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Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

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long reads

Coming of Age: Part 3

A Spanking Romance

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

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

“Surprise!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh! Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me about her…” you asked eventually.

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

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

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

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

Waiting for me…



* * 7 * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that, was how we met.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you secretly enjoy it?”

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

“Of course…”

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

“Why don’t we get off at Interlaken?”

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

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

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

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

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


* * 8 * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something like that. Filthy talk in a gothic script.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please… Please…”

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now, young lady!” I insisted.

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

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

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

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

“Oops…” you said casually.

“Bend over!” I commanded, sternly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Higher…” you pleaded.

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

“Lower… please…” you whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now go to the toilet.” I instructed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes!” you nodded enthusiastically.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


* * 9 * *

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

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

And now my story is almost up to date.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Very much, minx”.

“I can be a handful” you admit.

“You do need a strict hand” I confirm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile coyly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

“I would be honoured, F​räulein.”​

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

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

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

“Now…” I say sternly.

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

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

@spankingtheatre 2016

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.

You’re welcome to reblog and share.

Coming of Age: Part 3

A Spanking Romance

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

.

.

.

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

“Surprise!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh! Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me about her…” you asked eventually.

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

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

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

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

Waiting for me…



* * 7 * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that, was how we met.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you secretly enjoy it?”

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

“Of course…”

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

“Why don’t we get off at Interlaken?”

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

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

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

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

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


* * 8 * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something like that. Filthy talk in a gothic script.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please… Please…”

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now, young lady!” I insisted.

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

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

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

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

“Oops…” you said casually.

“Bend over!” I commanded, sternly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Higher…” you pleaded.

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

“Lower… please…” you whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now go to the toilet.” I instructed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes!” you nodded enthusiastically.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


* * 9 * *

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

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

And now my story is almost up to date.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Very much, minx”.

“I can be a handful” you admit.

“You do need a strict hand” I confirm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile coyly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

“I would be honoured, F​räulein.”​

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

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

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

“Now…” I say sternly.

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

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

@spankingtheatre 2016

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.

You’re welcome to reblog and share.

Coming of Age: Part 2

This is the second part of three part story, part one is here.

.

.

.

“I’m thirsty.”

I’ve lost track of time, how long have I been talking now? It feels as if each salacious recollection has scorched my tongue, as if I’d been uttering words that sizzled with their own inherent heat.

Now in the darkness beyond my blindfold I feel you moving, your knees nestling into my armpits as you straddle my chest. I can feel the warmth of my own breath blowing across my face, reflected back by something right in front of me.

My parched lips venture forward, immediately encountering your slick wet cunt.

That makes me smile. Most would respond to a partner’s thirst with a glass of water. But you do things differently, that’s why I love you.

I let my dry mouth linger against your delectably damp slit, until I can feel your wetness seeping onto my wrinkled lips. My swollen tongue is still parched, so when I push it forward, I feel it rasp across your hot moist folds. You mew your approval, and I begin to feel my cock stir, a primal part of me already planning how to satisfy itself, wanting me to bury myself in your tight wet hole.

I contemplate surrendering to this urge, this libidinous impulse, and abandoning the story I’ve been telling. Just a few words would do it. Fetch a condom, I’d say. You’d do the rest, sucking me until I’m achingly stiff, rolling the rubber down my shaft. Then the glorious feeling of envelopment as you mounted me, slipping slowly down sighing one long girlish moan, until your beautiful soft arse is sitting on my thighs. And then, you’d ride me.

But should that really be how the story ends? The two of us fucking wantonly, until we both empty our lungs yelling into the hot summer night. Maybe that will be how our evening concludes. But not yet.

No, not yet.

For if what I’ve told you so far is the story of my naivety, what I still have to tell concerns coming of age, of mastering my energies and emotions, of becoming a man. Somewhere within is the tale of how I mastered my lust, and made it my might.

So I move my head back from your crotch, and make my counteroffer.

“Water…”

You might imagine that as a command. You might even hear it as a plea. But that’s the beauty of playing with power. What is top and what is bottom? Nothing in nature is ever permanent, ever settled, and we are creatures of glorious subtlety. Tides turn and even the mighty oceans flow.

I feel you move, a rustling in the distance, and then the cool rim of a glass touches my lips. I lap at its contents instinctively, the water is icy cold, deliciously fresh. I let it swill around my arid throat before leaning forward for another sip.

“Thank you.”

It’s your turn to speak.

“Now, tell me more!”

Are you commanding me, or pleading with me? It can be so difficult to tell, sometimes I think they sound exactly the same.

 

 


* * 4 * *

 

So where was I?

Ah yes, my first encounter with the condom and the scales. I’d just climaxed over the lap of my headmistress, and she’d told me in no uncertain terms that she expected “more of me” when I returned to visit her the following week.

