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Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

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halloween

The Girl in the Mirror

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To whoever finds these pages,

I am writing down these memories in the hope that recording my experiences might awaken me from this awful nightmare. Or at the very least, help preserve what remains of my sanity. If you stumble across these words, I pray they are not too late to save you from the fate that has befallen me.

Because I should not be here.

I belong in another life. In another, quite different reality.

Yet now I realise how little it takes to stumble between worlds. The gentle push of  a sudden squall, a soaking deluge on a dim dank late October evening. A split-second decision to veer into the nearest doorway to shelter.

As the cold rain teemed down, without an end in sight, I began to pay more attention to my surroundings, and realised I beneath the porch of a quaint old antique shop.

Impulsively, I decided to venture inside. A tinny brass bell tinkled as I entered, although not loudly enough to wake the shopkeeper, a white-whiskered gentleman who continued to snooze obliviously behind the counter.

I walked past him, slowly and quietly, not wanting to disturb his slumbers. The interior was a ramshackle collection of worn-out furniture and curios. The gaps between the merchandise had been eaten away by the additional of new items, to the point where the walkways through the shop were so challengingly narrow it felt more like an obstacle course than a retail space.

I weaved through the jumble carefully, trying not to bump or break anything. The palette of the shop were shades of tired time-worn browns, the rusty dusty dressed colour of items whose original owners had passed, and their inheritors too. Those who had once cared for and polished these items were long dead, their bodies decayed to mud or incinerated. Yet their possessions had endured. Even though their furniture had died long before them, being fashioned from the corpses of long-dead trees.

This was, I realised, a mausoleum of what had once been treasured. A requiem to the furnishings that had once brought such joy to their homes, and which now sat in musty silence, mourning their owners, awaiting the chance of a new one.

I began to see the items around me differently. Not as tired old junk, but merely dormant, just like the shopkeeper.

That was when my attention was captured by a dressing table, and in particular, its strange old oval mirror. There was an odd sharpness to its silver rim, one that made it seem like a still pool of water, somehow captured upright. Its glass seemed ethereal, almost impossibly clear, in stark contrast to the scratched and pitted wood of the table underneath.

My reflection gazed back at me, with clarity and depth that belied the dim light of my surroundings. I had the eerie sensation that if I concentrated hard enough, I could begin to see things beyond my own reflection. I thought I caught a glimpse of a rudimentary bed, covers bulging as if someone was sleeping beneath. Alarmed, I span around to check behind me. But I found myself quite alone. With no sign of a bed of any kind.

I turned to walk away, but couldn’t help looking over my shoulder at my diminishing reflection. It was so vivid, shining as if backlit amid the piles of gloomy clutter stacked around it. Each step further away from it made my tummy churn, as if I was already missing it.

The shopkeeper’s eyes blinked open as I passed him. He asked me if I’d seen anything I liked, nodding when I mentioned the old dressing table. Its price was surprisingly reasonable. Recklessly, daringly, I decided to buy it.

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The old dressing table was delivered to my home the following day. I had it placed at the foot of the bed, so its wonderful luminous mirror could throw its light across my bedroom. I liked to lie on my bed and stare at it, especially as I masturbated, with my legs spread wide, my intimate manipulations reflected back to me in perfect clarity.

Then, a few days after it arrived, I began to notice weird aberrations in the reflection, objects in the bedroom not quite appearing where they should be.

In the days that followed, the discrepancies between my room and the reflection seemed to increase. Until one morning I was shocked to see something moving in the reflected image. It seemed to be a person, a young woman. It did not appear to be me. Startled, I looked around anxiously, but found myself alone.

I peered closer, the fuzzy image sharpening, replacing the reflection of my own surroundings the more I concentrated on it. Now I could see the girl beyond was standing in front of her own bed, which looked like the one I’d momentarily seen in the shop.

Details of her face began to resolve, and I noticed for the first time she was wearing a bridle bar gag in her mouth, which opened her lips into a provocative pout. She was remarkably pretty, I found myself jealously wishing I was as eye-catchingly beautiful.

The woman loomed closer, lifting her flimsy gown and looking over her shoulder to examine herself. I realised then she must be looking into a mirror of her own. As she hitched up her hem, she revealed that she was not only wearing nothing underneath, but that her bottom was bright pink, with the telltale overlapping rectangular bands of a recent strapping. She inspected her marks in full view of me, as if I was standing right in front of her, my magical mirror giving me an extraordinarily intimate view.

Can she see me? I remember wondering. Does she know I’m watching her?

As I spied on her, she began to rub her spanked bottom with both hands, often pausing her massage to let her forefinger stray between her cheeks. As she pulled her buttocks wider, I noticed a silvery glint from between her legs, which I initially thought was some kind of labial jewellery.

Her fingertip was circling her bottom hole now, the crinkled little hollow clearly on display, as if she wanted me to see everything.

Overcome by the urge to play, I stripped off and sat on the edge of the bottom of my bed, as close as I could get to my mirror, and the compelling scene beyond. I spread my legs wide, stroking my drippy slit before l let my finger drift lower, until I was circling my own bottom like the girl I was watching.

I could not hear the girl I was watching, so I had no idea if she was panting, or emitting little mews of satisfaction as she played. I couldn’t see her other hand, but assumed it was circling her clit, just as my other hand was doing. I wondered if she could hear me, my moans and my squelching?

I saw her turn around, and peer towards me. Suddenly, I was looking into the eyes of the girl in the mirror. Her expression didn’t change, but it seemed that our gazes connected. Somehow I felt that I knew her, and caught glimpses of her memories.

Painful memories.

Of abandonment. Loneliness. Salvation. And bondage.

I could hear the clink of chains. And the cries of floggings.

I stared at the mirror, overcome by a sudden feeling of vertigo, as if I was peering over the rim into an endless hole. But unable to stop.

Carried away, I continued rubbing, and the beauty in the mirror stared into my eyes as I reached the point of no return. I’m sure I saw her smile.

