). If playing solo, the subject should experience minimal physical stimulation. If playing with a partner, only the inspector should be doing the touching.

The stages of this game reflect the four phases of the male sexual response:

  1. Arousal
  2. Erection
  3. Ejaculation
  4. Repose (the Refractory Period)


1 – Arousal

The game begins with not just an examination of his physical anatomy, but his arousal response, and the effect being inspected has on his body.

The game should start with the subject in an unaroused, flaccid state. Begin by having him undress completely. If his genitals are not already shaved bare, you might want to do that first.

If he’s already erect, send him to the corner to cool down, have him hold ice cubes against his groin if needs be. Always best to begin with a flaccid, compliant subject.

The inspector may like to sit comfortably, whilst the subject stands naked in front of them.

Begin by examining his penis, as you’ll want to inspect it in its flaccid state before it begins to stiffen again. Cup it in your palm and feel its weight, notice how small it seems in its natural state.

With a fingertip, trace the wrinkles of the skin, and the bulges of its veins. Feel his pulse, and the blood surging through his member, feel how it swells in response to your rubbing and stroking, how its weight increases and its shape changes.

The observer should occasionally dip their instrument of examination in
the glass of water, (whether that’s a fingertip, cotton bud or
paintbrush). This will provide the subject with different friction
sensations, from sensually moist to ticklishly dry.

Observe how it grows, how its length increases. Press it, and notice how it changes from soft and fleshy to spongy, and then eventually to firm, stiff and unyielding.

If your subject has a foreskin, examine if it retracts as the penis swells, exposing the smooth helmet-shaped glans underneath. In some men, the foreskin needs to be tugged back behind the glans before it gets too hard. Examine the smooth purple bulbous flesh, its little slit and the liquid that leaks from it.

Scrutinise the subject’s skin, how it reacts to the lightest of touches, the emergence of goosebumps, how it sweats and blushes.


2 – Erection

Once the subject’s penis is erect, the inspector can appreciate its hardness, before moving on to examine other regions of his body.

Begin with the scrotum, as it’s important that boys have regular testicular checks. Use both thumbs and index fingers to gently touch each testicle through the skin, with your remaining fingers placed behind the testicle to immobilise it. Use a gentle rubbing motion between thumb and index finger to methodically examine each one. Observe too how the once-wrinkled skin of his sac has tightened to as he has become more aroused.

Then move on to examine the perineum, the sensitive area behind the scrotum. This is a good site for stroking with a wet fingertip or cotton-bud. If the inspector is sitting, the subject should bend over, spreading his legs and splaying apart his buttocks to present himself.

This will, of course, also reveal the subject’s bottom cleft and hole, which will also need to be thoroughly inspected. This process is described in a separate post, on bottom inspections.

The powerful muscles of the abdomen, waist and thighs should also be examined, given their important role in thrusting when fucking. This is a good point to ask the subject about his sexual history, whether he has used his penis to penetrate a partner orally, vaginally or anally. Have him demonstrate how he thrusted, with your partially closed lubricated hand as the orifice. But only allow a few thrusts, some silly boys spurt far too quickly.

During the course of your inspection, have you noticed how his breathing changed? This is the effect of testosterone and adrenaline now surging through his blood. Remember that physiologically, his body is priming itself for an intense period of physical activity: the vigorous fucking of a sexually receptive human female.

If the inspector possesses a vagina, she might want to pause and appreciate the physical intent of her subject, what the animalistic side of him would do to her given half a chance. What would happen if she bent over in front of his stiff cock, with her bare pink slit invitingly exposed. The inspector might find herself wet, even if she has no intention of engaging in intercourse, as his erection triggers ancient sexual instincts deep inside her mind…


3 – Ejaculation

This stage of the inspection is optional, as some inspectors will prefer their subject to remain abstinent. But others will want to watch him ejaculate, especially if he under instructions to refrain from masturbating, and the volume of his ejaculate needs to be recorded.

The best way to collect his semen is by rolling a condom down his shaft when the visual inspection stage is finished. As the goal is collection rather than contraception, the finger of a rubber glove can also be used as a receptacle if no condoms are available. If the quantity of semen is being recorded, weigh the condom or glove on cooking scales before and after collection.

There are two main ways to induce ejaculation, manual stimulation of the penis, or anal stimulation of the prostate. The former simply requires rubbing the tip of his penis, as you tell him to be a good boy and come for you.

The prostate massage is more intense, and potentially more humiliating. A latex glove can be worn on one hand, or the middle fingers covered in by condom, which once lubricated, can be slowly worked into the anus. The palm should be facing the same direction as the subject’s penis. Continue to push deeper, withdrawing fingers if necessary to apply additional lubrication. Meticulous inspectors might first try penetrating with an anal dildo or butt plug to stretch his bottom hole wider.

Continue probing until the middle finger has penetrated to its maximum extent, then curl the fingertip towards the subject’s tummy. You might feel a bulge in the wall of his rectum, tell him to say when he feels you might have found it, then keep stroking with a beckoning motion until he spurts. Prostate massages can also be performed over the inspector’s lap, in the pauses between having his bare bottom spanked.


4 – Repose

If the subject is allowed to ejaculate, the final stage of the inspection is like the first, but in reverse.

Notice how sensitive his penis is after coming. In fact, the skin of males is highly sensitised just after orgasm, and their minds at the most compliant. A secret known by governesses who knew the moments after ejaculation provided the very best time to deliver a well-smacked bottom. Many naughty boys have writhed across their mistresses’ laps, as they’re spanked until they spurt. But such lack of self-control only prolongs their ordeal, their cocks still dripping onto the towel beneath them as their punishment continues.

See how his skin reacts when you tickle and stroke, the goosebumps, the sheen of his sweat and pinkness of where he flushes.

Observe how his penis begins to wilt and soften. Hold it in your hand, and feel how the stiffness becomes spongy, then fleshy, pliable and soft. Cup it in your palm and feel its weight diminish, as if it it’s vanishing before your eyes. Here some might like to tease their subject, pointing out his abrupt loss of virility, and how he now seems to have the willy of a little boy again.

Ideas for Inspection Roleplay

Inspections can be incorporated into lots of erotic roleplaying scenarios. The inspector simply needs to tell the subject why they need to be inspected, and to instruct them to undress. Once the scene is set, the inspector can improvise the rest.

He might be a slave being inspected before purchase by a new Roman master. Or a captive examined by a pirate captain, or a eunuch being admitted into the Sultan’s harem. Or a naughty schoolboy who’s just had his shorts pulled down prior to a spanking.

Where he is playing a captive, like in a prison strip search, he might also be bound or cuffed. Or the inspection might be more informal, like a visit to a doctor or the school nurse. In these scenarios the one inspecting should take special care not to pleasure their subject, and economise their touches like a medical professional, so they leave the subject aching to be rubbed.

Engage your imaginations, and have fun!

Verso, Recto – part 2

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


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

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

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

“I know,” she replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I held my breath, and peeked…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, a hand painfully pinched my shoulder.

“Wicked child!”

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

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

“You disgraceful, filthy urchin!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded in acknowledgement.

“I saw behind your portrait.”

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

“I know,” she replied at last.

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

I nodded again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

“All is forgiven, child.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, suddenly, she stopped.

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

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

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

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

I could feel her beginning to lend forwards.

“Bend over.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have something to confess…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then

When I waked

I cried to dream again.

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@spankingtheatre 2018

Verso, Recto

A spanking story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, suddenly, my prayers were answered.

The door creaked open, and you returned.

“Do you like my painting?”

I nod my head enthusiastically.

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

“It’s beautiful,” I reply.

“What do you see?”

“Humility, grace, and piety.”

“And chastity?”

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

“Submissiveness?”

“Oh yes.”

“Innocence?”

“Oh, very.”

“And yet, sometimes appearances can be deceptive…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shook my head. I did not.

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

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

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

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

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

“The Almighty sees everything, Child.”

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

“Forgive me.”

I begin whipping myself.

“Harder.”

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

“Harder.”

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

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

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

Please, forgive my obscene excitement.

Let me atone for the sins of my flesh…


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

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

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

“I know,” she replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I held my breath, and peeked…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, a hand painfully pinched my shoulder.

“Wicked child!”

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

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

“You disgraceful, filthy urchin!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded in acknowledgement.

“I saw behind your portrait.”

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

“I know,” she replied at last.

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

I nodded again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

“All is forgiven, child.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, suddenly, she stopped.

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

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

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

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

I could feel her beginning to lend forwards.

“Bend over.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have something to confess…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then

When I waked

I cried to dream again.

.

.

.

@spankingtheatre 2018

The Discovery

mrs-actor-agent-of-change:

(Another co-operative, interactive writing adventure with the lovely @spankingtheatre, who is an inspiration as always.)

“This is very naughty of us! Just lying here on my bed, in nothing but our underwear.”

‘Mmm hmm,’ I purred lazily. My eyes closed of their own accord as I pulled the young man in my arms even closer. The hand currently resting on his lower back slipped just inside the waistband of his boxers. All the better for me to feel the smooth skin underneath.

I say young man, but he was definitely old enough. Although the fact he was of-age didn’t change the fact that I was his professor. Technically, I shouldn’t BE in his bed, in his dormitory, but it was Sunday afternoon and the other young men that shared his room were currently occupied elsewhere. As long as I kept an eye on the time, we were safe enough. There is no way I would take an uncalculated risk that would jeopardise the most precious thing in the world to me.

“You do know what would happen if we were caught, don’t you?”

Of course I knew. I knew only all too well. But that wasn’t about to deter me from taking my pleasure where and when I could. It had been all too scant for me in the past, but this new relationship made me hopeful that my fortunes had finally changed for the better.

I had remained silent with my musings. He continued on.

“We would be spanked for sure! On our bare bottoms!”

Keep reading

Another treat! This is a wonderful piece of writing from the talented mind of @mrs-actor-agent-of-change. I loved the interplay between the two characters, and the ambiguity of their predicament. How she cleverly reverses the roles, allowing the reader a glimpse into the mind of a character who at first seems like a domme, but who we later discover might actually be a switch. Her spanking of her young male lover was particularly hot, one I’m sure will excite those who harbour strict femdom fantasies. A tremendous piece of work.

If other readers would like to try creating their own story, just copy the text of original template, add your own words and repost. Here’s the background explained. Why not give it a try?​

Hi there, May I ask how does one find your F/m spanking story?

There are currently two stories featuring strict ladies spanking naughty boys:

If you like that kind of story, share and enjoy!

The Sit-Down Dance: part 4

This is the finale of a four part story, start reading the first part here.


When it finally happened, Penny came more intensely than she could ever remember.

Perhaps it was her helplessness, hands tied behind, her legs spread open, her bare wet slit at the mercy of her headmistress’s skillful fingers. Perhaps it was having reached an almost eruptive level of excitement, a state of frenzy stoked by successive inspections, spankings and humiliations. Perhaps it was the heat of the ginger, and the thick nozzle that had stretched open her hot sore bottom hole, and filled her insides with gushes of warm water. Maybe it was all of these factors, coupled with the revelation that she’d just been put in charge of administering the very same punishments she had just endured.

As Penny got close, squirming on her hot squishy rubber cushion, she felt increasingly like she was sitting on a time bomb. She could almost see the little red numbers of the countdown timer when she closed her eyes.

10… 9… 8…

Penny tried to squeeze her legs together, but the ties beneath her knees kept them spread open. She was powerless to prevent her Mistress from fiddling with the detonator, rubbing her clit in firm tight circles.

7… 6… 5…

Penny found her jeopardy thrillingly exciting, she struggled, desperately trying to free her wrists from the ties at the back of the stool. Her frantic urge to escape flooded her body with an intoxicating adrenaline rush, part dread, part dizzying euphoria.  

4… 3…

Only near the end did Penny accept the reality of her plight. Escape was impossible, and the explosion was inevitable. She felt her body suddenly relax, as if all her muscles had been abruptly disconnected.

2… 1…

The moment of detonation wasn’t just the familiar surge of pleasure in her groin, but an eruption deep in her cunt, the blast racing away in every direction, convulsing every muscle in her legs as it sped toward her tingling toes.

Simultaneously the sensation sped upwards, reaching her solar plexus, making it resonate, as if her whole body had been transformed into an enormous bell. Penny could feel her insides tremble, as if the water that filled her had made her a better conductor of her own erotic electricity. The shockwave hurtled through her chest, causing her heart to thunder and her lungs to empty in short ragged gasps. The surge seemed to flash through her neck, before bouncing off the inside of her skull, making every hair on her scalp sizzle, before ricocheting back down her spine, completing the circuit when it ploughed into her clit, setting Penny’s entire body alight.

She had never experienced an orgasm quite like it.

Miss Hastings looked on with quiet satisfaction as Penny bucked wildly on the enema cushion. Her new procedure had been a stunning success, a uniquely different Sit-Down Dance. Not that most naughty girls who found themselves on the cushion would be granted the privilege of climaxing on it, of course. No, they’d be taken to the brink and left there, stewing in their own frustration and embarrassment. Their time bomb disarmed just before it blew.