I replayed her words in my mind as I walked home, rubbing my stinging bottom, feeling the heat from my spanking still radiating through my trousers.

“No masturbation without my permission” had been her words, which were sufficiently ambiguous to leave me wondering about the practicalities of her instructions.

Did that mean permission was available? How did I get it? Did I just need to pop into her office and ask? Would that be a one-off indulgence or would I be rationed, and given several opportunities to play spread throughout the week?

I didn’t need to obey her, of course. Just as I didn’t need to visit her next Friday afternoon ever again. She had said if I stopped going, nothing more would be said, but the truth was by now I couldn’t resist her. My memories of the time I spent in her company dominated my idle thoughts whenever I happened to be alone. Her voice, her sweet spicy scent, the spankings, the dressing up, and the thrilling shame of ejaculating in front of her. Somehow I’d already become a moth to her flame.

So I tried to live up to her expectations. Instead of wanking myself dry every night, I tried to control myself, massaging my cock until just before the messy Point of No Return, and then stopping to go and do something else. A video game perhaps, before the lure of playing with another kind of joystick became too strong. My early attempts weren’t, in truth, completely successful, but I felt I was at least trying to abide by the spirit of her instructions.

Then before I knew it, it was Friday afternoon again.

Only a few weeks ago I remember dawdling towards the office of my Headmistress in an indignant slouch. Now I strolled forward purposefully and expectantly, aware I was going to get my bottom smacked, but at the same time, keen to add to my meagre set of sexual experiences. I think she must have heard my eagerness in how I knocked on her door, as she welcomed me with a warm, knowing smile.

She invited me to sit down, and I accepted her offer of a cup of tea. A British social grace intended as much to allow strangers to adjust to each others’ company as it is to provide a means of caffeinated refreshment. I cradled my little porcelain cup protectively as she sat down opposite me, and began to field her inquisitive questions.

This time our encounter was much less of an interrogation, and she occasionally responded to my trivial tribulations with some useful titbits of advice. As I became more comfortable in her presence, I felt the mood lightening, it became more conversational, I even managed to ask some bland questions of my own.

We probably talked for half an hour, and then she simply said:

“It’s time.”

I didn’t need to be told what she meant. It was time to get undressed, and time to be spanked. To be honest, I’d spent most of the last week thinking about this moment. Soon I was siting naked on the armchair as before, I frigged myself hard and, much to my personal satisfaction, put on the condom she passed me at my first attempt.

“Have you masturbated this week, young man?”

She skewered me with a stern gaze I found impossible to keep, and I found myself looking down at her lap by the time I ultimately answered.

“I’ve been trying to control myself better, Miss.”

“Show me.”

I grasped my erection with my right hand and began tugging and squeezing myself, feeling the thin skin of condom ripple beneath my sweaty palm. I pumped myself conspicuously, showing off, as if trying to demonstrate some barely-existent masculine sexual confidence. But, most importantly, I ensured I stopped before I got anywhere close to coming.

She didn’t need to say anything further, just a single elegant beckoning finger. Her right stocking was already rolled down, and I bent over her lap and slipped my erection into her tight nylon grasp.

Then she began to spank me. I controlled myself better this time, not thrusting between her thighs like a rutting animal. My bum was hot and stinging by the time I did eventually succumb and climax, but my spanking didn’t continue for long afterwards.

The final act was to take off my condom and have it weighed. My clumsy attempts at self-control during the previous week seemed to pay dividends, and the scales recorded a creditable score of 2.5 grams, for which I received praise from my headmistress as she meticulously scribbled my particulars into her notebook.

And then I got dressed, wished her a good weekend, and began thinking about my next visit almost as soon as I’d closed her door behind me.

 

 


 

 

By now my visits had become a regular event, the undisputed highlight of my week. We talked, and she guided me. I told her about my petty teenage problems and she listened to me, sometimes that was enough, sometimes she offered some solutions. The relationship between us had now changed, I no longer thought of her as intimidating authority figure, but as a confidente. I stopped referring to her as Miss, and started using the more respectful Ma’am.

She told me what food I should be eating, and insisted I took more exercise. I started running, and joined a football team. She instructed me on my grooming, I got a more stylish, more adult haircut, something I’d thought a waste of time and money. Yet afterwards, people seemed to behave differently around me, as if they began to finally notice me.

I bought an electric shaver and started grooming my body, shaving myself bare, everywhere. Keeping my pubis and scrotum bare served to remind me I was subject to her discipline every time I pulled down my pants, and every time I fondled my cock in bed. A reminder to maintain control of myself, and to live up to her high expectations.