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And then, I must have fainted.

They call it la petite mort.

The little death.

I came, more intensely than I’d ever done before.

And something inexplicable happened.

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I awoke in woozy haze, to find myself looking back at the mirror. The girl in the mirror was now lying on her bed. When I moved my arm, the reflection mimicked me.

Because it was me.

There was a bridle gag in my mouth, its bar firmly between my teeth, holding down my tongue, keeping my mouth open in a suggestive pout. I leapt to my feet, screaming, only for the gag to muffle my cries. My clumsy fingers tried frantically to remove it, but there was never any chance of undoing the fastenings.

I stumbled towards the mirror in a state of mild terror, raising my hands to my cheeks to discover I had a different face now. A remarkably beautiful face.

And more than my face had changed, I realised I was inhabiting someone else’s body.

I raised my gown to discover I was younger, and leaner. My breasts smaller and firmer. My mound was shaved smooth and bare. And my pert bottom was still pink and stinging.

But alarmingly, my labia were pierced and closed shut with three small silver rings. Attached to the topmost ring was a thumbnail-sized silvery shield, which  had been fashioned with a curve that hugged the contours of my new body, completely enclosing my clitoris. It was anchored in place by a thin bar that pierced the fold above my hood. I could see greasy fingerprints on its shiny surface.

Bewildered, and suddenly queasy with fear, my instinct was to run. As my heart thundered in my chest, I tried the handle on the door, which opened into a long colonnade of bright white columns.

Between the columns were occasional alcoves, some empty, and some occupied by statues. The white marble figures were intricately carved, with bridles in their grimacing mouths and rings in the cleft between their legs. Just like me, which made a chill of recognition run down my spine.

I crept past dozens of closed doors, with skylights and windows providing alternating pools of light and gaps of darkness. My pace quickened as felt the breeze of outdoor air, and saw the green of a garden ahead, but the view was abruptly dimmed as an ominous silhouette loomed before me.

I halted in mid-step, as the figure encroached into my little pool of daylight, revealing herself to be an attractive, impeccably dressed lady, possibly a decade older than myself. In contrast to my gauzy white gown, she was dressed in an austere black. A nasty-looking leather strap hung from her belt.

The woman barked a question at me, in a tone of voice that suggested she was most displeased with me. I didn’t fully understand the language she spoke, but the bridle in my mouth meant I couldn’t reply, even if I’d wanted to.

She grabbed my wrist, scolding me as she dragged me back to the room where I’d woken, which I could only assume was where I was meant to reside. Whatever here actually is.

She made me kneel on my bed, head down, bottom up, before lifting my gown to spank me on the bare. I moaned into the bridle as my already stinging cheeks were burned further by her cruel leather strap.

I was put to bed immediately afterwards, with hot ache of horniness smouldering deep inside me, the shield enclosing my clit denying me the chance to relieve myself. I took what consolation I could by rubbing my bottom hole, just as I’d seen the girl in the mirror do, before falling into a deep and troubled sleep.

The next morning, I woke early, as the amber light of dawn seeped through my little window. My room was spartan, empty except for a bed and a dressing table, which seemed indistinguishable to the one I’d bought, a week and half a lifetime ago. Its large oval mirror still gleamed with an unnatural light.

That first morning I remember just staring at my own image, or at least, the image of who I’d now become. I tried to concentrate as I’d done yesterday, until I began to see beyond my own reflection, and into another world beyond. My heart leapt when I caught sight of my own bedroom, my own clothes still scattered messily on floor, my mobile sitting idly on my bedside table.

And on my own bed, I could see myself — or least the body I used to recognise as my own. My body was naked, with her hand stroking between her legs.

Can she see me? I wondered. Was she playing as she watched me, as I once watched her?

That was when I realised another mind now inhabited my body, one surely delighted to discover her slit was not sealed, and her own clitoris was uncovered. I could see how she examined my folds in the mirror with an intense fascination.

I gazed into the mirror as deeply as I could bear, until I felt my mind strain, hoping to catch her gaze and lock eyes as she came. But I never could, because I don’t think she ever saw me. Perhaps she didn’t want to see beyond the mirror any more, back to her old world of pain and humiliation. For now, she was content merely to enjoy her own reflection.

And then they came for me.

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I believe no-one knows I don’t really belong here.

No-one has ever explained why I’m here in the first place, so I’ve had to put the pieces together myself. I’ve even been able to learn some of their strange language, just enough to understand others, as I’m not permitted to talk.

They refer to me as Four, as that’s the number on my door. There are 19 other young ladies like myself here. None have names, just numbers. All are kept bridled.

This establishment is not a school, but some kind of training academy, where absolute obedience is demanded and punishments are commonplace.

We are being trained, it seems, to be Pavlovian Slaves.

That’s the best explanation I can come up with. We are being trained like Pavlov’s Dogs, conditioned to associate food with sexual satisfaction of others.

We have been told that when we leave this place, it will be to enter a life of sexual service. That when our Master or Mistress is at home, we will not be permitted to eat until we have pleasured them. And if necessary, any guests that are present too.

Hence we spend our days learning the art of erotic pleasure. How to use every part of our bodies to arouse and stimulate. Mouths, hands, feet, breasts, thighs and bottoms — everywhere but the vagina, in fact. That region remains sealed and untouched, until such time our owners decide to remove the rings that keep us closed.

As we are being trained to associate our owners’ pleasure with our own appetite, the only time we’re not gagged are the two meals where we assemble to be fed.

Our first meal is breakfast, before our day’s lessons begin. As we enter the dining room, we are ungagged, the straps that hold the bridle bar loosened so it dangles around our throats like a choker.

On each visit we each draw a ball from a porcelain urn. Each ball has a colour, and a number. White balls correspond to one of the 12 dining chairs, which have ivory phalluses on the seats. Those who draw a white ball kneel before the corresponding chair. By now, our conditioning means we are drooling, and so we eagerly take the carved protrusion in our hungry mouths.