The headmistress waited until Penny had stopped shaking, then released the ties that had bound her hands and legs. After replacing the little step beneath Penny’s quivering feet, she helped her to stand, encouraging her to clutch the near-empty rubber cushion under her bottom as she rose, then guiding her towards the door of the room’s toilet cubicle. Before closing the door, Penny was left with instructions to clean herself up, and tidy up the room.

Because Miss Hastings had an appointment to keep.

With Alice…


Headmistress Hastings arrived at the door to her office to find Alice waiting for her. Her pupil was sitting casually on one the wooden benches, one leg folded, dreamily staring at the far wall. Alice was amusing herself by imagining how she’d redecorate the place. By the time her headmistress appeared, Alice had decided what this little waiting room really needed was a wall mural.

Why not have a row of young ladies, Alice thought, painted life-sized so they looked like they were kneeling on the benches, each facing the wall with their skirts raised and their panties down. Maybe some could be painted with spanked pink cheeks, those who’d already been summoned into the headmistress’s office for a good hard whacking. Others might be waiting their turn, their bottoms already bared in expectation, trembling in anticipation for the moment when the door was opened, and their name was finally called.

Alice smiled as she visualised it. Oh yes! A mural would be so much better than these drab cream walls. So much more atmospheric. She could imagine a lone girl fidgeting nervously on these cold hard benches, sitting among these figures, her heart racing and slit moistening, unable to tear her eyes away her own fate, depicted in paint on the wall in front of her. All it needed was a bit of imagination, a bit of renegade spirit. Alice’s philosophy was that boring things didn’t have to stay that way, they were only dull because no-one had yet summoned the courage to create something more exciting.

Alice was still day-dreaming when footsteps approached.

“Oh hello Miss!”

Miss Hastings felt her brow crinkle at Alice’s chirpy welcome. This little space was intended to intimidate, she couldn’t remember anyone sitting here ever greeting her with a cheerful smile before.

“Good afternoon, Alice.” she replied stiffly, “Do come in.”

Alice followed her scowling headmistress inside, almost prancing, hopping from foot to foot with light jaunty steps. Ahead, Miss Hastings stalked across the room slowly, taking her seat behind the large intimidating desk like a curtain dropping on a stage. To her surprise, Alice veered off to collect a high-backed chair from the side of the room.

Without asking for permission, Alice lifted the chair and irreverently placed it in front of her headmistress’s desk. Nor did she wait for her elder’s assent before she sat down. Had a visitor entered the room now, and seen Alice sitting bolt-upright in her immaculately presented shirt, tie and school blazer, they’d be forgiven for thinking they’d interrupted a job interview.

Miss Hastings could only raise an eyebrow at her pupil’s audacity. Well, she thought. two could play at that game. Her plan was to immediately unsettle Alice by confronting her with what she’d learned this afternoon through the confessions of her friends.

“Well Alice…” she began assertively, “I’ve had a little chat with your friends. They’ve each had their bottoms smacked, and had their tongues loosened by a sit-down dance…”

Alice smirked, that must have been fun. Her only regret was that she hadn’t been around to witness it.

Miss H paused for effect, then said slowly and triumphantly:

“… and they have told me everything.”

“Oh! Everything?” replied Alice, with a shocked expression that was executed well enough to appear convincing. It even drew a sly smile from her headmistress.

“I know all about the Red Stripe Gang. What you get up to. Everything!”

“Even the Slide?” asks Alice quizzically.

“The slide?”

“Ah, not everything then!” Alice observed cockily.

The headmistress’s frown deepened, sensing Alice was trying to bluff her, to hide a truth still undiscovered.

“I know all about the chairs you girls use for panty-pulling, the spankings and the bottom inspections. And that you masturbate each other afterwards…”

“Actually, Barbara, afterwards we tend to use our tongues.”

The headmistress was more taken aback by Alice’s use of her first name than her brazen  admission of oral pleasuring. After all, she had to admit that they were all young adults now, and technically there was nothing in the school rulebook against licking your classmate’s pussy in the privacy of your own bedroom. Though some might argue that the rules dated from more genteel times, and had failed to keep pace with with contemporary sexual mores.

Alice noticed the older woman’s hesitancy, and pressed her point further, determined to retain the moral high ground.

“Come on, Barbara. Has this place really become so draconian? Last I checked ‘Having Fun’ wasn’t against school rules.”

The lack of a response just emboldened Alice more, so she went on the offensive, seizing the opportunity to tease her headmistress.

“Did spanking my friends’ bare bottoms get you soaking wet, Miss?”

Miss Hastings felt her jaw drop at Alice’s impertinence, but held her tongue.

“Would you like to relieve yourself Miss? I’ll stay here if you want to pop to the little girls’ room. Or I can stay and watch if you like.”

Alice looked pointedly at the dildo still standing proudly on the desk. Pulling off her own sodden panties and riding that big thick rubbery shaft was, Barbara had to admit, an alluring proposition. But she regained her composure, determined to complete her investigations and get to the bottom of this little mystery. Both figuratively and literally.

“You’re taking the discovery of your most intimate secrets very calmly, Alice. Why?”

“Because, Miss, you’ll never understand the Red Stripe Gang. You could spank our bottoms every day until we leave this school and still not be any closer to what it means.”

“Oh Really?” The headmistress was tempted to take Alice up on her challenge.

“You’ll never know, because even now, you still don’t know the right questions to ask…”

And with that statement, Alice leant forward, holding her headmistress’s gaze comfortably, as if she was about to tell her the time.

“Look, here’s what I’ll do… I’m going to walk out of this office, and you’re going to have a long deep think about what you’ve learned over the last 24 hours. There is a question, a single truly consequential question – and when you work it out, I promise I will answer it, absolutely honestly.”

The two stared across the table for a moment, before Alice concluded.

“And I’ll give you a hint: that question isn’t ‘What is the Red Stripe Gang?’ or anything so trite.”

Alice didn’t wait for an answer, or even say goodbye. As her headmistress pondered what she’d said, Alice simply rose from her chair, lifted it back to where she’d taken it, and walked out of her office unchallenged.

Alice was, at heart, a submissive young lady, but that didn’t make her weak and timid. It just meant Alice enjoyed handing over erotic control to those who could be strict with her. She enjoyed putting herself in the hands of a skilled director. So as Alice closed the office door behind her, she knew exactly what she wanted, and it was time to see if Miss Hastings could work it out.

It was a shame though, thought Alice, as she walked down the corridor and back towards her room. If only I’d stuck around a bit longer, I might at least have got my bottom smacked. Maybe even an inspection too.

Her regret was only exacerbated when her friends told her later about their rides upon their headmistress’s knee. And Alice was almost green with envy when Penny told her about her time upon the enema cushion.



* * 8 * *

Two weeks had passed.

And now the four girls had been summoned to their headmistress’s office, after hours, for what they’d been told would be a most important conversation. Keen to avoid any of Alice’s show-boating, Miss Hastings sat authoritatively on the sofa, and had the girls kneel on the floor in front of her. The message was clear, she was in charge and would not be tolerating any impudence.

“As we agreed, Alice, I have a question to ask you. And you promised to answer truthfully.”

Alice nodded solemnly.

It had taken Miss Hastings a fortnight to come up with an answer to Alice’s riddle. What was the question? She’d soon realised it couldn’t be something facile, like do you girls like getting together to lick each others’ cunts. The answer to that was blindingly obvious.

For a while, she thought it might be “How many Red Stripe Gangs are there in the school?” But that too, she eventually dismissed. What did it really matter if there were? That was just her inner busybody, wanting to know what went on behind every locked door.

No, it couldn’t be that, because that answer had no consequences. And that was the key. The more she thought, about it, the more she realised the answer to the question wouldn’t be a fact – it would have to be an answer that would change things.

The answer would have to involve acquiescence.

Or, an act of submission.

That’s when she realised what the question really was. The moment all the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. And so now, with the four girls assembled, Miss Hastings was ready to test her hypothesis.

Barbara had realised that Alice had really been laying her a challenge all along – and that once she’d arrived at a question, the final challenge would be asking it.

Sometimes achieving what you want requires going out on a limb, making yourself vulnerable, and revealing the nature of your desires. Because once asked, a question could not be unasked. But the consequences of some questions are worth the risk.

So Barbara drew a deep breath, and accepted the challenge of Alice’s gaze. She had a question to pose.

“Will you submit completely to me, as the new leader of the Red Stripe Gang?”

Alice smiled, and paused. She did love to tease.

“Absolutely, Miss.”

Barbara beamed with relief, then asked the same question to each of the other girls in turn. Amid giggles, each agreed to submit to her.

It seemed the Red Stripe Gang had just elected its new leader.

“Well, girls…” Barbara began, “since I’m charge now, I think we’ll start with a thorough bottom inspection for each of you.”

The quartet exchanged glances of surprise among each other, they hadn’t realised their new Mistress would seek to impose her authority so immediately.

She pointed to Penny, who happened to be kneeling closest, and beckoned.

“Come here.”

Penny complied quickly, rising from her knees and taking a couple of steps forward until she was beside the lap of her sitting headmistress, whose hands reached to her waist, rapidly unbuttoning her skirt, and letting it drift to the floor. Her panties soon followed, whisked unceremoniously down her legs, until they were gathered around her ankles.

Penny felt her wrist being grasped, then tugged. She lurched forward towards the floor, and in an instant had been put over Miss Hastings’ lap like a silly little girl. It had taken mere seconds for her new Mistress to bare her bottom. It felt awesome to be deal with so ruthlessly.

Barbara began the inspection with six loud, stinging smacks, which she found always helped ensure her subject’s cooperation. She scrutinised Penny’s buttocks first, just the faint pink patches she’d just inflicted on her pale cheeks, no evidence of any harder recent spankings. And when she looked in between, there wasn’t any sign of marks from panty-pullings either.

“I’ll be checking you all regularly.” she explained to the group, “So no more of your naughty little games. From now on, I’ll be the one deciding your punishments.”

The girls nodded their agreement, somewhat apprehensively.

She parted Penny’s buttocks further, holding them apart with both hands so her friends kneeling on the floor could see too. There was the pretty crinkled smudge of her bottom hole, and the glistening pink puffy folds of her slit. This inspection wasn’t to admonish Penny for her wetness, of course, more a chance for Barbara to confirm that this was what each girl really wanted – really, really, wanted. The kind of want that made a cunt swell and drip with a delicious musky goo.

Penny clearly wanted it. So she got another dozen smacks, cooing as she arched her back. She seemed almost disappointed when she was told to rise and sent to stand with her nose against the wall.

In time, the other girls followed. Each relieved of their skirts and underwear, each found to be just as aroused as Penny. Eventually all four stood facing the wall, bottoms tingling, whilst their headmistress prepared one last surprise. Behind them, their Mistress unbuttoned her own skirt; she wasn’t even wearing any knickers underneath.

Barbara opened a wall cabinet, and took out a long thick cane. Unremarkable but for the curve at one end, not a classic crook handle, but a subtle bend that was tipped with what looked like a pointed rubber bung. A cane with a butt plug on the end.

She squeezed some lube into her palm and smothered it onto the plug with her fingertips, before manoeuvring the cane between her legs. She placed a hand just beneath her buttocks, and guided the stick until she could feel the wet slippy tip against her own bottom hole.

Then Barbara pushed the base of the plug upward, mewing with satisfaction as it suddenly intruded deep inside her. Now she could feel the cool shaft of the cane between her slit, and a solid pleasurable pressure against her clit. Before the girls had even arrived she’d filled her vagina with her favourite Kegel ball. Now both holes felt satisfyingly full. The cane extended out from between her legs, protruding beyond her shaven mound like comically thin strap-on dildo. She was certain the girls would find it no laughing matter.

“Come here, Penny.”

Penny shuffled away from the wall, her mouth falling open in surprise as she saw her headmistress’s bare crotch, and the long cane that now protruded from between her legs. She’d never seen her headmistress undressed before, and her remarkable new appearance suggested a radically new relationship now existed between them. No longer teacher and pupils, but Mistress and subs.

“Bend over the desk, young lady.”

Penny lowered herself until she could feel the cool hard wood of the desk pressed against her. Meanwhile, Barbara edged into position, standing perpendicular to her target, so the length of her cane was snug beneath Penny’s bare buttocks, just above the tops of her thighs.

“Now girls, you can all turn around and watch. You’ll be next.”

Barbara could see the look of surprise, amusement, and then delight on the trio’s faces, as they drank in the sight of her own nakedness, and the implications of the cane that rested against Penny’s lovely bottom. She remained silence, letting the girls’ attention linger, and contemplate the inevitable. It didn’t take long before furrows appeared on their brows, as each fought the urge to drop her hands from the top of her head, and rub away the infuriating tingle that was smouldering below their waists.

She made one last adjustment of her position, twisting her hips so the cane was pushed firmly against Penny’s bum. Then Barbara reached down to the free end of the cane,  clenching her upper thighs as she pulled the rod away from Penny’s cheeks, feeling the cane tug her own labia open as it bent. For a moment, she could sense the accumulated tension of the curved cane straining against her fingers…

… then she let go, letting the cane spring back and whack against poor Penny’s bottom.

Penny winced as a fiery line seared across her backside.