My visits to her office followed a familiar pattern, we’d talk for most of our time together, then I’d get undressed, put on a condom and bend over her lap for a spanking. It wasn’t long before I’d become accustomed to her hand, so she began to introduce me to some of her more impactful implements, which she kept locked in a little cabinet at the side of her room. I had no idea there was such a range of canes and whips and paddles and floggers, and then there were all the items you might find lying around at home: rulers, hairbrushes, wooden spoons, spatulas and bath-brushes.

So you won’t be surprised to hear my fascination with spanking grew with every subsequent visit. I came to experience their different sensations, from the thuddy thump of a paddle to the sizzling sting of a riding crop. I was always spanked in the same position of course, over her lap, my stiff cock gripped between her thighs. She even caned me in that position, laying the cane flat across my bum, holding one end still and lifting up the other, before letting go, so the rod sprang back to whack me.

Occasionally she’d make me change into the schoolgirl skirt and knickers I’d worn that during that early formative visit. This was intended as a lesson in humility, a reminder that whilst women might be the focus of my romantic affections, underneath their skirts they were people, with feelings, hopes and dreams, no different from me. She made sure I understood that seduction was only ever to be a dance, never a conquest.

She knew, of course, that my submissiveness in her presence was born of deference. In our more candid conversations I’d made it clear I yearned to turn the tables and be the one giving the instructions, to be the one spanking her bottom. She’d listened politely to what I’d had to say, not dismissing or belittling my aspirations, but had made it perfectly clear afterwards I still had many lessons to learn before I’d be able to contemplate putting her over my knee. The way I stared at the floor as she skewered my dreams only emphasised how much more maturity and self-confidence I still needed to develop.

Yet I wasn’t just here to have my bottom smacked, my headmistress was more than happy to try and teach me what I lacked. Sometimes we roleplayed, and she taught me how to talk to a lady. You might call it the art of seduction, but that sounds so sordid. It was much more than that, learning how to talk to a stranger, to avoid empty compliments, how to genuinely communicate. And if I ever behaved like a nervous little boy, breaking eye contact or losing my nerve, she would stop our conversation right there and then, and I’d find myself over her lap once more, being spanked like one.

My teacher taught me the mating dance of human desire, although we never practiced it. She explained how lovers would first touch hands, then arms. Then would come the hugs, the embraces, the touching of hair and the caresses of the face. And if I ever reached that level of intimacy, then I was told, the object of my affection would expect to be kissed.

She explained how kissing would naturally turn to nibbling of the lips, nuzzles of the neck and throat. Then hands would stray to my lover’s breast, and it would feel like the most natural thing in the world. Once you get that far, she told me, the rest is instinctive, you already know it, no one needs to read a book before they can make love.

To my lingering regret, I never got to practice any of this with her. I longed to hug her, to kiss her, to undress her. But she never offered me any encouragement. I am your teacher, she would tell me, not your lover.

But what I really wanted was to spank someone myself. I told her that.

And she simply replied, “I know.”

But occasionally she did indulge me, instructing me to place a pillow on my lap, and then to smack it with my hand, to practice getting the force and the rhythm right.

Back home I had to amuse myself with spanking games, I scavenged a cane from a dying pot-plant, and practiced whacking two small round pillows I’d placed on the seat of a straight-back chair. Denied the opportunity to act them out, I began to channel my erotic energies into words, writing stories describing my spanking fantasies that I’d present as gifts to my mistress. She seemed to enjoy them, and encouraged me to express myself in words.

By now I was taking my enforced chastity seriously, and very rarely ejaculated between my visits across her knee. As my self-control improved, I inevitably spent longer and longer over her lap, stoically resisting the urge to spill, as she spanked my bare bottom to an ever deeper shade of pink.

She solved this potential dilemma by introducing what became known as “my treat”. If I hadn’t climaxed by the time she’d finished spanking, she’d make me get up from her lap and kneel on the sofa, my hands over the side resting on the floor. She’d then fetch my “treat” from her desk, a strange bulbous-headed stem of smooth white plastic with a long curved base. She referred to it as a prostate stimulator, but at the time, I had no idea what that meant.

Once she’d slathered the little device in lube, she’d tell me to hold my buttocks apart, and then slowly push it deep into my bottom, which was a shocking but unexpectedly pleasurable intrusion.

Then she’d reach underneath me to grasp my still sheathed cock with her left hand, whilst her right resumed spanking my already stinging buttocks. That never failed to finish me, I would clench the muscles in my groin trying to hold back, but now I’d feel an intense burst of pleasure at the base of my cock. It felt like a dam was cracking inside me, first a trickle of pleasure, then a rush, a sudden unstoppable surge as I convulsively emptied myself into my sheath.