Each cock is different, and the random allocation means we attend to a different one on every visit. I know all the cocks so well now. Numbers 1, 8 and 10 are big and thick; 2 and 4 are known as the flagpoles, thinner but ramrod straight; 3, 6 are distinctly curved.

The girls giggle about number 5, aptly nicknamed Bumstretcher, it’s half the length of the longest, but the thickest of them all. The others are shorter and stubbier, but we’ve been well-taught to deal with penises of all shapes and sizes.

Those kneeling before the phalluses suck them for five minutes, until a little bell rings, which is the signal to rise from our knees and take our seats. The protrusions well coated with our drool as we take them in our bottoms.

Choosing one of the 7 pink balls from the urn means a seat at the Mistresses’ table, kneeling between their legs to lick their bare cunts. Then rising to sit on her lap to be fed when the little bell tinkles.

The Mistresses are our instructors. There are two kinds of classes here, practical lessons on delivering sexual pleasure, where we master anatomy, techniques and positions, and physical training to develop our strength, stamina and suppleness. By now, we all have the toned physiques of athletes.

The lucky girl who draws the single golden ball gets to dine with the Academy Master. Her meal will begin with his cock in her mouth, until she feels his cream splashing the back of her throat. She’ll swallow that hungrily, before taking her place on his lap to be fed.

If he hardens again before the meal ends, she will be expected to dutifully roll a slippery sheath down his cock, then sit down on his lap so his stiffness enters her bottom. She’ll be expected to demonstrate her mastery of anal fucking, riding breathlessly as the whole room looks on in admiration.

Dinner time is the only opportunity to speak to the other young women here. We’re not supposed to talk, but we exchange illicit whispers. I’ve become more adept at understanding their language, which is both somehow familiar, yet eerily foreign.

I have asked about their families, but it seems all of us are orphans, each selected for service once we’d reached our 18th year. That was when we’d each been pierced and had our slits closed. We are each much too valuable a property to fall pregnant. And it prevents us from pleasuring ourselves.

I’ve also been earnestly warned not run to away from this place. My sisters speak fearfully about those they’ve seen try. Some point sadly at friends they claim they used to know, who now inhabit the alcoves of the colonnade, somehow frozen in time, petrified into stone.

Yet every morning before I’m summoned for lessons, I try to find a way home, I’ve tried masturbating anally in front of the mirror, trying to recreate the circumstances that brought me here. But nothing ever happens, it’s never quite the same, the other girl is never on the other side looking back at me.

Now my view of my old world is fading. Every morning I try to peer past my own reflection, but each day my view of my old bedroom is even fainter. I don’t know why, whether whatever channel that once linked our two worlds is diminishing, or if the other side of the mirror has been moved into a loft, or given away to a gloomy antiques shop.

It’s been months since I’ve seen the other girl, the inhabitant of my old body. I wonder how she’s faring in my modern world? In the life that she stole from me.

I have tried to rationalise what’s happened to me, to come up with some kind of explanation. Perhaps the mirror is some kind of escape tunnel, created by well-meaning abolitionists to liberate those unfortunate enough to find themselves doomed to a life of sexual bondage. Perhaps they’re unaware that the destination of those that escape is not their own reality, but one completely different. Was it their intention that we should swap places? Or was it a freak accident, an inadvertent consequence of climaxing whilst our minds were somehow connected?

If this is not a dream, then I fear I am trapped here, lost somewhere in time and space, in an unreal reality.

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Something happened last night, in the flickering candlelight.

My time at the Academy is almost complete. I have been fully trained, there is little more they can teach me. So now I have been allocated.

My new Master seems to be a senior member of this society’s nobility. When I first encountered him, he was wearing a martial dress uniform, embellished with gilded epaulettes and extravagant braids.

I, naturally, wore nothing. Except for my bridle.

I knelt respectfully, just as I’d been taught, my face just in front of his crotch. Waiting for the moment when he unfastened my gag, whereupon I would reciprocate by unbuttoning his lampas-embroidered trousers.

With us was the Academy Master, to which the visitor addressed his questions. I recognised the familiar words for the rod and the whip.

I am told to rise and bend over for inspection. The visitor’s  hands are strong but he has the soft skin of an aristocrat. He strokes and fondles my buttocks, testing their firmness, before inserting his little finger into the tiny gap that remains of my slit. He seems satisfied to find me already drooling.

I think hear him ask:

May I try her?

I was taken to a candlelit boudoir that was dominated by a huge four-poster bed.

The visitor, who others deferred to as a Duke, had led me to the bed, and I had laid alluringly on my back as he admired my lithe naked body.

Then he reached over me, lifting my legs, pushing back my ankles until I was bent in half, my feet on either side of my head. There were cuffs attached to the corner posts, which he secured them around my ankles, and another pair for my wrists, ensuring my arms were spread towards the corners.

I watched helplessly as he fetched an unlit candle from a bedside candelabra, and warmed its base with the flame of another. Then he pulled something smooth and shiny from his pocket, and stuck the candle to its flat top using its melted wax. When he brought it closer, and I could see the shiny object was a steel butt plug.

In this position,with my bottom pointing towards the ceiling, my arousal seeped from my gap, dribbling over my bottom hole and down between my splayed buttocks, helpfully lubricating me when he pushed the slick plug into my bottom. The candle on the plug was now protruding vertically, and he used another candle to light it, before extinguishing every one of the surrounding lights.

Now we were alone together, surrounded by darkness, sharing the tiny pool of light emanating from the single remaining candle between my legs. From my point of view, it protruded proudly like a miniature lighthouse.

He disappeared into the blackness, and I heard the rustling of discarded clothes.

When he reappeared inside my little pool of light he was naked, with a riding whip in his hand. He began to spank me, and I could do nothing but struggle against my bonds, and feel the heat in my buttocks rising.