Whereas Barbara felt the impact of the whack between her own legs, as a sudden quake that trembled against her slit, before being transmitted via the plug deep into her bottom. It felt amazing. Decorum and decency had prevented her from using this technique on unruly pupils, but it was by far her favourite way to cane.


When she was a girl, Barbara had a pretty terracotta pot in her bedroom. It was the home of a sprawling plant with long stems and big glossy green leaves. In time it grew so big that it began to collapse under its own weight, so Daddy had brought her some garden canes to help prop it up.

In one of those quirks of fate that end having life-changing ramifications, the pot eventually became too heavy for her to move, meaning her plant began to grow in one direction, leaning towards her window. Two of the canes held the plant upright, but the third proved redundant, and for months sat idly in the pot, protruding from the soil like a landmark stake. Unnecessary, and overlooked.

Unseen, that was, until young Barbara had begun reading Oliver Twist at school. She had found herself simultaneously horrified and fascinated by poor Oliver’s cruel treatment. Caned! On the bottom! What a perfectly horrid experience that would be!

And yet, somewhere in her receptive mind, seeds had been planted. She’d go to bed, staring at the silhouette of that one redundant cane, a straight black slash through the moonlight beyond. And Barbara would find herself wondering: what did it feel like to cane someone? Was it mean to inflict pain, even if you had the best intentions?

Inevitably, one day when she was alone in the house, Barbara’s curiosity got the better of her. She had extracted the cane from its pot, tentatively, like young Arthur withdrawing the sword from the stone. Then, she wielded it; experimentally at first, swiping it through the air, just to hear its faint whooshing swish.

For reasons she couldn’t entirely explain, Barbara found swinging the cane unexpectedly exciting. She imagined she’d been put in charge, a governess dressed like Mary Poppins in front of a room of unruly urchins. Misbehaviour had consequences, she warned her imaginary audience – smacked bottom consequences.

The very thought of smacking someone’s bottom made her tummy flip. Even more mysteriously, it also made the region between her legs tingle. The forbidden place, that she was supposed to keep secret, the intimate anatomy that was rapidly changing as she became a young woman.

Barbara had idly put the cane between her legs, absent-mindedly trying to rub away the growing tingles. To her surprise, it felt surprisingly good, she especially enjoyed how it dragged against her panties, its solid firmness against her delicate, tender areas. It wasn’t long before she discovered how pleasurable it was to hold the cane between her legs and clench her thighs, as if she was a witch, riding the world’s smallest, thinnest broomstick.

Her next major discovery was discovering the pleasurable effects of twanging the cane, delighting in how the vibrations seemed to be conducted into her most sensitive places. As if it was a kind of tuning fork, but for people ring. It wasn’t long before she was imagining her own spanking fantasies, placing a cushion on upright on the seat of a chair, pretending it was some naughty boy or girl.

Sometimes she’d fulfil her duty, by swinging her cane, bringing it down from high behind her back with a merciless thwack. But even more enjoyable was clasping the cane between her legs, and bending it back before releasing. Then when it twanged forward, the resulting impact spread delightfully squirmy sensations through her loins.

Over the years, Barbara had refined her caning technique with a succession of willing girlfriends. It seemed the perfect way to cane, a sore pink bum for them, and a throbbing wet cunt for her.

It was as if the female anatomy was explicitly designed for it, the long sensitive groove between the legs, the lips that parted, the clitoris so perfectly placed, just above where the cane would be. And the tight little hole of the bottom, the ideal site to anchor the other end of the stick, and transmit its vibrations deep inside her. Her body was a sign, proof that ladies were innately superior, that they were the ones meant to give canings. It was a undeniable, a natural law.

She still had the house-plant, it sat beside her bed in the same chunky terracotta pot, its big glossy green leaves, now somewhat frayed with age, sheltering her as she slept. The original canes had broken and crumbled, but she’d replaced them, with sanded rattan of the highest quality. Their crooked handles peeping out from between its foliage. The perfect surprise for kinky visitors, who’d playfully bend over the bed, admitting their naughtiness, only to suddenly feel a cane tapping their bottom. The other end – well that would be between Barbara’s legs, of course.


As Penny moaned and squirmed, Barbara was pulling the cane backwards again, further this time. She held eye contact with Alice as the rod bent beneath her fingers, and maintained the gaze as she let go, and whilst the pleasurable shudders of another whack radiated through her crotch.

Whilst behind her own inscrutable eyes, Alice was kicking herself, thinking: why didn’t I ever think of that?

Barbara let her gaze roam between the waiting trio as she continued to cane Penny. One of the many delightful benefits her approach was the ability to look elsewhere as the whacks landed. Especially if others were watching, lined up, panties off and waiting their turn. She could look into their eyes and see them sparkle with trepidation and expectation, or admire the glistening sheen of excitement on their pretty bare slits.

She had been surprised to discover that every girl Barbara had ever spanked had been aroused by watching the comeuppance of those who were punished first. Before she’d ever disciplined anyone, she’d expected the dominant emotion to be dread, or sympathy, or even resentment. But the fact of the matter was, watching spankings was exciting. Witnessing whackings made girls wet. Perhaps it was feminine empathy, instinctively feeling every smack on their own backsides. Knowing their own spanking was inevitable, and they’d soon been getting a sore bottom of their own.

This means of caning was much less exhausting. Barbara considered a good caning to be a couple of dozen strokes at the very least, and that could be very tiring on the arms if several needed to be punished. But this way, she didn’t need to lift her arm or aim, just continue to pull the cane backwards. It also meant each whack tended to land on exactly the same spot, leading to the formation of a narrow red band of stripes where the recipient would sit, just beneath the curve of her cheeks.

After her thirtieth stroke, Penny was finally allowed to rise from the desk, and teetered back to join her friends on wobbly legs. Addison took her place, a trickle of her own excitement already running down the inside of her thigh as she bent over the table for what she had coming.

By the time it was Lola’s turn, Barbara had reached a delightfully floaty state of arousal. She’d established a steady rhythm now, tugging the cane back every 10 seconds, riding out the subsequent shudders, then repeating the stroke. Meanwhile Penny and Addison stood in line with their hands on their heads, their striped bottoms stinging, the frustration of denial evident on their faces.

“Such naughty girls!” she teased. “So desperate to come. I going to have to get you all some chastity belts!”

Barbara could see the girls squirming as each brought to mind their own notion of a chastity belt. She couldn’t help wondering what each was imagining: medieval cold metal bands, or Shibari ropework? Or maybe Victorian era paddled girdles? Or a leather belt pulled tight against the crotch? Or maybe one of those little gilded cages that kept fingers off the clit?

She gave Lola a dozen more whacks as she imagined the possibilities herself. Yes, this wilful little quartet would benefit from the discipline that enforced chastity entailed. No more rubbing themselves to sleep at night. New rules would now apply, no masturbating without her permission. And no climaxing without getting a smacked bottom first. Oh yes, Barbara liked the sound of that.

“You’re next Alice. Get undressed, I shall cane you naked.”

Alice removed her remaining clothes, folding them neatly as she could with her trembling hands. She hadn’t realised how hard and tender her nipples felt until her unclipped bra brushed against them as it fell. Alice had experienced far too many spankings to count, but couldn’t ever remember being this excited. Their new Mistress seemed to know how to play with their minds, how to exploit their desires and postpone their pleasures. Undeniably, she was in control now, and the girls loved it.

“Bend over Alice! Legs wide apart, girl. Show your friends how much you enjoyed watching their whackings.”

Alice obeyed readily, spreading her thighs, hoping that her Mistress might deign to put her palm in between, and mercifully stroke away some of her throbbing ache. But she received no such special treatment, her Mistress simply stepped back into position, and Alice felt the cool hard shaft of the cane against her bottom. Then it disappeared, only to return a moment later, accompanied by a fiery stripe.

Unbeknownst to the girls, before each stroke their Mistress was clenching the Kegel ball she’d surreptitiously inserted. She had discovered that the ball helped make her more aware of the little tremors, as if amplifying them, able to turn her vagina into some kind of receiver, tuned to the very frequency of the caning. It made her able to pick up delightfully pleasurable transmissions.

Alice had only received six whacks, before Barbara abruptly stopped.

“You can stand up now Alice, and take a step away from the desk.”

Alice was confused, but did as she was told.

“Now, Penny… you can lower your hands and come over here. Sit down on the edge of the desk, just in front of Alice. That’s it. Grasp the edge. Now, legs wide apart, please.”

Penny obeyed her instructions, wincing as her sore stripes came into contact with the unforgiving cold hardness of the tabletop. But she could see Alice’s face illuminate with delight when she spread her legs to reveal her swollen pink slit.

“Now Alice, bend over and place your tongue where Penny needs it.”

Alice leaned forward into her friend’s welcoming lap, her eager tongue travelling up Penny’s slit, until she could feel her little bump with its tip. No longer supported by the desk, she brought her hands up, wrapping them around Penny’s hips to steady herself.  

Their Mistress issued no further instructions, but her intentions seemed obvious. She stepped forward, placing the cane against Alice’s bottom once more, and resumed her whacking. Penny felt a gust of hot breath blow across her cunt after every stroke, the sudden exhalation momentarily interrupting her friend’s licking. Already incredibly horny, she could feel herself getting close. Alice’s clever tongue knew just where to lick.

Oh yes. Just there. Just like that. Oh Alice! I’m…

Penny climaxed as their Mistress continued Alice’s relentless whacking, convulsing deliriously as her friend gasped into her lap.

Addison was the next to take Penny’s place on the desk, and the benefit of Alice’s tongue on her cunt. Alice knew her own spanking ordeal wouldn’t end until she’d made all her friends come, and so was very motivated to stimulate her friend’s clit meticulously, until she reduced her to a quivering heap.

Then it was long-legged Lola’s turn to sit on her stripes and open her thighs. Alice lapped eagerly, her nostrils smeared with the scent of her friends’ excitement, her tongue varnished with their accumulated saltiness. Lola didn’t even try to hold back, and climaxed quickly, noisily and messily; all over Alice’s mouth.

That left only two to be satisfied, the new leader of the Red Stripe Gang, and her predecessor. Barbara contemplated dismissing the girls, and pleasuring herself to orgasm in private, but that seemed to go against what she’d begun to understand as the spirit of the gang. This wasn’t a detention group after all, but a collective of mutual satisfaction.  

Barbara paused her whacking to inspect Alice’s bottom, who’d taken her spanking with admirable stoicism, despite all the angry pink stripes she’d received. And she’d done such a good job with her tongue, she deserved to be rewarded.

“Good girl, Alice!” she commended warmly.

Out of sight, between Lola’s trembling thighs, Alice winced, and smiled.

Barbara walked back to the sofa, sitting down with the cane still protruding from her legs.

“Girls, come here. Kneel in front of me.”

The four shuffled into place, their caned bottoms too sore to sit on their haunches, they hovered just above their heels instead.

Barbara relished the display of obedience, motivated not by a fear of punishment, but from a submissive desire to please. This would be the basis of the new contract between them, she would provide the intoxicating essence of authority, and reward her new acolytes with a heady mix of pain and pleasure.

“Girls. Let us play…” she said simply.

Barbara led by example, cupping her crotch with her right hand and massaging her mound. Her weaker hand stroked the shaft of the cane, in a crude parody of a man masturbating. From time to time she’d twang the rod to enjoy its vibrations, simultaneously clenching against the Kegel ball deep inside, and relishing the effects of her naughty little secret.

The girls followed her lead, cupping their palms over their own sticky slits, before stroking and rubbing their neediest places. Alice, being most in need, wanked most hurriedly and explicitly, inserting two fingers of one hand into her vagina, whilst rubbing her clit vigorously with another.

Meanwhile Queen Barbara the Benevolent watched from her throne as her subjects performed for her. As they fiddled eagerly, Her Majesty stroked her sceptre regally, savouring the little tremors it sent beneath her. When she wanted more, she could discreetly apply more pressure to her clit, massaging it against the slick hard surface of the rod.

She was getting closer, and closer. She liked to imagine herself as a fairytale Queen. What a munificent monarch she’d make, known across the kingdoms as scrupulously strict, but just and fair. Any miscreants who found themselves in her dungeons, or – if they were especially privileged – her private punishment boudoir, would certainly have deserved their fate. Throughout the realm hushed voices would talk reverently and affectionately of Queen Baba the Bottom Smacker.

Her Majesty closed her eyes serenely, and as her devoted subjects serenaded her with their little gasping cries… she let it happen…


* * 9 * *

A fortnight later, the four founding members of the Red Stripe Gang assembled after class in the cherrywood elegance of the Punishment Room. But the space felt different now, no longer a dread enclosure, somewhere to be sent and be dealt with, but their very own secret den.

The friends had undressed as soon as they’d arrived, hanging their uniforms neatly on the hooks on the wall. Now they were kneeling in a line with their bottoms up and noses pressed to the fine panelled floor. Legs splayed and hands behind to hold their bum cheeks wide open. Soon their Mistress would arrive, and find each of them presented for a thorough bottom inspection.

The girls had shared knowing glances, then each had put her head down to wait in silence, to be alone with her own thoughts. Waiting like this was a kind of erotic meditation. An aspect of their sexuality they were only beginning to appreciate. Normally, when they were horny, they’d reach down and satisfy themselves. If they were desperate, it might only take a minute. But this position forced them to wait, to be patient, to let their minds fill with the shame of being utterly exposed.

