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Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

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gothic

The Island of Bones

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

Here be monsters, sensitive souls should proceed no further.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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* * 1 * * 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I AM HANNAH, the voice inside my head announced. 

I HAVE BEEN WAITING HERE SO VERY LONG.

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

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

What… happened to you? I thought instinctively. 

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

SHE LEFT ME HERE TO DIE.

What! Who? How? I stuttered.

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

They left England to cross the Atlantic in 1720. 

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

MAY I SHOW YOU? 

WILL YOU SEE THROUGH MY EYES?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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* * 2 * *

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

MY SOUL CAN NOT REST. 

I HAVE COMMITTED TOO MANY SINS.

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

I NEED TO SHOW YOU.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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* * 3 * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AM I WICKED?

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

CAN YOU EVER FORGIVE ME?

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

I NEED TO SHOW YOU MY GUILT.

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

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

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* * 4 * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do I get a last request?”

“Within reason.”

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

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

“What do you say, my love?”

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

“Kneel.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please! No!”

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

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

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

But then something quite unexpected happens. 

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

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

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

“Please…” croaks Penelope, teetering precariously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The seas could be so cruel. Hannah was heartbroken.

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* * 5 * *

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

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

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

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

IT’S ALL MY FAULT.

WILL I EVER FIND PEACE?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

Except she didn’t. 

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

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

I am looking through my own eyes now. 

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

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

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

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

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

My mind is swamped by questions. 

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or at the very least, the company of ghosts.

And so here I wait, in the silence. 

Alone on a mountain of bones.

Staring beyond an empty horizon. 

Yearning for Hannah to return. 

To whisk me away from here.

Into her sordidly beautiful dreams.

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@spankingtheatre 2020

Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.

Glimpse is so original, so clever, so evocative, so beyond anything that I could write myself, that I barely know how to make a rational comment.

If my stories ever end up published in a book, I’d love to put this wonderful comment on the back cover.

Glimpse is still one of my favourite stories, a ghost story in the Gothic tradition, pitch black but darkly beautiful. And if you haven’t yet read it, I hope one day, you will…

Stolen Essence

A Gothic Spanking Ghost Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was naked. And I was not alone.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s when he comes for us.


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

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

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

The Warlock is farming us.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then it is my turn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then we woke in our beds, knowingly used.


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

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

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

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

And my next time was different still.

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

And then he came for me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Naughty girls drip the most exquisite essence.

I would savour you longer.

But your blink is almost over.

You must be returned.

Before your reality misses you.

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

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

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

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

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

And then everything changed. Yet nothing was different.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

@spankingtheatre 2016

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.

You’re welcome to reblog and share.

Runaway

spankingtheatre:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keep reading

Continuing our Halloween countdown, a reminder that you can’t run away without ending up somewhere.

And don’t forget, a brand new story will be posted at midnight tonight…

Fall

spankingtheatre:

A Halloween spanking story

It floated ghost-like in the corner of her vision. A thin line, like a hair trapped inside a pair of glasses. Only Judith didn’t wear glasses.

It was so faint as to be almost imperceptible. If she tried to focus on it, it vanished. It was curled idiosyncratically at one end, reminiscent of a shepherd’s crook – or, come to think of it – the canes on the wall of the headmasters’ study. Judith was now a senior pupil of an old-fashioned New England school, and so had sat beneath the canes many times, always mesmerised by what they represented. A means of punishment, of ensuring obedience, of making bottoms sore. Not that Judith had ever been disciplined herself, of course. Her school record had been impeccable, her weekly visits to the headmaster had merely been to discuss school business, her responsibilities as a prefect, the logistics of field trips and the enforcement of school regulations.

Nevertheless, the canes on wall had become a secret fascination. When the head’s attention was elsewhere Judith’s eyes would be drawn, almost magnetically, back to those four thin rods, each lying horizontally in two little curved brass rests, crook handles downwards. She’d try to assess in a glance if any had recently been moved. Each cane was the same length, so usually they all lined up. But sometimes, one cane was out of position, a bit to the left or right of all the others. Which had to mean, at some time during the past week – my goodness – one of her fellow pupils had been…

Barbara interrupted her day-dreaming, “So… are you coming?”

Keep reading

Continuing our Halloween countdown, here’s what happens when a spanking story is set within a haunted house. Mind your step…

Glimpse

spankingtheatre:

A spanking ghost story

A single glimpse was enough to doom me.

Yet all I did was tiptoe across the drifts of yellow fallen leaves, towards the inviting glow of hospitable light, and peek through a house’s window. 

My glimpse lasted no longer than a heartbeat.
I saw her standing beside a roaring fireplace, her hair braided in golden plaits, glimmering in the fire light, tumbling over the shoulders of her loose white nightshirt.
I glimpsed her bare bottom; captivating, beautiful, pert pink globes – with a crook-handled cane wedged between her cheeks, hitching up her nightie, exposing her to my prying eyes.

It was only the merest glance. Sudden movement drew my eye: a menacing black blur, advancing quickly. Startled, I recoiled from the window, acutely conscious I’d just seen something I was not supposed to see.

Instinctively, I turned and ran.

Keep reading

Beginning our countdown to Halloween, a repost of my first ever spanking ghost story. Dark and metaphysical, this tale is still one of my personal favourites…

Nuanced Pictures

An anonymous reader writes:

I came across the lovely pictures portraying scenes from Glimpse and Punishment Panties. They’re breathtakingly vivid, and to me they’re priceless visual accompaniments.

Glimpse is
a marvellous story- suspenseful, dark and starkly evocative. I’ve read it before but after seeing the new picture

I was intrigued once again. The picture beautifully captures the essence of the story since it’s

a wonderful representation of the eroticism of forbidden sights. It’s such

a nuanced picture; so cozy and inviting on the surface yet full of sinister undertones. The grilled windows were
a splendid touch – apparently distancing the viewer but also acting as
a warning of entrapment. It’s
a very enticing picture, tempting everyone to stop for
a moment and peer in…

Glimpse is a story that doesn’t age with time; it’s possible to find new meanings after each reading.


They are indeed wonderful pictures, @asajones2 and Charlotte did a terrific job, working from just the few paragraphs I supplied to create their own brilliant interpretations.

And it’s always great to hear appreciation for Glimpse. It’s still one of my favourite stories, I’ve always loved dark gothic ghost stories, the kind M.R James and Poe used to
write. Those familiar with the gothic style will recognise the tropes, the
pained reminiscences of a narrator, haunted by visions and tormented by
their own desires.

I’ve always believed erotic stories should aim to be more than just recipes to arouse their reader. And what better setting for a spanking than a tale of temptation and punishment, one as dark and disturbing as a bottomless pit.

For those who haven’t yet read it, are you brave enough to Glimpse?

I love dark gothic ghost stories, the kind M.R James and Poe used to write. And this tale of erotic temptation and punishment is one of my personal favourites. Are you brave enough to glimpse?

Glimpse

I love dark gothic ghost stories, the kind M.R James and Poe used to write. And this tale of erotic temptation and punishment is one of my personal favourites. Are you brave enough to glimpse?

Glimpse

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