I remember staring at the mesmerising candle flame as he flogged me, watching the droplets of wax dribble downwards. At first, the molten wax hardened as soon as it touched the base of the metal plug. But it wasn’t long before the plug was coated in wax, which permitted the hot drips to run even further, right down to the very base of the plug and onto my bare skin. This wax momentarily burned my most sensitive parts, feeling like the impact of a tiny cane around my bottom hole.

The little pool of light we shared became dimmer as the last remaining candle diminished. As the flame got ever lower, I could see it flickering in the draught of his swishing crop. It did not escape my notice how skilfully he shielded the flame with one hand, as he spanked me with the other.

As the candle flame descended, the crust of solidified wax between my legs grew thicker, but I could also begin to feel the heat of the candle flame heating the steel of the plug in my bottom. As the heat rose, the burning heat from my flogging made me fear I was about to catch fire. I cried into my bridle, pleading for mercy with words I knew he’d never hear or understand.

Then suddenly, the candle spluttered out, plunging us both into absolute darkness.

Alone with just the sound of each others’ panting breath, we waited. Then I could feel the wax on my crotch cracking and crumbling, as he withdrew the plug from me,  leaving my bum hole abruptly exposed and gaping.

Now I could feel the heat of the Duke’s muscular body approach me. Moments later, my bottom hole was filled by something hot and moist, and stiff and long.

I moaned into my bridle, biting the rubber bar as we both convulsed in the dark.

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My fate was to become a sex slave.

I live in His opulent manor, that is the extent and entirety of my world now. Its high spiked railings mark the boundary of my universe, what lies beyond is of no interest. My purpose is service.

The Duke, my Master, is a strict, but honourable owner.

Whilst my esteemed Master is away, attending to affairs of state, I am left to wander my gilded cage. I drift around its immaculately tended gardens, its gloriously decadent rooms, and my favourite place of all: its soaring wooden-panelled library.

It is here in the library that I’ve been scribbling down my memories, I have no idea if anyone else will ever read these confessions, but it helps me remember the life I once had in that other world.

I am hiding my pages within the leaves of my Master’s books, He is always far too busy to ever read them. I suspect the true role of these towering shelves is really to signal His erudition to His visitors. Just as I am a means to demonstrate His exquisite taste for the feminine form.

Perhaps His descendants will find what I’ve written in decades from now, long after we’re both gone. But I have one last trick to play, something they can never take away from me. My language.

I have written my memoirs in English, a language no-one here understands. Those who discover my pages will find my weird writing baffling; but that is my intention. Mysteries make things valuable. My hope is that in time these pages will come to be treasured, copied, examined and scrutinised by curious curators.

I am dedicating my time to creating my very own Voynich Manuscript. As time passes, its infamy will grow, it will be that notoriously undeciphered text. This is the mystery that will spread it far and wide, becoming an obsession for amateur codebreakers and linguists.

Eventually, I hope, they’ll crack it and translate it, and be able to read it. The strange story of The Girl in the Mirror will be known around the world, the girl whose soul was somehow captured by a siren’s reflection.

But like all great fairytales, I shall embed within it my own subversive ideas. This society  seems to believe order demands freedom from choice. I shall describe  a mirror-image world, a world of sexual liberation, personal liberty and freedom of choice. I hope those who read it will begin whispering. Who knows, maybe such words might be the spark that ignites a purgative fire.

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But that is a future I know I will not see. I have now accepted my fate, and made peace with my new purpose. To please my new Master.

When my Master is home, I am not permitted to eat until He has been satisfied.

Now I crave pleasuring Him in the same way I crave food. I salivate in His presence, drooling from my gagged mouth and shuttered slit.

They conditioned me well at the Academy. Since when I grow hungry, I become horny as well.

My job is to pre-empt his pleasure. Sometimes I bring him his favourite whip, and bend over submissively. Or I let him discover me, dressed up alluringly, or not dressed at all, glistening with aromatic oils and stroking my own body.

And then I am spanked. He likes to spank me. To hear the slap of His palm on my perfect bottom, or the slap of His whip, the pretty marks it makes and the moans it provokes.

When He unfastens my bridle afterwards, He likes to hook His little finger into the gap of my slit, and dab my own arousal onto the tip of my tongue.

I have come to learn that the only taste more divine than the saltiness of my own cunt is what issues from His thick firm cock.

When He is satisfied, we eat together. I typically sit on His lap, my kind Master raising the food to my mouth, stroking my hair as I chew contentedly and appreciatively. He likes to feed me, like a favourite pet.

He likes to position me so my bare bottom hangs over the edge of one thigh, so He can fondle and spank my warm pink cheeks, whilst my own arm is thrown around his shoulders. I embrace Him like a doomed sailor clinging to a mast in a storm. He is my rock, my world entire.

I exist to serve.

I am The Girl in the Mirror now.

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@spankingtheatre 2019

Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.

You’re welcome to reblog and share.

Erotic Ghost Stories

As
a writer, I like to think there’s more to eroticism than just
descriptions of sexual activity. Sure, there are plenty of kinks to
describe, and no end of possible scenarios exploring every avenue of
powerplay and pleasure. But I believe there’s also a darker, more
psychological side, exploring shadow themes like trepidation and
anxiety, transgression and escapism, and suspense and uncertainty.

That’s
why each Halloween, I set out to write an erotic ghost story. 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.

You
might think an erotic ghost story is an oxymoron. So here are a few
ideas for enjoying darker stories, and creating a playtime with a
macabre twist…

The Captive

Imagine
you’re held captive in a dungeon. Tie a wrist, a collar or your panties
to the frame of your bed. Alternatively, tie your ankles to the front
legs of a chair to hold your legs open. If your chosen scenario demands
you are kept quiet, put your panties in your mouth to muffle your
screams. Turn off the light and read the story illuminated by just your
screen.

Why
are you imprisoned? Perhaps you’ve been kidnapped or captured for
ransom, perhaps you’re a rebel or pirate awaiting execution. Spank,
pleasure and torment yourself as your imagination demands.