Willing holding themselves open for inspection challenged everything they’d been told. They could hear the echoes of parental voices. That good girls didn’t show themselves. That their intimate places were dirty, and must be concealed. That their sexual nature should only ever to revealed in private, and even then to just one earnest partner, preferably one they’d married first. Even if they didn’t really believe them, somehow these rules were strongly ingrained into their psyches. That’s what made violating them so thrilling, what made playing like this so transformative.

In the distance. Alice heard footsteps. She had shaved herself smooth this morning, and her exposed skin felt exquisitely sensitive. As the clopping became louder, Alice pushed her bottom as high as she could, tugging her buttocks apart, hoping to impress her new Mistress with her show of subservience.

As the footsteps reached their crescendo, Alice felt a wet drop dribble down her thigh.

Mistress Barbara was absolutely delighted to open the thick mahogany door, and see a row of four pretty little bottoms lined up for her approval, each cheek taut and round by virtue of the kneeling position. In between, the smudge of each bottom hole seemed to stare back, as if winking alluringly.

Locking the door behind her, she unbuttoned her own skirt, hanging it on an empty hook beside the girls’ uniforms. She was wearing a black tailored jacket that just about covered her waist. Flirtatiously, she dragged her hands across her hips, letting the two halves of the jacket fall open, revealing a tantalising glimpse of what lay beneath to the watching girls. A slender figure, an impressively flat tummy. A black satin bra, with matching suspenders –  but no panties, the thin garter belt straps framing her smooth bare mound.

She began her inspections immediately, kneeling first beside Addison, and taking her time to scrutinise the region between her open cheeks. It wasn’t that she was looking for anything surprising, what else would she find, other than a tight little puckered hole and glistening folds?

Inspections were acts of devotion, where the one being examined knew she was, for a few intoxicating minutes, the absolute and intimate focus of their Mistress’s attention. Inspections were about being admired, and being appreciated.

Addison cooed contentedly as the fingertip of her Mistress stroked between her legs, spreading her folds and exposing her vagina, massaging her wetness along the length of her slit. The inspection concluded with a slow, hard spanking, a dozen smacks delivered to the underside of her bottom and the tops of her thighs by Barbara’s open palm.

She moved between the girls, ensuring each got the same treatment. By the time she was finished, all four were soaking wet. She left them in position for a moment, and fetched a small box from the shelf near the cane rack.

“You can stand up now, girls. I have a special treat for you…”

She handed the box to Alice, who instinctively shook it slightly. It was light, made of something like balsa wood, tied up with a thin pink ribbon. Whatever was inside it didn’t rattle. Alice faced her friends so they could see too, and plucked the bow open, letting it fall to the ground as she opened the lid.

Inside, were what looked at first glance like leather belts. At her Mistress’s instigation, Alice plucked one out. On closer inspection, it was actually two short lengths of rope, wrapped in soft leather cover. One rope was circular, and the other rope was perpendicular to it, running across its diameter – one end was fixed, stitched into the circumference, the other was loose, running through an eyelet. On the leather a name had been embossed: LOLA.

It looks like a reinforced leather g-string, thought Alice. Feeling herself go squirmy as she imagined it between her legs.

“I’ve had new some rope girdles made.” Their Mistress explained.

“You might not be aware that originally, girls who were sent to the punishment bench wore crotch ropes. Back then, of course, girls wore bloomers, so there was no such thing as panty-pulling. Instead, naughty girls wore these little girdles.”

“I see you’ve got Lola’s rope – you’ll remember I had you all measured. Each girdle has been made to fit your waist perfectly. Come here, Lola, I’ll put yours on first.”

Barbara took the girdle from Alice, and knelt beside Lola, encouraging her to step into it. Then she pulled it up to her waist, so the fixed end of the crotch rope was positioned against her bare mound. She ensured the inner cord passed between her splayed labia and tugged the loose end at the back to ensure was tight against the crevice of her buttocks.

Her choice of a luxurious (and expensive) soft leather to cover the ropes was her own act of benevolence. The original ropes were a coarse scratchy hemp, that would leave the naughty girls who rode them sore between the legs for days.

One of the old headmistress diaries that Barbara had found had candidly described masturbation as a privilege reserved for only the best-behaved girls. Naughty ones got the cane, and were seated on their stripes, then the bench fell and the cruel ropes were pulled tight between their legs. This would leave unfortunate miscreants too sore to play with themselves for several days. The softer ropes would be more forgiving, sitters would still dance as the rope inexorably rubbed, and it would inflict a nice pink stripe, but wouldn’t stay sore for long.

She escorted Lola to the bench, sitting her down, and fixing the loose end of the rope to the bar behind her. Then she put Lola’s hands behind her back and bound them by slipping a tennis sweatband over both wrists.

“Now… who’s next?”


The Red Stripe Gang sat in a row on the punishment bench, hands bound, feet dangling high above the floor. Each was naked apart from the cord girdle around their waists, and each was already aching with expectation.

Straight-faced, Alice smiled to herself. She could feel her clit swollen and throbbing, tight against her meticulously positioned crotch-rope.

It had all gone perfectly to plan. Months ago she’d sat on this very bench, and written her essay in the hope of being discovered. Alice had given her headmistress the whiff of a conspiracy that she suspected would be irresistible. And once the existence of their little gang was uncovered, Alice knew her headmistress wouldn’t be able to resist investigating deeper into the puzzle.

And it had to be a puzzle; Alice knew she couldn’t just walk into her headmistress’s office and say: “Hey! We’re four girls with a secret kinky group – wanna join in?”

No, seduction was about tempting and tantalising. Steadily revealing a bigger mystery. Establishing a desire, and letting others want it.

Alice understood that only once her headmistress had followed the trail by her own volition, and learned for herself that the gang weren’t just a cabal of horny schoolgirls, but fellow kinky young women deserving of her company – only then would she want to take charge.

In the early days of the gang, they’d all had fun role-playing an ersatz headmistress. But now, really what they all longed for was a proper authority figure, someone to whom they could all genuinely submit. Now the Red Stripe Gang had a new leader, and there’d be no more furtive meetings in Alice and Penny’s dorm.

Their new leader would ensure they were well spanked, and then suspended by their crotch ropes until the stripe between their legs was nice and sore. Then perhaps she’d watch as they took it in turns to kneel and soothe each other’s discomfort with their eager tongues. Who knew what other naughty games might be in store? She was looking forward to putting herself at the mercy of her new Mistress’s inventively kinky mind.

Besides, they wouldn’t be at school forever, and after they left, it would be good to stay in touch. Pardon the pun.

The other girls didn’t know that Alice had written the essay, that she’d laid the trail that led to their exposure, it was more erotic that way, to think their clandestine activities had been stumbled upon. Alice would keep that little secret to herself.

What a naughty girl I am, thought Alice. She tested the bonds that bound her wrists, and squirmed against the cord that ran between her slit. She felt like a prisoner, caught and condemned. She knew she deserved to be thoroughly punished. In truth, she could barely wait.


Mistress Barbara had hung up her jacket, and now made her final preparations in just her bra and stockings. She’d configured the punishment bench for a long, slow drop, so the girls would spent as much time as possible squirming against their crotch ropes. By the end they’d be vertically upright, toes just above the floor, suspended by the girdles at their waists, dancing like puppets.

Her hand hovered over the bench’s release lever.

What was the gang’s founding principle again? Oh yes, Mistress got to watch the girls dance as she came. She’d already prepared a chair of her own from where she’d watch, with a big thick dildo stuck to the seat. It would give the girls something nice to watch as they dangled, their own clits aching desperately. She intended to enjoy this.

And then she pulled the lever, and the bench began its slow slump downward.

She stepped backwards, and onto her seat, feeling the thick slick tip of the dildo nudge between her lips, then sat upon it with as much decorum as she could manage.

She watched her girls wriggle and writhe, then kick delightfully as the bench tilted relentlessly, ever steeper and steeper.

Enjoy your dance girls. Feel the cord tighten, slipping ever deeper into your slit. Have you realised yet? Your anatomy was made for this torment. Clitoris, vagina, perineum, anus – all in a line, perfectly positioned so each can be simultaneously stimulated by a thin rubbing rope. Four different sensations at once. Frustration. Intrusion. Burning. Degradation. And the more you wiggle, the hotter it gets.

Are you getting close? Naughty.

Six of the Best for the first one who comes, I think. And then you can sit on your stripes on the enema cushion.

As the girls struggled and moaned, their Mistress slid ever further onto her thick protrusion, stretching her, until it had completely filled her.

Soon all were squirming on their seats.

Lewdly. Deliriously.

Carried away by their sit-down dance.

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The End

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@spankingtheatre 2017

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.

You’re welcome to reblog and share.

Birthday Surprise

A new spanking story

“You wanted to see me, Miss?”

“Yes, young man! Your recent behaviour in class has been disgraceful! And you know what happens to naughty boys in this school…”

“Yes, Miss. They’re spanked, Miss.”

“A good hard spanking, on their bare bottoms.”

“Oh Miss! Can’t I be excused? Just this once? It is my birthday!”

“Is it now? Then it seems appropriate you get your spanking in your birthday suit.”

“Oh no Miss!”

“Everything off, fold them neatly in a pile.”

“Of course, Miss.”

“Now kneel in front of the coffee table. Hands behind your back.”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Time to shed this cumbersome old gown, I think.”

“Goodness Miss! You’re not wearing anything underneath!”

“Indeed, boy. Quite naked, apart from my favourite heels. And I see I’m making you pleasingly stiff.”

“Why yes Miss!”

“Now your headmistress is going to stand astride you, and place one of her feet on the table before you. See how I’m lifting my heel slightly, so there’s a gap between the sole of my foot and the slope of the shoe. That should be just wide enough for your stiff little penis. Slide it in.”

“Oh Miss!”

“On the table you’ll notice a nice leather paddle. Pick it up, please. In this school, we don’t waste our energy punishing our delinquents, all naughty boys must smack their own bottoms.”

“Can’t you…”

“Quiet, boy. Now reach back, and rub the paddle against your bare cheeks. That’s it. Now start spanking your bottom! Yes! And again. Harder. Harder. Harder!”

“Ouch! Please, Miss!”

“This is what happens to a naughty boy here. Kneeling under his headmistress, her hot wet slit hovering just above his face. Yes boy, sniff it. Lick it. Satisfy your mistress. I have your little cock squashed beneath my foot. Trampling you. Roll your head back, I want the tip of your nose in my bum hole as your tongue laps at my folds. Taste my excitement. Savour the scent of feminine superiority…”

“Mmmmm…”

“Did I tell you to stop spanking? Harder, boy. Harder! I want that tight little bottom bright pink before you start to spurt.”

<muffled moans>

“Yes. That’s it! Spank yourself as you fuck the space beneath my foot. Mmmm. Yes. I do enjoy your hot breath panting against my slit.”

<stifled gasping>

“You know your mistress is in complete control. I’d better lift my foot, I think you’re getting too close. There, nothing to thrust against now. You know your mistress always comes first. I’m cupping my crotch now, matching the tempo of my rubbing to the delightful rhythm of your smacking. Don’t dare stop licking! Don’t dare stop spanking! Yes. Yes! Yes!”

<slobbery gasps>

“Oh what a good little boy! You’ve made your headmistress come all over your face. Can you feel the sticky streams of my wetness as they dribble down your chin?”

“Yes Miss!”

“Now it’s time to put my foot down, young man. Can you feel my heel pressing down against your cock? Keep spanking, boy. I want to feel your cries against my quivering cunt, getting hotter and quicker until the final whack that makes you come.”

“Please, Miss! Please!”

“That’s it! Bury your face in my cunt. Mmmm, that’s so good! Now come hard for me, you dirty little boy! Yes. Oh yes! I can feel your hot spurts tickling the underside of my foot! Keep spanking as you empty yourself, boy! I want to see a creamy cascade flowing down the arch of my shoe to my toes.”

<muffled cries>

“What a filthy rascal you are boy! Spilling your sticky mess into your headmistress’s favourite shoes!”

“Oh. My. God.”

“Happy birthday, hon!”

“Wow. Thanks, dear. That was some birthday present! I would’ve loved to have attended a school like that…”

“I bet you would. Here… some tissues. Clean yourself up, but don’t get dressed.”

“Oh? Something else planned?”

“No, I just like seeing you naked. Have a seat.”

“Sexy surprises seem to be becoming a bit of a birthday tradition for us.”

“A great tradition too. I still think about my 20th.”

“Your 20th? Whoa! I thought your Mum was going to kill me when she burst in on us!”

“Ha Ha Ha! It must have been quite a shock for her. To open my bedroom door expecting to see her little princess, but see your bare thrusting bottom instead.”

“Yeah, and her own daughter kneeling on her bed, being fucked hard from behind.”

“Meh. I was a big girl.”

“It was rather rude of her to interrupt, just as I was giving you my birthday present.”

“And a very thoughtful and satisfying present it was too.”

“My big stiff cock in your tight little slit?”

“Mmmhm.”

“Though your mother didn’t seem to appreciate the moment.”

