Search

Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

Tag

halloween

The Island of Bones

image

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

Here be monsters, sensitive souls should proceed no further.

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

* * 1 * * 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I AM HANNAH, the voice inside my head announced. 

I HAVE BEEN WAITING HERE SO VERY LONG.

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

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

What… happened to you? I thought instinctively. 

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

SHE LEFT ME HERE TO DIE.

What! Who? How? I stuttered.

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

They left England to cross the Atlantic in 1720. 

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

MAY I SHOW YOU? 

WILL YOU SEE THROUGH MY EYES?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

* * 2 * *

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

MY SOUL CAN NOT REST. 

I HAVE COMMITTED TOO MANY SINS.

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

I NEED TO SHOW YOU.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

* * 3 * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AM I WICKED?

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

CAN YOU EVER FORGIVE ME?

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

I NEED TO SHOW YOU MY GUILT.

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

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

.

.

.

* * 4 * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do I get a last request?”

“Within reason.”

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

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

“What do you say, my love?”

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

“Kneel.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please! No!”

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

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

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

But then something quite unexpected happens. 

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

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

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

“Please…” croaks Penelope, teetering precariously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The seas could be so cruel. Hannah was heartbroken.

.

.

.

* * 5 * *

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

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

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

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

IT’S ALL MY FAULT.

WILL I EVER FIND PEACE?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

Except she didn’t. 

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

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

I am looking through my own eyes now. 

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

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

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

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

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

My mind is swamped by questions. 

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or at the very least, the company of ghosts.

And so here I wait, in the silence. 

Alone on a mountain of bones.

Staring beyond an empty horizon. 

Yearning for Hannah to return. 

To whisk me away from here.

Into her sordidly beautiful dreams.

.

.

.

.

.

@spankingtheatre 2020

Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.

Watch out for Witching Hour

My new Halloween ghost story, ’The Island of Bones’ will be posted during the witching hour (3-4am GMT) tonight… 🎃

Reading in the Dark

Not long until my new Halloween story is posted. The finished story is 9300 words, so if you read it slowly, it might take about half an hour. Which provides plenty of time to make an event out of it.

Perhaps you’ll imagine
you’re held captive in a dungeon. You can create your own chains by tying a wrist, a collar or even your panties
to the frame of your bed. Or tie your ankles to the front
legs of a chair to hold your legs open. Then turn off the light and read the story illuminated by just your
screen.

Or maybe you’re lucky enough to have someone to put you to bed, and to read you the story by candlelight.
These days the reader doesn’t even need to be in the same location as you, they can read
it over a video chat. If they’re nearby, it means reassuring hugs,
rubs and cuddles during the scary bits.

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…

Tales from the Dark Side

In a week’s time, it will be Halloween. Around this time, as the nights darken and the leaves fall, it’s become a bit of a tradition on this blog to write a darker themed spanking story.

Most erotic stories take place in familiar settings, and describe familiar sexual activities. They tend to feature scenarios of
powerplays and pleasure that chime with readers’ own sexual fantasies. They arouse and excite the readers’ imaginations, they often make the reader come.

But I believe there’s also a darker, more
psychological direction for erotic writing. Stories that explore shadow themes like trepidation and
anxiety, transgression and taboo, suspense and uncertainty, danger and death.

A story can disturb, as well as arouse. A well-constructed story can do both. And because we often eroticise what frightens and disturbs us, ghost stories can be unexpectedly arousing. Even if the classic tropes of Gothic fiction (tormented narrators, psychological terror, surreal distortions of reality, and bodyshock, the uncomfortably visceral nature of our own bodies) – aren’t what you’d usually think of as being sexually exciting.

Isn’t it interesting that the word perversion is often used, in different contexts, to describe both horror fiction and erotic fiction?

Darker stories offer the chance to push the boundaries of storytelling a little, to shock as well as tantalise. To adopt more perilous settings, where the jeopardy isn’t missing out on getting laid, it’s getting killed.

My upcoming tale is a ghost story set in the 18th century, amid the Age of Pirates. This is not a jolly romp of buried treasure chests and talking parrots, but a tale set in a brutal world at the fringes of civilization. It contains taboo themes like rape, blood and death. Sensitive souls should skip this one.

In the meantime, if you’d like to get in the mood with something
darkly erotic, here are the Halloween stories I’ve published previously:

  • Fall
    is set on a Halloween night, in 1950s New England. When a group decides to escape suburbia, and explore a reputedly haunted house.
  • Glimpse
    is one of my personal favourites. A dark ghost story of erotic
    temptation and punishment, 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.
  • Runaway is a story about escapism and erotic submission. Because you can’t run away without ending up somewhere.
  • Stolen Essence
    mixes the supernatural and the kinky, featuring passages
    that are surreal, fantastical and dream-like. Heavily inspired by
    Gothic tropes, this is a dark, ambiguous psychological story.
  • The Girl in the Mirror is a story about captivity and freedom, when two worlds meet.

Have you ever climaxed in pitch darkness, as the midnight bell has tolled?

The Girl in the Mirror

image


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.

.

.

.

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.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

.

.

@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…

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