The Candle

Sit
cross-legged and naked, with just a single long thick candle for
company. Put a condom on the blunt end, light the wick at the other, and
turn out the lights. Put something underneath you (like scrap paper) to
catch any dripping wax, then read the story as you masturbate with the
candle — without letting it go out.

If
it does go out, give yourself a two-minute spanking in the dark as a
forfeit before you re-light the candle. If you like the burning
sensation of molten wax, play with the candle above you, otherwise angle
the candle away from you, with something underneath to catch the
dripping wax. Perhaps you’ll be creative and use your candle to roleplay
a witches’ coven, or an exorcism, or a seance…

The Magic Wand

Put
on your wizard/witch’s robe (a sheet will suffice), with nothing
underneath. As you read the story, cast spells with your magic
wand — they might be protection spells, seeing spells, or punishment or
pleasure spells that allow you the magician to vicariously experience
aspects of the story.

If
you own one of those old-fashioned wands — a stick, ruler or rod — cast
your spells with smacks to your hands, thighs and bottom. If you have
one of those new high-tech vibrating wands, you may cast your spells all
over your body (and not just between your legs).

You might even want to go for a ride on your broom. Have you ever noticed how a witch rides with her broomstick right between her slit, tilted upwards to press her clit? Then you should read this.

The Bedtime Story

Get
someone to put you to bed, and read you a creepy story by candlelight.
The reader doesn’t need to be in the same location as you, they can read
it over a video chat. If they are nearby, it means reassuring hugs,
rubs and cuddles during the scary bits. You might even find the story
literally scares the pants off you.

Just
be sure to ask for your storyteller’s permission before touching
yourself, or your might find yourself pulled out of bed for a spanking,
before being made to stand in the corner with a sore bum in the dark…

Halloween
is a great excuse to explore and experiment with darker, more shadowy
themes like trepidation and anxiety, transgression and escapism, and
jeopardy and torment. If you have a partner, and like the idea of
Halloween-themed playtime, you might want to share this post with them.

Invite a story into your imagination

If
these ideas have piqued your interest, and you’d like to read something
darkly erotic this Halloween, here are a few suggestions:

  • Fall
    is set on a Halloween night, in 1950s New England. The spooky
    woods where witches were once said to dwell have since been replaced by a
    staid and boring suburbia. And a group of teenagers, now too old for
    pumpkin parties, embark on their own pulse-quickening
    adventure.
  • Runaway is a story about escapism and erotic submission. Because you can’t run away without ending up somewhere.
  • Glimpse
    is one of my personal favourites. A dark ghost story of erotic
    temptation and punishment. A warning though, this is no story of cartoon
    ghosts, this is a Halloween story in the spirit of Poe and MR James, as
    dark and disturbing as a bottomless pit.
  • Grimoire is a tale of invaded minds and dark obsessions, of enchanted books and well-spanked bottoms.
  • Stolen Essence mixes the supernatural and the kinky, featuring passages
    that are surreal, fantastical and dream-like. Heavily inspired by
    Gothic tropes, this one is a dark, psychological story which, which rewards the careful reader with several possible interpretations as to what
    actually occurred…

The best erotic ghost stories are eerie, bleak  – and  yet – exciting.

If you must have nightmares…

They should be marvellous, panty-soaking nightmares.

Sex Magick – A Halloween Story

By @missfesterworth from an original idea by spankingtheatre.

Popularity doesn’t necessarily equal exclusivity.

Or,
in other words, just because you may have heard of the most POPULAR
school of Witchcraft in the United Kingdom, that doesn’t necessarily
mean its the ONLY such school that exists.

For not all witches and
wizards are created equal. Some children born into magical families are
blessed and exhibit their magical talents from an early age. Some,
sadly, never exhibit any magical talents at all.

And some witches
and wizards must wait until they come of age to inherit their magical
powers. These magical powers, once received, are some of the most
ancient and complex magical powers of them all. For they rely on the
energy of the erotic to perform their magic.

In other words – Sex Magick.

Sex
Magick is even more difficult to master than its non-erotic
counterpart. It requires a great deal more self-discipline to control
due to the complex cocktail of softly shimmering hormones brewing just
below the surface. The nature of the magick is such that it arrives just
when men and women are beginning to discover their own sexuality. The
witches and wizards must be taught how to recognise these powers, yes,
but also to contain their powers and control them before they can begin
to harness them to perform any sort of a spell. For if they don’t learn
to control their urges and contain their magic to be utilised properly,
the results can be…catastrophic.

Therefore, the education of these
so-gifted witches and wizards once they’ve come of age and awoken to
their powers is undertaken by the Amatorius Academy of Eros Witchcraft
and Wizardry.

The academy is run as a boarding school, so the
students live there while undertaking their instruction. There are
mandatory subjects that the students must study, and lessons to attend,
of both the theoretical and practical variety. Unlike most schools, the
first day of term at the Academy begins on October 31st every year, on
the day when the veil between the natural and the supernatural is at its
thinnest, and witching powers are at their peak.

Due to the
nature of the magic being performed, there are, of course, strict rules.
These rules are FAR stricter than you may even expect to find at a
boarding school, and any straying from them results in swift and
thorough punishment. The punishments are normally left to the discretion
of the Headmaster, and almost always include corporal punishments.
Chastising the flesh has been found over the years to be the most
effective manner to teach discipline and control when dealing with
erotic energies. If the Headmaster is too busy to oversee a punishment
personally, or there are multiple culprits to chastise in one session,
he may rely on enchanted canes or paddles to administer the whacking,
leaving him free to see to other tasks.

Most First Year students
are most keen to learn to fly when they enter the Academy. For flying,
of course, is one of the most common principles associated with
witchcraft. Everyone has seen the age-old images of witches riding their
broomsticks across a full moon on Halloween night. Therefore, flying is
of utmost importance, and of course one of those mandatory courses at
the academy that all first year students must take.

Broomstick flight, for those who rely on Sex Magick, is a little different in principle than most can imagine.