“I hadn’t even realised she’d be home! I thought she’d still be at work. I wasn’t expecting to see her until the party that evening.”

“Talk about being caught in flagrante delicto!”

“Completely red-handed!”

“I was actually balls deep when she burst in! I remember being petrified. Half of me wanted to pull out, but I remember thinking that if I did, your Mum would see my erection. So I decided to stay inside you, and hope she wouldn’t realise what we were up to…”

“I think it was pretty obvious. We had been pretty noisy, your ankles were bound to the bed, and there was an open box of condoms on my bedside table.”

“True. I was even more surprised when she told us both to stay exactly where we were.”

“I wasn’t complaining. It felt so good having you pushed so deep inside me.”

“Yeah. Being caught fucking you made me so hard.”

“I know!”

“Though I didn’t dare look round at your mother. I just heard her picking up something from your dresser…”

“Ah yes, my dear old hairbrush.”

“Then I felt this cold hard circle pressing against my bottom cheek.”

“Oh yes, I know that sensation well.”

“Oh? Did you get spanked on your bare bottom when you were a naughty little girl?”

“Were? I still am…”

“Naughty minx!”

“That’s me.”

“But I couldn’t believe your Mum was about to spank me! At my age! I wasn’t a little boy any more!”

“Yeah honey, there’s nothing little about you any more.”

“Heh, thanks. But then she did actually spank me! Two really hard whacks, one on each cheek!”

“Yeah, I could actually feel them through your cock, resonating deep inside me. Actually, I remember smiling to myself at the time, relishing how you were getting the pain and I was getting the pleasure!”

“I think that was her way of seizing my attention. I got the impression she knows exactly how to handle young men. How to impose her authority.”

“You’re right. She doesn’t suffer fools gladly.”

“Hey!”

“I still remember the first time I introduced you to her. Ha ha!”

“That was terrifying! It felt like a private audience with a medieval Queen.”

“She can be very protective of her little Princess.”

“Well, I certainly don’t have any secrets from her now.”

“Ah yes. She got you to pull out of me, and took a good long look…”

“I was long alright! That was so embarrassing… I’d even shaved myself bare for the occasion, like some kind of porn stud. And now here was your mother examining the sheath, checking the end to see if I’d come.”

“You weren’t the only one blushing. My face was burning hot when you pulled out, as I knew Mum could see my own gaping wet hole.”

“It is a beautiful view though. I never tire of it.”

“Ah, you old romantic.”

“But I was shocked when she told me to enter you again. I was fully expecting her to put a stop our filthy activities, and order us to get dressed immediately.”

“That’s what your mother would have said, dear! My Mum has never been uptight about sex.”

“Don’t I know it. I thought she was going to stand behind us and watch us fuck. Perhaps even start giving us directions.”

“Hey Mr Porn Star! I’m sure if she’d wanted to watch a performance she would’ve just used the internet like normal people.”

“But then I felt the cold hard hairbrush against my bottom again. She said that she was going to spank me like a naughty boy, and that if I came, you’d get spanked too, with exactly the same number of smacks.”

“I know! Wasn’t it a delicious predicament?”

“When the next few spanks landed, I remember recoiling forward, pushing deep into your cunt. It stung painfully, but also felt amazing. It didn’t take long to realise how difficult it was going to be to prevent myself from coming. But the longer I held out, the more you’d eventually get.”

“What a dilemma. But I have to say, feeling you thrust into me felt incredible. On those first few spanks, you fucked me like a wild animal.”

“I’m sorry I had to stop. But I knew I couldn’t keep that up. I remember bracing myself against your hips, trying not to pump into you as each whack hit. I thought your Mum was punishing us, I was trying to save you from a spanking.”

“How very noble of you, Sir Knight.”

“But then you started squirming, grinding backwards on my crotch in time with each smack.”

“Perhaps I didn’t want your chivalry, dearest. Maybe I wanted to end your ordeal, and get my own share – before you racked up the hundreds.”

“Oh!”

“You’re so stubborn we might’ve been there all night!”

“Actually, it wasn’t long until I was struggling to hold myself back. I felt so naughty kneeling behind you, my bare bum at your mother’s mercy. I felt like a very bad boy indeed, one who’d been caught doing something disgraceful. I felt I was receiving a punishment I thoroughly deserved.”

“I must admit, I was impressed by your endurance.”

“I kept looking down at your cute little bum as it pressed against my hips. It was so smooth and pale and perfect. I wanted to protect you, I didn’t want your beautiful bottom to be marked and suffer the burning soreness I was experiencing.”

“Just like Tom Sawyer…”

“Yeah, caned in front of the class to protect the girl he adored. I’d always considered that an incredibly noble act.”

“Did you ever think about that scene when you were wanking?”

“Of course. I imagined filling in the missing details of the story, massaging my stiff cock as I pictured Tom in his own bedroom afterwards, pulling down his own underwear to examine his pink marks.”

“How interesting! Because I remember playing as I imagined myself as beautiful Becky Thatcher. Lying in her own elegant frilly bedroom, slipping her fingers into her bloomers as she replayed Tom’s whacking in her mind.”

“You think she was aroused watching poor Tom being caned?”

“Oh absolutely! I think she’d have found watching his punishment tremendously exciting. And not just the spanking, but also her emerging realisation of the extent of her feminine power. That now she somehow had the ability to make boys desperate to do things for her.”

“Just like what I was doing, as your mother spanked me.”

“Exactly. Nobly taking my punishment for me. So hot.”

“Ah, so that’s why you were pushing back on me, grinding yourself on my cock. You were getting yourself off, weren’t you?”

“Of course!”

“In my fantasies, Becky secretly wished she’d got the caning she deserved. She was stroking herself as she imagined bending over, the strict rod of authority tapping against her soft little bottom…”

“Ha! What nonsense! Becky would never have wanted to have her bottom whacked. She was way too proud. She was the Judge’s daughter, don’t forget. She grew up in a household defined by authority and punishment. Dispensing discipline, that was what turned her on.”

“Get you, clever clogs.”

“Becky’s fantasy would’ve been seeing every boy in the class being marched out into schoolyard. Then watching through the classroom window as every one was made to lower their trousers and bend over the wooden boundary fence for a whacking.”

“Yes, you would like that.”

“And then pitiless Becky would tingle with satisfaction as their schoolmaster went down the line, administering a dozen stripes to each young man’s poor bottom.”

“That would have been cringingly embarrassing for the guys, knowing their classroom crushes were peering out the window, staring at the stripes on their bare bottoms, and giggling at their discomfort.”

“Perhaps more than giggling…”

“So whilst I was having my poor bum spanked, you were finding the whole experience very exciting indeed.”

“Of course! Even just the sound of each smack was intoxicating. How each whack echoed, and turned your gasping breaths into stifled cries.”

“You can be so cruel!”

“Glad you like it.”

“You certainly enjoyed the accompanying fucking.”

“It was amazing. I felt the tremors of each spank tremble through your body, until they were barely a shiver against my own bare skin. And all the while your cock was transmitting that delicious flutter right to place where I throbbed the most.”  

“You can thank your mother, I’d never realised she was such an expert spanker. A perfect rhythm, unerringly accurate. Somehow she knew exactly where to smack me. I tried holding myself back, but with your tight little hole squeezing me, and the stinging heat in my backside, she had me teetering on the edge.”

“You weren’t the only one. Toward the end I put my hand between my legs and started rubbing. What a naughty girl I was… getting off to the sound of my dear boyfriend’s spanking.”

“You came first. I could feel it. Your moans escalating until they were almost a howl. Suddenly I felt your insides grip me, and you juddered back and forth, urgently impaling yourself upon my cock…”

“Yeah. Wow. It was intense.”

“Your convulsions finished me. You made me come so hard! The dam suddenly burst and I was spurting, again and again, with your mother seemingly determined to spank every last drop out of me.”

“I must admit my memories of the moment are rather hazier. I just remember a woozy few minutes of spanking and moaning.”

“After I’d come, I was half-expecting your mother to drag me by the ear into the corner. To make me stand in disgrace, burning bottom on display and condom still dangling between my legs, heavy with my cum. And I’d have to stand there with my hands upon my head, listening to you being put across her knee, and getting the spanking you’d been promised.”

“There was never any danger of that.”

“Oh really? But then your mother just wished you ‘Happy Birthday!’, and left.”

“Mmmhmm. Now, speaking of which… I have a little present for you. Here… let me put it on for you…”

“Happy Birthday, dear! Aww, that looks lovely, it really suits you. Such wide eyes. Wasn’t that a nice surprise?”

“Yes, it’s a ball gag. Nice and squishy, you should find it very comfortable. No need to mumble. I’ll do the talking from now on.”

“In fact, I do have a bit of a confession too. There was never any danger of me being spanked by my Mum… because I arranged the whole shebang.”

“She’d asked me what I’d wanted for my birthday. And you were what I wanted above everything else. Or to be more precise, I wanted to be fucked as she spanked you hard.”

“It had been my fantasy for years. Ever since I’d once sneaked into my parents’ room, and found their extensive collection of toys and rods and magazines. She’s an accomplished spanker because she’s accumulated plenty of practice. But never on me. A few years ago she told me how she loves to domme, how she likes to go to parties to discipline mischievous men.”

“Remember that time I made you lie face down on the bed, and stuck that big dildo between your shoulders?”

“Mmmhmm. Of course you do. I stripped off and straddled you, sitting on your shoulders so I could pin you to the bed, my shins holding down your flailing arms. Feeling myself sink onto the protrusion and taking it deep. Then I spanked your cute little bum a lovely shade of pink with my favourite leather paddle.”

“You couldn’t move your upper body, but you could squirm at the waist. It wasn’t long until you were humping the bed in time with my smacks. The recoil of your hips grinding your stiff cock into the bedcovers. Such a naughty boy! So I spanked you until you lost control, and you splattered your mess everywhere! And then just for good measure, I spanked you some more, until you were squirming helplessly in puddle of your own sticky cum.”

“Oh we must do that more often! I did enjoy spanking you with that fat dildo so deep inside. I could feel your breath lifting me up and down, like I was floating in a boat on the gentlest of waves. Then, when I was ready, I rose up on my knees slightly, so I could properly ride it.”

“I established a rhythm, my left hand rubbing, whilst my right hand smacked. Rubbing, fucking, spanking. Faster and harder, up and down, faster and harder. All together in a glorious medley, until I came in one final glorious crescendo. That’s when you would have felt my wetness dribbling onto your back.”

“Remember all that? Well, Mummy taught me that particular trick.”

“So yes, I confess: the events on my 20th birthday – I planned it all. Even down to what you got spanked with. Me and that lovely hairbrush go back a long way – we had my first orgasm together.”

“What a naughty little girl I am. What a devious little minx! I deserve a good hard spanking on my bare bottom, don’t I Sir?”

“I’d better bend over, and spread my legs apart. Is this how naughty girls get spanked, Sir? I’m afraid I don’t have much experience.”

“Is this how you imagined Becky bending over in the front of the class? Hitching up her dress, and pulling down her skimpy little panties to reveal her soft pale bum and her glistening slit? I bet that would’ve made every boy in the classroom rock hard.”

“Oh my. Tom Sawyer! You filthy boy! Just look at how stiff you’ve got!”

“I’m just going to roll this condom on. There! Now I can sit down upon my favourite naughty seat. A nice hard cock is a terrible thing to waste.”

“Oh… yes! Sitting on your lap feels so good! Now, let’s just sit here together, and wait…”

“I do hope you don’t mind the gag, but believe me, it’s better this way. Less talking, more listening. Because I’ve an extra special birthday surprise for you, my dear…”

“I’ve invited Mummy round.”

“And she’s going to bring a few of her favourite toys.”

“She’s ever so keen to see you again…”

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@spankingtheatre 2017

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.

Naughty boys might like to send this to their mistress, with a mischievous accompanying note. “Some ideas for you, Miss?”

As for strict mistresses – well, I hope you’re already planning your next Birthday Surprise

Beginning the new showcase of original spanking content creators is a story in several parts by @herestotheworld. This series blends two popular tropes, ageplay and femdom – so if either theme interests or excites you, I think you’ll find this ongoing story very satisfying indeed. Do visit, and give the author some encouragement. Who knows what might spring from a few kind words…

Showcase: The Babysitter (a story)

Coming of Age: Part 3

A Spanking Romance

This is the final part of three part story, part one is here, part two is here.

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You ambushed me as I was leaving the shower, as I was still dripping steadily onto the
terracotta tiles.

“Surprise!”

I didn’t resist as you confiscated my towel, posing provocatively as you looked me up and
down. Your glance lingering salaciously at my waist. You can’t deny it. I saw how your eyes
sparkled. You produced a couple of pairs of old tights, and I compliantly allowed you to loop
them around my wrists. This could be fun, I remember thinking. You grasped my cock, like it
was my tether, and led me towards the bed.

I laid down as you instructed, raising my arms so you could bind them to the headboard. My
last glimpse was you looming over me, smirking deviously before you bandaged another
pair of tights around my forehead to serve as an impromptu blindfold.

“You’ll never make me your sex slave!” I asserted, half-seriously. Yet, there were worse fates.

You didn’t reply. I just heard you undress, your footsteps recede, and then just the distant
trickling of the shower. All I could do was lie where you’d left me, the droplets on my bare
skin evaporating into the humid evening air. Immobile, I listened intently to the faraway
sprinkle and regular splash of falling water, I imagined myself reclining on a lush riverbank,
waiting for you to emerge from bathing under a waterfall. On my lap, I could feel my
erection swelling.

The sprinkling stopped, and soon I heard wet footsteps padding closer. You returned to the
bed without saying a word, I could feel your steamy body-heat as you climbed onto the
mattress and knelt over me. You smelt of summer rain, of fragrant exotic fruits, and sex.

You pressed yourself into my face, waiting for my lips to rove across the firm fleshy wall of
your tummy. I licked the creases at the tops of your thighs before my lips began to explore
the little bump of your mound. You’d shaved yourself smooth in the shower, and I heard
you sigh softly as my tongue wandered over your exquisitely sensitive bare skin, before
entering the little dimple at the top of your cleft.

A shuffle of movement, you must have turned around, bending over, allowing – nay
encouraging – me to kiss the unseen folds of your beautiful pussy. All too soon you moved
away from my nibbling lips, straddling my thighs, rubbing over me so I felt the miniature
kisses of your intimate lips as you moved across my legs.

“You’re such a tease!” I warned, tugging at my bonds, “I’m going to give you a long hard
spanking when I get out…”

But you just giggled, beginning to run your ticklishly smooth hands over my hairless crotch,
occasionally tugging and pulling my stiff pole. I kept myself bare, another habit instilled in
me long ago by my mentor.

“Just like a little boy…” you teased, running your fingers across the drum-tight skin of my
scrotum.

“Were you… a naughty… boy?” you asked, slowly and curiously.

“My headmistress used to put me over her knee regularly to teach me a lesson.”

“Oh! Really?”

The candidness of my answer seemed to catch you by surprise.

“And how long did it take for you to learn your lesson?” you inquired sceptically.

“Hmm…” I pondered, “… at least a couple of years.”

I heard you laughing aloud, even though I wasn’t joking.

There was a pause, but seeing nothing, I perceived only our breathing.

“Tell me about her…” you asked eventually.

I felt pillows being rearranged. You took a seat astride my leg, settling down, making
yourself comfortable. Keen to hear a tale from your captive blind storyteller. The
salaciousness of my exploits did not disappoint, and soon you were rocking your pussy
against my kneecap as I recounted my experiences. At times you amused yourself by
fiddling with my cock, sometimes with your hands, sometimes leaning over to take me in
your mouth. But your skillful manipulations meant I never got close to coming.

It took me a while to tell my story, I’ve told you most of it by now.

The book of memories that is my life begins with a chapter about a boy. In subsequent
chapters he grows into a man under the guidance of a wise woman’s hand. And then, in that
long hot summer when I first went travelling, came a chance encounter that would
transform that man into a lover.

Yet I did not recognise My Goddess when I first encountered her. She was invisible to me.
But that is as it should be. A Goddess should need no halo, no radiant shafts of light to
capture your gaze. She is a secret treasure, hiding in plain sight, waiting for the one who
truly sees.

Waiting for me…



* * 7 * *

There was an elephant in the room. It was a room with rows upon row of plush seats,
bordered on both sides by huge windows that revealed mountain views of staggering
beauty. Through them, neck-straining dioramas of snow-frosted granite and alpine
meadows receded as far as the eye could see. It was a room with few occupants, whose
background ambience was a continual rhythmic rumbling, punctuated by regular clicks and
clacks. It was a room on wheels, a train carriage.

The elephant had always been in the room, but I’d ignored him completely up until now. A
corpulent middle-aged man in a loose-fitting double-breasted suit, whose saggy grey wool
had wrinkled like pachyderm skin. He had the accoutrements of a businessman,
polished shoes, a briefcase on the seat beside him, a copy of today’s F​rankfurter Allgemeine
lying crudely folded on the table in front of him. He was sitting in the aisle opposite me, his
head slumped against the window, and now, he was snoring.

The distraction was proving increasingly difficult to ignore. First a guttural, rasping intake of
breath, then a moment’s silence, followed by a flamboyant spluttering exhalation. I thought of
reaching across, nudging him, saying something – but what exactly? In my pigeon German?
Bitte mumble mumble something. I could already imagine his response, he’d smile politely
and think I was asking to borrow his newspaper.

It was then I happened to catch sight of another passenger, looking back at us both, a young lady with a serious face, her forehead crinkled by the deepest frown. She was sitting
a few rows in front of the elephant and me, craning her neck to try to locate the source of
this infernal disturbance. As we were both sitting, I could only see her when I peered
through the gap in the seats in front of me.

Weirdly, I felt myself shiver; peeping can get you
into all kinds of trouble.

Once a upon a time, I might have spied on her. Trying to discern her story from a thousand
little glimpses, cursing fate that the train hadn’t been more crowded, wishfully imagining an
alternate reality where the only free seat was the one beside me, and she’d simply sit down
beside me. But my teacher had taught me better than that, a gentleman does not sneak
around or blame his circumstances. A gentleman is brave, a gentleman acts.

Up until now I’d been sitting beside the window, gazing at the spectacular valleys our train
was traversing, and the magnificent white-tipped Alps that formed the backdrop. Now I
sidled into the empty aisle seat beside me. And at that moment, she glimpsed me for the
first time. Our eyes met, hers immediately widening in surprise, caught as they were in the
act of peeping. Her mouth melted into an awkward smile. I felt my insides quiver. She was
so beautiful.

My own face was only moments away from freezing into a stupefied rictus, but I managed to
wrestle back control of my muscles, just in time. Oh! Guten Tag! I mouthed, nodding
respectfully. She nodded back.

I looked pointedly at The Elephant, still snoring loudly just across the aisle from me, then
back again at her. She shrugged and mimed putting her fingers in her ears.

Playfully, I jabbed my index finger in the air towards him, acting out a particularly aggressive
poke, but she shook her head sceptically at my suggestion. It seemed we had just struck up
a silent pantomime conversation.

I pondered some alternatives, before pointing to the man and miming a few slaps against
my own cheeks, complete with my head lolling back and forth, recoiling from each
simulated slap. That made her smile, but she waved her hands over each other in what must
be the universal gesture of discouragement.

So I rummaged in my bag, bringing out a packet of unopened nuts, displaying it to her
showily from several angles like it was some kind of magician’s prop. I pretended to reach
inside, miming plucking out a nut before flicking it towards the sleeping man. To that
suggestion she shook her head in vigorous disagreement, which even without words
seemed to say: Nein! Nein! Nein! We don’t do that here!

I shrugged my shoulders disappointedly, nodding my understanding, and put the nuts back
into my backpack. I took out a more suitable item, the only book in my possession, the thousand page paperback travel guide that had become my gospel. My mime exaggerated
its weight as I prepared to heave it in the direction of the snoring businessman.

For a moment, I saw her eyes widen in astonishment, it might even have been in horror. For
a split-second I wondered if my suggestion to clobber our fellow traveller with a heavy tome
had actually crossed the line of bad taste and gone too far. Then my lone viewer burst out
giggling, just for a moment, before she self-consciously stifled her mirth by clamping her hand across her mouth. This was the first sound I ever heard from her, and it was entrancing.

Emboldened by the reaction from my audience I stowed the book back in my bag, and
posed thoughtfully, like a philosophical sculpture considering comedic possibilities. But
what happened next I didn’t think through, it just came naturally, somehow improvised.

I had looked down at the little shelf table in front of me, and seen my miniDisc player.
Putting on my earphones seemed the natural thing to do, and then I began miming listening
to music, suddenly indifferent to the sounds around me. She reacted with mock outrage,
pointing to her chest as if to say: Hey! But what about me?!

I shrugged, smiling apologetically and pressed the play button. Music flooded into my ears,
as I nodded my appreciation, mouthing: Oh yeah! I love this one! Her eyes widened with the
hankering look of someone who’d been denied entry to a party, and was now peering
through a window at what they were missing.

I picked up the plastic spoon that had come with my tea, gripping the handle vertically and
raising its head to my lips like an impromptu microphone. Suddenly I was on stage, the lead
singer of my favourite band. I sang along silently to what was playing in my ears, pointing to
her, encouraging her to play along too. I was nodding to the beat, and she matched me,
moshing her head, swaying her black shoulder-length hair. And when the instrumental
break came, I took up my air guitar, whilst my crowd of one rhythmically jutted her fist into
the air in encouragement.

As the track ended, I strummed the final chords on my imaginary guitar, closing my eyes, basking in
the moment as the music faded away in my ears. When I opened them again I saw her
beaming, she gave me a rapturous round of silent applause.

Something made me get up, and walk the few metres down the aisle to where she was
sitting.

“Hi!” I said before introducing myself by name, completely forgetting she might not even
speak English, “Do you like tea?”

She extended her hand and in German-accented English, introduced herself as Elise.

And yes, you said, you’d love some tea.

Sometimes it’s best to just let sleeping elephants lie. We gathered our possessions, and
adjourned to the buffet car.

And that, was how we met.


Do you remember our first cup of tea together, my dear?

That thrilling first hour when we just seemed to open our souls to each other and connect.

We got to know each other in the midst of Swiss mountains, over a couple of steaming cups
of Assam tea. I’d been travelling south and west from Berlin, jumping on and off trains using
my InterRail pass, planning to see the lakes and glaciers of Switzerland before heading East
to Vienna. But I hadn’t planned to stay here long, it was an expensive country and I intended
to stretch my meagre budget.

We chatted and talked and conversed. I told you I’d travelled from Britain, and you told me
you were from Germany, I didn’t recognise the town you called home, only it was
somewhere southerly, somewhere near the Black Forest. I was immensely relieved your
English was so good, it would have been agonising to try and communicate through mime,
numbers and elementary grocery nouns.

Every time our eyes locked, I remember thinking, you were so beautiful. Part of me
wondered what on earth you were doing talking to me at all. But I chatted like my mentor
had taught me, with honest curiosity rather than self-aggrandising bravado, with the respect
due to another human being.

We shared our stories. We had both left school this summer, and were enjoying a month of
exploring Europe before attending our chosen universities. You told me all about the school
you’d just left – a convent school. Somehow my nervousness seemed to embolden me, I
began gently teasing you, telling you that you must be very innocent indeed, and playfully
explaining what happens when “a man loves a woman very much”.

I still remember that volley of punches you rained down on my upper arm as you tried to
halt my impromptu sex education lesson.

But I noticed how you didn’t attempt change the subject. Your verbal retaliation was subtle,
almost encouraging. You said you knew all about the reputation of English schools. I didn’t refute your accusation, simply adding with a wry smile, “Actually, I went to a school with
girls and boys.”

I escalated the intrigue by telling you I’d heard stories all about about German convent
schools. How strict they were. How the nuns must have had sore arms from all the spanking
they had to do. You immediately protested that convent girls weren’t spanked often at all.
That statement made my eyes widen. I couldn’t let that statement go unexplored.

“Have you ever been spanked?” I asked.
To my surprise, you nodded coyly.

“Did you secretly enjoy it?”

It was a question I’d never thought I’d dare ask a beautiful stranger, let alone one I’d only
just met. In fact, it was a question that never even would have occurred to me had it not
been for the tutoring of my wonderful headmistress. Time seemed to slow down as I
awaited her answer. Her eyes widened, her pale blue irises sparkling in the sunlight like
bewitching, magic pools. And with a coy smile she whispered:

“Of course…”

After that our conversation became increasingly flirtatious and intoxicating. I started
thinking of ways we might prolong our journey. I didn’t want to have to say goodbye. You
had been heading south to Milan, whilst I was heading vaguely eastwards towards Austria.
But we were both essentially improvising how we got to our destinations, and neither of us
had firm plans. So I rummaged in my jacket pocket for the little railway route map I’d picked
up, tracing where we were going, and all the places that were coming up next.

“Why don’t we get off at Interlaken?”

I noticed the inadvertent double entendre as soon as the words left my mouth, but
fortunately your English wasn’t quite good enough to spot it.

“Yes! We can explore!” you agreed enthusiastically.

A few words was all it took, and that’s how you became my travel buddy.

About half an hour later, we arrived at the town of Interlaken, disembarking from the train together with
a mischievous giggle, giddy at our sudden act of spontaneity. We left our bags at the train
station – in the same locker – and wandered into the town square to find a café, to talk
travels, hopes and dreams over waffles and hot chocolate.

By the time we’d eventually dandered back to the station, you were holding my hand, and I
felt as if I was walking on air. The connecting inter-regional trains were by now long gone, but
neither one of us was in the least concerned. We fetched our bags and walked back into
town, and began looking for somewhere to stay the night.


* * 8 * *

Do you remember our little chalet? That first night we spent together?

Not too far from the town centre, we’d found a chalet to stay for a day or two. It was a
simple wooden cabin, two separate beds, a simple shower en-suite, and a small veranda
with a view overlooking Lake Thun that was so spectacularly awesome it seemed
incongruous for the price.

You were quite adamant about which of the two beds you wanted, so I let you have it, and
then gently teased you about the state of the rafters on your side of the room. But also
generously promised to come to your rescue should the ceiling above you turn out to be
home to any massive, abseiling spiders. You’re always so cute when you scowl.