The
pupils arrive for their first Flying theory lesson, bright eyed with
excitement. The professor of this subject is a formidable middle-aged
wizard called Professor Roux. It is clear from his demeanour that no
misbehaviour in these lessons will be tolerated as he calls the class to
order and begins to describe how broomstick flight operates. Woe betide
anyone who isn’t paying close attention, and taking notes!

First
and foremost, undergarments are NEVER worn by a witch or wizard who
practices Sex Magick. For the power of flight can only be harnessed by
the broomstick held in-between their legs if it comes into direct contact
with their most intimate area.

For witches, undergarments would
prevent the transfer of her body’s natural lubricant, and thus the
transfer of magic, from reaching the broom and flight would be
impossible. For wizards, their brooms are fitted with a cockring. The
cockring utilises the blood flow to an erect penis for the transfer of
magic necessary to achieve flight. Arousal for both sexes is ESSENTIAL
when they mount the broom, or the broomstick can never fly. The long
cloaks worn by wizardkind preserve their modesty, hence the long
cultural association with wizards and cloaks…

Witches and wizards
have two basic techniques for transportation upon their broomsticks.
Essentially, to a person of non-magical blood, this would equate to
cruise control and ludicrous speed.

To fly on cruise control, the
witch or wizard basically holds their broom between their legs at a 90
degree angle to their body. A wizard will slip their erection into the
cockring, whereas a witch will use the juices from the parting between
their legs to lubricate the broomstick as it nestles in-between her lips
lightly. The transfer of magic to the broom thus complete, they can kick
off from the ground and soar up to the desired altitude, where the
broom will fly at a consistent speed. The witch or wizard slides the
broomstick back and forth periodically. This helps them to maintain the
arousal and, in the case of the witch the transfer of natural lubricant
that is necessary, so as to not lose their momentum.

When a witch
would like to go faster, for examples when she has a deadline and has to
be somewhere lickity split, she simply angles her stick a bit past
parallel, more like at a 45 degree angle, until she can feel the
broomstick resting against the hard little knob at the top of the
parting in-between her thighs. Rubbing the broomstick against this
parting increases her arousal and so, in this manner she switches gears
so to speak and is able to fly at ludicrous speed.

Long distance
flight, or wizards who wish to fly at ludicrous speed, do so with a
curved anal plug known as a Horn. The Horn gives flyers maximum power by
dialling up the level of their arousal. The greater the arousal, the
greater the amount of Sex Magick that can be performed.

Of course,
strict orgasm control for the flyer is vital – it would be VERY
dangerous for them to come in mid-air, as this would immediately cause
the power of flight to drain and the flyer would find themselves hurling
towards the ground at top speed.

Once the class has had their
first Flying theory lesson out of the way, it is time for the practical
lessons to begin. Learning to fly by extracting Sex Magick requires
expert tutoring.

Changing rooms are provided next to the Flying
classroom. The students enter and then emerge clad only in their robes,
with no garments underneath.

Unlike any other classroom at the
Academy, the Flying classroom is fitted with special chairs. The chairs
are fitted with wooden stems that are topped with a helmet-shaped bulge
of rubber: one stem for the chairs intended for the male students, and
two stems for the chairs of the female students. The students aren’t
allowed anywhere near brooms until they have learned the self-discipline
necessary to maintain flight, and the chairs will help them to learn to
obtain that self-discipline.

After the students enter the
classroom but before they are allowed to take their seats, as it were,
they are subjected to a thorough bottom inspection. They must raise
their robes and bend over their desks to present themselves to the
Professor for this inspection. After all, he must ensure that the pupils
are relaxing and clenching the right muscles, a science as much as an
art.

Only after he is satisfied with the results are they allowed
to take a seat, easing themselves down onto the stems until their
bottoms are resting on the flat wood of the chair, the spindles buried
deep inside. Before they have learned the art of self-control and
discipline, between the inspection and the stimulation of the chairs it
doesn’t take long for the males to start spurting, and the females to
clench their thighs together and moan.

However, as their ability
to control themselves improves, they get to move from the classroom
chairs to actual brooms. They soon learn that real brooms move and
gyrate while you are trying to ride them, and thus they are much more
difficult to keep control of yourself while flying.

The class is
only passed by completing a practical test. The practical test involves
sitting a plugged broomstick and flying a low-altitude obstacle course
for an hour, without losing momentum, altitude, or crashing into any
obstacles.

Then, and only then, has a witch or wizard come into their own and harnessed their Sex Magick into the power of flight.

Halloween had rolled around once again, bringing with it a new allotment of first years.

Mortiana
Hoffmeister was one of this year’s intake. She was ‘so new the wrapping
was barely removed,’ as the saying goes, and absolutely thrilled to be
able to attend a magical academy and learn magic at long last. She had
been the only one to remain at home when her siblings all went trooping
off to learn their craft; her family beginning to despair of her ever
showing any inclination for magical abilities at all.

Until her
eighteenth birthday. Shortly thereafter she had been lying in her bed
one night when she began to feel…restless. Suddenly, there was an ache
between her legs that just wouldn’t be denied. Her hand had crept
underneath the sheets to slide down her stomach, heading lower and
lower. Surely a little, ah, ‘massaging’ never did anyone any harm?

As
she neared the peak of her excitement, the lamp on her dresser suddenly
began to dance. It danced itself right off the edge while she watched
with a horrified fascination from across the room. Mortiana’s family had
been so overjoyed to find out that she had suddenly displayed any sort
of magical talent that she hadn’t even been punished for her illicit
nocturnal activities. The letter announcing her placement at the Academy
had arrived the very next day.

Flying was to be her first lesson
on her first day. So eager was she to begin that she snuck into the
classroom where the practical lessons were to be held, even though
students weren’t meant to go wandering about poking their noses into
rooms and corridors. ‘After all, what harm could it do?’ she told
herself.

She looked around in awe. The chairs in this classroom
were certainly strange. How were you meant to sit on them with those
spires sticking out of them? As she stared at them, head tilted to the
side, it suddenly dawned on her EXACTLY how the chair was meant to be
sat on, and where the spires would fit. She blushed, but was intrigued
all the same. Perhaps she could try it out? No one was around. Maybe
that was the first test. Well, she would practice, and then she would
rise to the top of the class when she was the first to sink gracefully
onto the seat without hesitation.

As Mortiana headed to the first
desk with this in mind, a rattling noise from a nearby cupboard caught
her attention. Intrigued, she went to investigate. She hoped that it
wasn’t a poor little mouse, trapped and desperate for escape.

Her
hand wrapped around the handle of the cupboard. Once she’d opened the
door, she gasped as a broomstick shook itself, suddenly doing a funny
little hop forward so it was free of the cupboard. Oh. So this must be
the cupboard where the broomsticks were kept!

She reached for the
broomstick, experimentally wrapping her hand gently around the handle.
She could feel it twitch responsively from her tender grasp. She
giggled, and it twitched in response again. Maybe it wanted her to ride
it?

Even though she KNEW she wasn’t supposed to, that she wasn’t
supposed to be in a classroom let alone touching one of the broomsticks
without permission, she straddled it so that one leg was either side.

The
broomstick had started out just above her knees, but once she had
gripped it in both hands and leant forward slightly, it suddenly shot up
so it was resting underneath her skirt, nestled firmly against her
knickers.

‘Oh!’ She tried to resist the urge to rub herself
against it. Tempting, so tempting. It was just THERE. She knew how good
it would feel to have the handle sliding along her entrance.

‘Miss Hoffmeister.’

Just
as she was about to indulge herself, an icy voice suddenly spoke from
the doorway. She screamed from the shock, dropping the broom which
clattered to the floor as she spun around to see who was addressing her.
It was Miss Miller, one of the formidable professors and head of
Transformations.

‘Professor! I was just….’ Mortiana’s voice
trailed off helplessly. She just hoped she wasn’t about to be expelled.
Sent home in disgrace before she’d even begun!

‘I think it’s
perfectly clear what you were just about to do,’ Professor Miller said
coldly. ‘Come with me, young lady. We’ll see what the Headmaster has to
say about your behaviour.’

Mortiana’s heart sank. She trailed behind the Professor with her head bowed, wringing her hands with nerves.

All
too soon they arrived at the Headmaster’s office. Professor Miller
gestured for Mortiana to enter, quickly following suit herself.

‘What have we here?’ The Headmaster looked up from his desk, dark eyes glittering in the dim lighting.

‘Headmaster.
This student was caught out of bounds in the Flying classroom,
attempting to ride one of the brooms without supervision, and certainly
without permission!’ Professor Miller’s voice was grim.

‘Very
well. I shall deal with her. You may go.’ The Headmaster waved his hand.
Professor Miller departed after a curt nod. Once she had left, he
turned to look at the quaking Mortiana. ‘What do you have to say for
yourself, young lady?’

‘Sir…Headmaster…I…I got carried away. You
see all of these years no one thought I had any magic, and now we found
out that I do, and I got to come here to learn, and I just got…excited. I
couldn’t wait for the first lesson. I just wanted to see, to practice
so I would be best of the class. I wanted everyone to be proud of me,
and now I’ve gotten myself in trouble instead. I’m sorry, Headmaster. I
truly am.’ She looked at him with large pleading eyes.

He could
hear the sincerity in what she said, and had a certain amount of
sympathy. He remembered all too well what it was like to arrive at this
very Academy as a very excited first year pupil. ‘I understand that your
actions were not done maliciously,’ he said softly at last, ‘however
the fact remains that rules are rules, and are there to be obeyed. You
will have to be punished for breaking them.’

She swallowed hard. ‘Yes, Headmaster.’

He
pointed towards a small desk in the corner of his office. ‘Go stand in
front of that desk, and bend over it. Legs slightly apart.’

After
only a moment’s hesitation, she did as she was told. It would do no good
to argue, and she would have to accept her punishment. She reached the
desk and bent over it, the edge of the desk cutting into the flesh where
thigh met stomach, legs approximately shoulder-with apart.

‘Misbehaviour
is not tolerated at the Academy. As a consequence of your actions, you
are going to be paddled soundly. Do you understand?’ he continued.

‘Yes, Headmaster.’ Her voice was barely a whisper.

With
that, her skirt rolled itself up around her waist. Her knickers
smoothly slid themselves to her ankles, so fast she couldn’t even grasp
them to try to preserve her modesty.

‘If you move again, your paddling will last twice as long,’ the Headmaster warned.

She
gave a slight whimper and was still, blushing furiously as she realised
how exposed she was to his view. A moment later, she could feel the
firm touch of a wooden paddle pressing itself across her backside. Even
though she wasn’t really supposed to move, she stole a glance over her
shoulder, puzzled. The Headmaster hadn’t moved from his desk, so who was
wielding the paddle?

She was surprised to see that it was
suspended in midair. It was a large paddle that covered a large area of
both of her buttocks comfortably. Or uncomfortably, as the case may be.

The
paddle began to move of its own accord. Mortiana watched open-mouthed
as it swung itself back slowly, then snapped forward to whack her bottom
as if it were on a hinge. She gasped from the pain and shock, desperate
to kick out but heedful of the Headmaster’s warning about what would
happen if she moved.

Before she could scarcely draw her breath,
the process repeated itself again, and then again. It rose and fell as
regularly as a metronome, leaving a red imprint in its wake. She
squirmed as much as she dared, beyond caring about her modesty. Her
cries increased in intensity with each smack of the paddle against her
flesh.  

Finally, after perhaps some two dozen whacks the paddle
ceased and was still. Mortiana hung limply over the desk, but she wasn’t
allowed to stay there for long.

‘Up. Stand in the corner.’ The Headmaster’s voice was devoid of any emotion as he gave the command.

She staggered to her feet, quick to do as he’d bade. ‘Yes, Headmaster.’