It was still light when we walked into town for dinner. Nothing fancy for our tiny budgets,
just a giant shared pizza in a little Italian Pizzeria we stumbled across by following the scent
of dough and woodsmoke down an inauspiciously narrow lane. The food was delicious, and
their strong black coffee kept us buzzing for hours.

Afterwards, you still had tomato sauce on your lips when we kissed for the first time.

We walked back to our little cabin, as the sun set over the mountains, momentarily turning
the lakes into vast pools of vivid pink.

We spent the dusk hours sitting outside on our little veranda with cups of tea warming our
hands. We talked and laughed until the early hours, watching the boats float through the
darkness on the lake below like immense lugubrious fireflies.

The room we’d rented had separate beds, so when we did eventually retire inside, we both
sat on your bed. But just talking. I told myself I was being gentlemanly, that I was giving you
space, showing you the respect you deserved.

But in truth, I wanted you. I’d wanted you since the moment we first held hands, since I felt
your soft palm press into mine. I remember staring at the outline of your bra through your T-shirt, imagining unfastening it.

But I think I might have been too exhausted anyway. Eventually I kissed you goodnight and
got into my own bed, falling into a deep and utterly contented sleep.


The next day, we went for a hike in the nearby mountains, and on our return bathed our
aching limbs in the chalet park’s communal hot tub, chomping the fresh waffles we’d bought
from the cafe-bakery on the way back.

I turned up in trunks. You had left the hut wrapped in a towel, which you let fall to the
ground without a trace of embarrassment.

“Where I come from, we bathe without clothes.”

I had covered myself in an attempt to seem gentlemanly, but your tease made me feel
childishly prudish, like a silly little boy. So I slipped off my trunks and slid into the steaming
water beside you. We washed each other, nothing naughty, as there were others nearby in
the other tubs.

When we were adequately simmered we clambered out of the tub, wrapped ourselves in
our towels and returned to our room. Almost as soon as I’d closed the door, I heard your
towel flop to the floor and you had climbed onto your bed, lying on your front, your hands
by your sides. I just stared, gawping at the pert white mounds of your beautiful bottom.

You broke the silence without lifting your head from the pillow.
“Massage me, please.”

I edged towards your bed nervously, afraid I might somehow break the spell of this magic
moment, by being too eager, too crass or too clumsy.

I sat on the side of your bed, still wrapped in my own towel. It helped hide the erection I’d
developed. I placed my hands on your shoulders, and began to rub in slow lazy circles. You
mewed encouragement.

As I rubbed you, I thought back to the conversations I’d had with my headmistress about
touching, and how a woman likes to be touched. She had told me her intention was not to
teach me how to masturbate a woman, since anyone I might be intimate with would be all too eager to explain those details herself. Instead she’d taught me the sensuality of touch,
about all those areas beyond the breasts and the crotch.

My warm hands caressed every part of your back, every muscle in your legs, and every nook
and cranny of your feet. I think you liked it.

I concluded your massage by gently cupping your buttocks with my hands, they were a
perfect fit, as if they belonged together. You sighed contentedly, shifting your position,
parting your legs slightly, revealing the glistening pink ridge of your slit. I couldn’t help but
stare.

And then you sat up, your kiss to my lips taking me by surprise. I remember your sly smile
when you saw the bulge under my towel, and how you unwrapped me, like I was a
christmas present.

Once free of the towel, my cock immediately sprang forward, pointing lewdly and
provocatively into your face. I felt myself tremble, suddenly afraid of what you might think
of me, that you’d think I was just another horny, sex-obsessed teenage boy, without
self-control, whose true brain really lurked below his waist.

Yet the expression on your face wasn’t contempt, or disgust. It was hunger.

You clambered off the bed, dragging me by the hand so I took your place, then knelt over
me, your mouth hovering over the head of my rigid shaft.

What was it you said? My German isn’t great.
“Ich will dich schmecken, Englischer Junge.”

Something like that. Filthy talk in a gothic script.

And then your lips surrounded the tip of my cock, and I felt your tongue tease my foreskin.
You took me deeper and deeper into your mouth, ahh’ing and mmm’ing as if some luxurious
Swiss confection was melting on your palette. You cupped my balls with one hand, gently
massaging me as you supported your weight on the other.

I laid back as casually as I could manage, trying to pretend that this kind of thing happened
to me all the time. It didn’t. I could feel myself getting close. I tried to hold back. What was
the etiquette in these situations? To shout “Stand clear!” or “Look out!”? But you withdrew
your lips just in time, pointing my cock at your chest so I spurted all over your cute little
mounds.

For a while afterwards, I lay on the bed in a daze; so whilst I recovered my senses, you popped to the shower to clean up.

On my return from the shower I found you lying on your bed, still naked by now on your
back. Silently and seductively, you began to draw your legs apart in what seemed like slow
motion.

I’d seen women undressed before, but not like this, not erotically naked. Nudity was a
familiar enough sight, of course, in films, in porn mags, even a few real-world glimpses on
beaches. But this was different, another human being exposing herself to me in the most
intimate way, and doing it because she wanted to.

My eyes were drawn, almost magnetically, to the triangular patch of fine dark hair, its apex
pointing downwards between your thighs, as if there was ever any doubt which direction my
gaze would follow.

I moved to the bottom of your bed, kneeling on the floor in an act of almost religious
reverence, as your thighs slowly parted, and I looked upon the face of God.

It was as if the world around me had suddenly dissipated, and all that remained was what
lay before my eyes. Two hairless fleshy skin-toned ridges lay either side of your thin pink slit,
itself composed of what looked like the most delicate gossamer folds, converging to a peak
at the top like some miniature gothic archway.

I rose from my knees to sit on the bottom of the bed, and laid my hands upon your thighs.
You cooed encouragement, so I began to stroke upwards, skirting around your mound and
up your sides until I reached your breasts. I cupped them gently in each hand, each nestling
perfectly within my palm. I can still remember the feel of your skin, so smooth and velvety
soft, how firm your flesh felt.

I bent over to kiss you, first your lips, and then the pretty pink buds of your nipples. My
kisses became licks, and soon, full-blown suckling. I could see your breath quickening, your
chest rising and falling ever faster, your hot breath blowing through my hair as you panted.

From my vantage point above your chest I saw when you moved your right hand onto your
mound. I watched in fascination as you began to touch yourself, slowly and gently stroking
the furrow between your legs. When your hand emerged into view again, I could see the
clear stickiness clinging to your fingertips.

I moved my left hand downwards, running my own fingers across the downy hair of your
mound. You pleaded, but you did not protest.

“Please… Please…”

I rose and moved, sitting down between your open legs at the bottom of the bed. Your
pussy was different now, pinker, puffier, your little lips now had a glistening sheen that
glinted in the sunlight.

I placed a fingertip at the top of your mound and slowly drew it down the length of your slit.
Your lips were astonishingly soft, like the folds of an enchanted silk garment. You were wet,
it was like slipping my finger into your open mouth. I explored this strange new world with
every one of my senses, inhaling your scent, listening to how my touches made you gasp
and plead, until I finally lapped my tongue against your slit, and tasted you. You were
delicious.

My tongue roved across your cunt, pushing your little lips open, then travelling upwards to
visit your little pearl, hiding under its fleshy hood. I moved my fingertip down to the bottom
of your slit, letting it linger at the entrance to your vagina. She admitted my fingertip easily,
coating it in your beautiful sticky goo.

As I licked your clit, I felt your little hole suddenly grip my finger. It all happened so quickly,
your limbs twitching and your back arching, one long last exhalation as you emptied your
lungs with joy, and you came.

I remained between your legs, breathing in the musky scent of your excitement, before I
rose and laid beside you, wrapping my arms around you in a tight embrace.


Later that afternoon, after we had cleaned ourselves up, we went out for dinner, holding
hands, chatting excitedly, occasionally exchanging lewd looks that said: I’ve seen you
completely naked, and I’m recalling that memory, right now. We didn’t stay out late, we both
seemed rather keen to get back to our chalet.

Neither of us had to ask “What shall we do now?”
It was utterly obvious what we should both do next.

It was a hot summer night, and I’d already partially undressed to my T-shirt and underwear,
leaving my clothes strewn messily across the floor. I looked at them pointedly, and then
playfully scolded you for bringing a boy back to your dormitory.

“Oh!” you exclaimed in playful horror, “That is streng verboten!”

“And what happens to naughty girls in this school?” I asked provocatively.

You paused for a moment, probably mentally composing your reply.

“When we are bad, Mein Herr, we must be spanked, on our naughty little bottoms.”

It sounded so cute in your soft German accent, like you were a character in a Grimms’
fairytale. I felt myself getting hard again.

I marched theatrically to my bed and sat down, beckoning you towards my lap with my
finger. You looked back at me coyly, with wide innocent eyes, fiddling with the hem of your
dress.

“Now, young lady!” I insisted.

You sashayed over to where I was sitting, the look of innocence still fixed on your face.

“Am I to be… spanked, Sir? On my bare bottom?”

I could barely believe what I was hearing, but managed to answer affirmatively in the
gruffest, most authoritative voice I could muster.

Your response was to reach under your dress with both hands, and pull down your panties
to the floor.

“Oops…” you said casually.

“Bend over!” I commanded, sternly.

You did as you were told, lunging across my lap so your upper body and right leg were on
the bed, and only your left foot remained on the ground. Your panties remained on the
ground, a creamy smear clearly visible in the gusset. No wonder you were so keen to shed
them.

I began to spank you, slowly and sensually at first, barely little taps, but getting harder as
you moaned your encouragement. I think you thought your spanking was a bit of a joke at
first, giggling each time I slapped your bottom. After about a dozen smacks, I lifted the hem
of your dress to expose your bare bottom, already tinged with a slight blush of pink. Soon
your giggles gave way to gasps, and you were squirming on my lap, your legs splayed apart.

I had given spankings before. But this was different. They were childish games, played long
before any of us had discovered our sexual selves. This time I was all too aware of the wet
puffy slit between your legs, and the achingly stiff erection that was being squeezed against
my own tummy every time you squirmed. Every now and then I would stop, and slip my fingers between your thighs, caressing up and down your smooth slick crevice. This was
quite unlike anything I’d done before.

By the time I stopped spanking, your bottom was pink, your pussy was soaking wet, and I
was absolutely rigid. So I asked you if you wanted me inside you – and you eagerly agreed.
You got off my lap and watched with wide sparkling eyes as I fetched a condom and expertly
rolled it down my shaft. Practice does indeed make perfect.

You invited me to lie down on the bed, and then you knelt over me, bending down and
kissing me so deeply I could taste the butterscotch sauce of dessert on your lips.

It was my first time, I hesitated, but you took charge, guiding my cock to the base of your
gorgeous creamy entrance. It all happened so quickly, you lowered yourself onto me, and I
felt my cock suddenly enveloped by you. And then you began to ride me, I was too busy
struggling to control myself to do any thrusting.

Your tight little hole gripped my cock like a clenched hand. You rode me wantonly, gathering
speed as our excitement grew, until I was bold enough to cup your hot spanked cheeks in
my hands. I definitely came first, pushing the tip of my middle finger into your bottom hole
as I convulsed with pleasure. I felt you grinding your mound against mine as I came,
pushing down on me until you’d impaled yourself on fully on my finger. Your right hand flew
between your thighs, fluttering vigorously against your own little pearl as pleasure washed
through me. And then you came too, it was the beautiful sound I’d ever heard, a prolonged
girlish giggle of joy.

“Frecher Junge…” you gasped when I withdrew my finger from your bottom.

I took that as a compliment. As I was soon to discover, you did tend to temporarily lose your
ability to speak in English whenever you came. A trait I found immensely endearing.

The single beds in the chalet were too small to accommodate us both, but that night we
slept together in your bed anyway, our arms wrapped around each other, it helped prevent
either one of us tumbling to the floor.


By the next morning we were due to leave our chalet, but we couldn’t bear the thought of
going our separate ways. I had completely abandoned any thoughts of travelling east to the
museums and cafes of Vienna, and you seemed in no hurry to arrive in Italy. So we came up with a new plan, to go west to Lyon, and then venture into sun-drenched countryside of
Provence.

We walked hand in hand to the train station, and boarded the next train heading west,
snuggling beside each other watching the mountains crawl past. We were to spend the rest
of the summer together. Your company was absolutely intoxicating. You taught me what
Germans call vorfreude – that joyful, intense anticipation of imagining future pleasures. Our
budgets were limited, so we often slept apart in gender segregated hostel dorms, or we’d
stay with families in farms and homesteads, chastely sleeping in separate rooms.

But even so, we’d still tease each other, flashing a glimpse of our nakedness whenever our
hosts’ backs were turned. But once a week we’d treat ourselves to a private room, and both
spend the days leading up to it in a state of euphoric expectation. We felt like partners in
crime, on the run, scurrying deeper into the backroads of Europe.

Do you remember all the naughty things we got up to? I know excited you get, thinking back
to all the naughty things we’ve done.