‘Legs
apart. Hands on your bottom, hold yourself open. Students that
misbehave forgo their modesty. Remember that lesson.’ He might as well
have been asking her to pass the salt, from the intonation.

She
stood holding herself open obediently, both sets of cheeks blazing red.
He   hadn’t specified how long she was to stay there, so she supposed
she was to stay until he said otherwise.

It dawned on her as she
stood that she was effectively completely exposing her hidden regions to
his view. Her blush increased, if such a thing were even possible. He’d
be able to see EVERYTHING. And, horror of horrors, she realised that
the space between her legs was growing rather…moist. Dear Merlin.

He spoke at last. ‘I trust you have learned your lesson. You may go.’

Her
skirt smoothly dropped back into place as smoothly as a swishing
curtain. She awkwardly stooped to pull up her knickers so she could beat
a hasty retreat. ‘Thank you, Headmaster,’ she managed to squeak.

As she walked through the corridors, Mortiana found herself wondering where someone went to get one of those enchanted paddles.

Her lips twitched into a smile.



A round of applause for the talented @missfesterworth who took a story idea of mine, which I didn’t have time to write up, and turned it into something wonderful!

Happy Halloween!

How to enjoy an erotic ghost story

spankingtheatre:

Stolen Essence, a brand new Halloween ghost story, has just been posted.

So here’s a few ideas for enjoying erotic ghost stories, and creating a playtime with a macabre twist…

The Captive

Imagine you’re held captive in a dungeon. Tie a wrist, a collar or your panties to the frame of your bed. Alternatively, tie your ankles to the front legs of a chair to hold your legs open. If your chosen scenario demands you are kept quiet, put your panties in your mouth to muffle your screams. Turn off the light and read the story illuminated by just your screen.

Why are you imprisoned? Perhaps you’ve been kidnapped or captured for ransom, perhaps you’re a rebel or pirate awaiting execution. Spank, pleasure and torment yourself as your imagination demands.

The Candle

Sit cross-legged and naked, with just a single long thick candle for company. Put a condom on the blunt end, light the wick at the other, and turn out the lights. Put something underneath you (like scrap paper) to catch any dripping wax, then read the story as you masturbate with the candle – without letting it go out.

If it does go out, give yourself a 2-minute spanking in the dark as a forfeit before you re-light the candle. If you like the burning sensation of molten wax, play with the candle above you, otherwise angle the candle away from you, with something underneath to catch the dripping wax. Perhaps you’ll be creative and use your candle to roleplay a witches’ coven, or an exorcism, or a seance…

The Magic Wand

Put on your wizard/witch’s robe (a sheet will suffice), with nothing underneath. As you read the story, cast spells with your magic wand – they might be protection spells, seeing spells, or punishment or pleasure spells that allow you the magician to vicariously experience aspects of the story.

If you own one of those old-fashioned wands – a stick, ruler or rod, cast your spells with smacks to your hands, thighs and bottom. If you have one of those new high-tech vibrating wands, you may cast your spells all over your body (and not just between your legs).

You might even want to go for a ride on your broom. Have you ever noticed how witches ride with their broomsticks right between their slits, tilted upwards to press their clits?

Keep reading

With Halloween just around the corner, some tips on how to get the most out of erotic ghost stories…

How to enjoy an erotic ghost story

Stolen Essence, a brand new Halloween ghost story, has just been posted.

So here’s a few ideas for enjoying erotic ghost stories, and creating a playtime with a macabre twist…

The Captive

Imagine you’re held captive in a dungeon. Tie a wrist, a collar or your panties to the frame of your bed. Alternatively, tie your ankles to the front legs of a chair to hold your legs open. If your chosen scenario demands you are kept quiet, put your panties in your mouth to muffle your screams. Turn off the light and read the story illuminated by just your screen.

Why are you imprisoned? Perhaps you’ve been kidnapped or captured for ransom, perhaps you’re a rebel or pirate awaiting execution. Spank, pleasure and torment yourself as your imagination demands.

The Candle

Sit cross-legged and naked, with just a single long thick candle for company. Put a condom on the blunt end, light the wick at the other, and turn out the lights. Put something underneath you (like scrap paper) to catch any dripping wax, then read the story as you masturbate with the candle – without letting it go out.

If it does go out, give yourself a 2-minute spanking in the dark as a forfeit before you re-light the candle. If you like the burning sensation of molten wax, play with the candle above you, otherwise angle the candle away from you, with something underneath to catch the dripping wax. Perhaps you’ll be creative and use your candle to roleplay a witches’ coven, or an exorcism, or a seance…

The Magic Wand

Put on your wizard/witch’s robe (a sheet will suffice), with nothing underneath. As you read the story, cast spells with your magic wand – they might be protection spells, seeing spells, or punishment or pleasure spells that allow you the magician to vicariously experience aspects of the story.

If you own one of those old-fashioned wands – a stick, ruler or rod, cast your spells with smacks to your hands, thighs and bottom. If you have one of those new high-tech vibrating wands, you may cast your spells all over your body (and not just between your legs).

You might even want to go for a ride on your broom. Have you ever noticed how witches ride with their broomsticks right between their slits, tilted upwards to press their clits?

The Bedtime Story

Get someone to put you to bed, and read you a creepy story by candlelight. The reader doesn’t need to be in the same location as you, they can read it over a video chat. If they are nearby, it means reassuring hugs, rubs and cuddles during the scary bits. You might even find the story literally scares the pants off you.

Just be sure to ask for your storyteller’s permission before touching yourself, or your might find yourself pulled out of bed for a spanking, before being made to stand in the corner with a sore bum in the dark…

Halloween is a great excuse to explore and experiment with darker, more shadowy themes like
trepidation and anxiety, transgression and escapism, and jeopardy and torment. If you have a partner, and like the idea of Halloween-themed playtime, you might want to share this post with them. 

And if you’ve read Stolen Essence, and are keen to carry on playing, here’s a few more erotic ghost stories you might enjoy…

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.

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@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…

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