How you loved to tease me. I recall your favourite tactic was trying to get me hard in
situations where I could nothing about it. You’d flash your panties, perhaps whispering into
my ear how wet you were, or even leave me naughty notes to discover in my backpack.
You’ll recall how I retaliated, by promising to put you over my knee when we were next
alone. I began to keep a tally, minor teases like sticking your tongue out would earn one
spank, whilst major teases like going to the loo, fingering yourself and rubbing your pussy
juices across my lips on your return would earn five. Yet my ingenious scheme only seemed
to encourage your misbehaviour, alas.

Trains proved a regular venue for mischief, which was fitting, given how we met. I’m sure
you remember one escapade in particular.

It started innocently enough, as so many erotic adventures do. My hand resting on your
thigh, as I idly looked out the window at the passing yellow blur of vast fields of sunflowers.
I rubbed your leg in slow circles, as you laid back in your seat and sighed. Soon, you whispered into my ear: “Higher”

My hand complied, and a pattern developed: I’d rub, you’d whisper in my ear, and my hand
would stray a bit further underneath your dress. Soon, I’d reached the top of your leg, stroking
along the crease of your thigh, feeling the fabric of your panties against my fingertips.

“Higher…” you pleaded.

Our carriage was almost empty, a virtue of our limited budget, the cheapest tickets were never on busy trains. I looked around casually, there was no one in the seats nearby to see us. So I let a
fingertip stray into your underwear, gently combing the fine hair on your mound.

“Lower… please…” you whispered.

My finger drifted downwards, like a drop of water being channelled by a furrow, until I
reached the velvety soft bump of your little hood. I stroked you there, and you writhed
silently in your seat. Soon your slit was soaking wet.

“Stand up” I told you a few minutes later.

You rose, your excitement and the motion of the train making your legs wobbly. The seat in
front of you was slightly higher than your waist, helpfully shielding you from any prying eyes. I
reached under your dress with both my hands, hooking my fingers into the elastic of your
panties, pulling them right down in one swift movement.

You had to throw your hands over your mouth to stifle your gasp.

I made you step out of your panties, and picked them off the floor. The crotch was dark with
your wetness, sticky to the touch. Then I stood too, so I could whisper into your ear.

“You are a naughty girl. You know what happens to naughty girls.”

I lifted the back hem of your dress, and quietly smacked one of your bare cheeks by way of
illustration.

“Now go to the toilet.” I instructed.

“Take off your dress and your bra, hang them up, and wait facing the corner with your hands
on your head. Keep the door unlocked.”

You looked round at me, your expression one of indignant shock, but I could see that was an
act, and you were struggling to keep the lust from your face. And then you turned and
walked towards the toilet at the end of the carriage, hips sashaying provocatively all the way
down the aisle. When you closed the door of the cubicle, I looked at the light above it to see
if you’d followed my instructions, it did not illuminate.

What was it like, waiting naked in that toilet cubicle? Knowing at any moment the door
would swing open, not knowing who it might be. Not knowing who would see you, standing
with your nose in the corner like a naughty little girl, ready to be spanked.

I let you wait for five minutes, rummaging in my bag but watching the carriage for any hint
of movement, ready to leap from my seat and get in front of anyone who came down the aisle with a lavatory visit on their mind. Then I strode down the aisle and pulled the door
open. You flinched, but didn’t turn around.

I opened the door to an extraordinary and beautiful sight. You stood obediently in the
corner, your hands on your head, your dress and bra hanging up as I’d instructed. I stepped
inside, locking the door behind me.

I saw in the mirror you had your eyes closed. I wonder if you knew it was me – or whether
you were just hoping it was? Did the thought of being discovered naked by a stranger
excite you? I slipped my hand between your thighs, folding my fingers and cupping your
cunt. You were so wet, I’d never seen you so aroused. I left my hand against your slit for you
to slide on, whilst I planted kisses on the nape of your neck.

You got close, didn’t you? Until I withdrew my hand and smacked your arse.

Inside, space was tight, far too cramped for me to sit on the toilet seat and put you over my
knee. So you remained standing in the corner, your head on your hands, resting against the
wall as I spanked your bare bottom pink. I did wonder if the sound of the smacks would be
audible, or masked by the clunking and clattering of the train. Or if someone was now
standing outside, waiting, and bursting for a pee.

After I’d spanked you, I pushed the door ajar slightly, peering outside to see if anyone was
waiting. But the corridor was empty. So I locked the door again, and cupped your buttocks
with my hands, finding each firm globe hot to the touch. I pulled your cheeks apart,
examining the pink wrinkle of your bottom hole, and the dark patch of skin that surrounded
it. Beneath, your lips were swollen and conspicuously wet.

With my palms on your bottom, I kept your cheeks held apart, whilst my thumbs massaged
either side of your slit. You were very excited indeed, I could slide my thumb all the way into
your vagina without resistance.

You weren’t the only one excited, my own erection was now painfully imprisoned in my
trousers. So I undid my jeans and tugged them down, and sat on the toilet seat. You looked
at my cock hungrily. I dipped my fingers into my front pocket and produced the condom I’d
stowed whilst you’d been waiting for me.

“Yes!” you nodded enthusiastically.

I tore open the packet eagerly, rolling the sheath down my shaft without delay. Then you
straddled me, lowering yourself onto my cock until you were fully impaled and sitting on my
lap. I reached around to grasp your bottom, feeling the heat from your spanked cheeks radiating
back into my palms. We rocked in time with the motion of the train, the subtle sway of track
curves providing the most wonderful sensations.

As we fucked, we mischievously agreed that the first one to come would open the door
when we were ready to leave, and so be the first to step out and encounter whoever might
be patiently waiting.

That challenge seemed to motivate you, and you began to grind yourself on top of me with
renewed vigour, trying to make me come. I had the advantage though, able to reach behind
you and tickle your bottom hole, circling it, teasing you by explaining just what I was about
to do. You begged me not to, bucking up and down frantically, clenching my cock with your
tight little cunt. I knew I couldn’t hold out much longer, so I slipped my index finger into
your bottom hole, so hot and smooth and tight. The muscles of your entrance gripped my
finger like a vice, but you couldn’t help but push down deeper on it.

Moments later, we came together, muffling our delight against each other’s shoulders.

When did eventually emerge, dressed, cleansed and smiling, we stepped out hand in hand.
What the world thought of us, we no longer cared.


During our time together I realised a fundamental truth. For as long as I could remember,
I’d fantasised about the female form, her soft hairless skin, the curves of her breasts, the
delicate folds of her sex, and the tight pink hole I longed to penetrate. Now I realised all
these were just locations. The real discovery was that underneath her beautiful flesh lurked
an erotic puzzle of desires and fantasies just as complex and enigmatic as my own. I might
spend a lifetime deciphering her, if I’m lucky.

After a week spent sleeping apart in the white-stone farmsteads of Provence, we got a room
of our own when we arrived in Avignon. We arrived during the culture festival, with posters
festooned over seemingly every vertical surface. We rented a little garret, and played like
bohemians. You were my life model, wearing nothing whilst I sketched your curves in
charcoal, whilst I wore just the artist’s linen smock I’d bought from the market.

By the following week, we’d arrived at the sparkling blue paradise of the Mediterranean
coast. This time we treated ourselves to a hut near the shore, and I spanked you before our every visit to the beach, making sure you wore your bikini thong so everyone on the promenade
could see your pretty pink cheeks.

We got up to much mischief on those beaches. Frolicking in the warm surf, hands wandering
underwater where they couldn’t be seen. Or you kneeling beside me wrapped in a towel, my hand underneath, so you could ride my fingers.

Our travels eventually took us to northern Italy, following the train routes east until we
reached Ravenna, just before it was time for us both to return to our homes. On our last day
together we laid a red rose at Dante’s tomb.

As we I stood in front of the cream-white stones, I whispered in your ear:

“In that book that is my memory.
On the first page, the chapter when I first met you, appear the words:
Here begins a new life.”


* * 9 * *

Tonight is our last night together. One last hot sultry night in Ravenna. Tomorrow we are
due to go our separate ways, me to the airport at Bologna, you on train heading north to
Germany.

For most of my story, you’ve been sitting astride my leg, occasionally rocking your pussy
against my kneecap as I, your blind storyteller, recounted my journey. It’s taken me a while
to tell my story. I hope you’ve enjoyed it.

And now my story is almost up to date.

Did the nature of my tale surprise you? Perhaps you expected to hear the tale of teenage
hijinks, each followed by a session of corrective discipline. But time I spent with my
wonderful headmistress went far beyond that.

Several times when I was recalling my spankings, I was surprised to feel you lift up my legs
and slap my bottom with your palm. Just enough to make it tingle. But I noticed that
afterwards, when you sat back down upon my knee, your pussy was always that bit hotter
and wetter.

“She must have really cared about you…” you say eventually.

I nod in agreement, picturing Jennifer’s kindly smile within the darkness of my blindfold.
There is a softness in your voice, a note of compassionate appreciation, and maybe also a hint of wistfulness.

I try to read you. Are you coveting what I had? You didn’t have a mentor
of your own, did you? No one to instruct you, no one to listen to your trials and tribulations.
To put you over their knee, to give you a good spanking when you deserved it, to wipe away
your tears and worries, and then tell you everything was going to work out fine.

A good spanking. Isn’t that a funny idiom? Of all the adjectives we could use, we call it a
good spanking. Not a shameful spanking, a disgusting spanking or a disgraceful spanking –
but something righteous, something merited and virtuous. I’d never pondered that familiar
linguistic coupling, but now it all made perfect sense. That spankings are given not because
either of us was wicked, but because they were an expression of a greater love.

I feel the tights around my wrists and forehead being loosened, blinking painfully as light
floods my eyes again, when I open them again, your smiling face fills my vision.

“I hope you enjoyed my little game…” you say at last.

“Very much, minx”.

“I can be a handful” you admit.

“You do need a strict hand” I confirm.

And then you pause, as if you’re thinking deeply, like you’re mentally establishing how to
express some complex thoughts in words.

“Why do you like spanking?” you ask, at last.

I open my mouth, about to give you a stock reply: that I just like it, that it always has. But the
intensity I can see in your eyes stops me, I know that answer won’t be sufficient.

What was it I learnt over the knee of my headmistress? What was it I wanted when I
fantasised about putting my classmates over my knee? It was never about enforcing rules
like some petty dictator. I’m not bossy, who really cares about school rules? Even I didn’t
care about school rules. No, it was something deeper. Much more profound.

Glimpses of pink bottoms and smiling girls filled my mind. And I realised it was the
consequences of spanking that turned me on, and the thrill of being the cause.

“I like spanking because…” I say after some deliberation, “… it’s playing. It’s play – for
grown-ups. A game of cause and effect.”

“The cause is applying a modest force to your beautiful body. It is a special kind of intimacy,
a vulnerability. When you consent to a spanking you’re allowing me to do what you’d let no-one else do – to smack your bottom until it is sore.”

“And the effects, well…” I blew out my cheeks just imagining them.

“How you react when I spank you excites me. I see a beautiful pink blush forming on your
perfect little bottom. Then there’s that sound, that reverberating stinging clap, followed
immediately by your body’s response. One uncensored by your mind, and completely
authentic. A gasp. A little yelp. A lingering moan.”

You smile coyly.

“When you’re over my knee I feel your body react. I can feel you clenching. Flinching.
Squirming. Yet still you raise your bottom again, and I know even though I’ve made your
bottom sore, you’re still aching for more.”

“I like spanking because I am the cause of the effects you feel: your pain, and your
pleasure.”

The words I’d just uttered had seemed to coalesce in my mind, I don’t really remember
composing them. That was just how I felt. I dearly hoped it didn’t make me sound weird. Put
into words, sex sometimes does sound weird. As if you’re trying to narrate a piece of music,
rather than simply performing it.

But spanking really wasn’t so different to fucking. Both were unions of two erotic minds, that
granted sensual pleasure to us both. Only instead of stimulating your mind through your
cunt with my cock, I was doing it via your buttocks with my hand. Yet spanking was involved
so many more feelings than just pleasure, it was a heady mix of pain and shame, of lust and
submission, of play and make-believe.

When I finish talking we look at each other in silence, both contemplating what’s just been
said. I am relieved to see your expression is not a frown of disgust, it might even just be a
lust-induced glare.

You edge closer, near enough for me to feel your firm nipples brush my chest. When you
eventually speak, your voice is quiet and coquettish, but this time I know it’s not an act.

“Will you be my spanker? I can be a very naughty.”

“I know.”

“Will you set my rules? Will you teach me my lessons?”

When I was a boy, before my coming of age, I childishly thought of love as a game to be won, that sex was just a prize to be claimed. But one can not appoint oneself a lover, or the
master of another. You have taught me that love is a choice. Your love must choose you
freely. And in every day you spend together, you must prove yourself worthy of her.

“I would be honoured, F​räulein.”​

We stare into each other’s eyes, as if sealing a solemn covenant.

Tomorrow we will both go our separate ways, to commence new journeys, to begin new
chapters of our lives. But the bond between us is strong, and we have pledged to meet again
before the year is out. I do not think our story is about to end.

But why worry about the future, when there’s so much to enjoy in the present.

“Now…” I say sternly.

“… let me show you what happens to naughty girls…”

And then I pull you towards me with an effortless strength that comes as a gentle surprise.

@spankingtheatre 2016

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

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