The aftermath of my “treat” left me slumped over the armrest of the sofa, gasping, dizzy and delirious. I made have made an incongruous sight, a half-naked young man bent over with my bare bottom spanked to a bright pink, a condom heavy with my hot cum dangling between my legs beneath me.

And she then she would record me, and measure me, just to see how far I’d grown.

 

 


* * 5 * *

 

One hot summer afternoon I laid against a tree in the garden, sheltering under its canopy from the sizzling sun. I can still remember watching a fleet of long white clouds, drifting across the sapphire sky. You can see things in the sky if stare long enough, if you clear your mind empty enough. I saw an armada of triremes, a succession of immense sailing ships ploughing through the azure blue of Mediterranean seas.

As the sun baked the stones around me, I daydreamed, imagining myself in ancient Athens. Standing in an dappled olive grove on a hill above Piraeus, watching the little fishing boats come and go, their little white sails billowing in the arid wind. And beyond them a trireme leaving port, its huge square sail now hoisted up its tree-trunk mast, three rows of oarsmen working in rhythm, propelling the massive hulk out to sea. I could almost hear its sailors, muttering oaths to Poseidon as they ventured into waters of unknowable depth, towards a faraway port that must have seemed like the other side of the world.

As ever, my portal here had been a book.

Increasingly, as my background knowledge swelled, and my ability to debate improved, my weekly meetings with my tutor shifted from conversations to discussions. She challenged me to read widely, to judge what I read critically, to have the courage to form and defend my own opinions.

Books about growing up, and the acquisition of wisdom featured regularly, and she’d recently lent me a copy of Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces. This had introduced me to the idea of the Hero’s Journey, the universal coming of age story that seemed to feature in every culture’s mythologies and fairy-tales, in every era, in every corner of the globe.

That had kickstarted discussions about politics and culture, the origins of ethics, and where our values came from. Which was naturally followed by a crash course in ancient Greek philosophy.

You see, my visits weren’t all just about spanking and wanking, my dear.

Politics mattered, she taught me, because societies were more like games than machines, a web of beliefs and influence than connected every citizen, all governed by rules. She made sure I understood that I could distinguish principles from dogma, and taught me that no matter how passionately I believed in something, there would be others who disagreed.

She called it her first rule of Politics: that just because you felt strongly about something didn’t make you right.

True to her philosophy of free enquiry, she set me a challenge: to do my own research on the erastes and eromenos of ancient Greece, and come to my own conclusions.

Initially I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about, I even had to get her to write the words down. To me, they just sounded vaguely botanical, like some obscure parts of a plant.

My research began through the internet in the library, I discovered that in ancient Greek times, it was customary for young men (the eromenos) to be mentored by aristocratic older men (erastes). These relationships were only expected to last a few years, until the youths became citizens themselves. And during their time together the mentor would teach their charge religious and social customs, arts and literature and military and athletic skills.

But what really caused controversy was these relationships also seemed to have a sexual side. Paintings on vases from the time often showed mentors with erections between their students’ thighs. That did make me smile.

There was little consensus amongst historians as to whether this practice was a positive or negative arrangement. Some seemed to find it a natural extension of Greek social customs of the time, whilst others condemned it as exploitative and abusive.

“Do you think the mentors behaved improperly?” she challenged, when we came to discuss it.

I was able to answer her immediately. I’d already asked myself the same question, and arrived at my own opinion. It was all very patriarchal in those days, of course, men did the teaching and boys did the learning. But I doubted there could ever be a better tutor for a young man than an experienced woman. Speaking from experience, our relationship had never been abusive, after my initial punishment, which I fully deserved, she had never coerced me. I could have stopped visiting her at any time, but I returned because I wanted to – and later, because I felt I needed to.

“No, I don’t, M’am.”

She asked me why. I argued that it’s inevitable we view ancient cultures through our modern day eyes, but this was a world before printed books, before universities, a world of oral teaching and personal tutors. As for the sexual bit, it seemed odd to make such a fuss. But perhaps that’s the influence of our Christian culture, one that had spent two thousand years branding sexuality as shameful and dirty. I didn’t see a problem meeting her secretly, not because I was ashamed of our relationship, but because it was nobody else’s business but ours.

I certainly didn’t think I was being exploited either. What a sad and dismal view of sex that would be – that any expression of sexuality was as an act of gratification. Who knows what her motivations were for teaching and disciplining me? And if she was motivated by love, what did it matter if the spankings she gave me made her panties wet?

Moreover, as much as I’d fantasised about it, I’d never seen her naked. In fact, aside from the time I spent across her lap there had been very little physical contact between us.

So I told her. That from the bottom of my heart I appreciated the discipline and instruction she’d given me, the values she’d taught me and the love and compassion she’d shown me.

Her face shone when she heard that from me.

 

Now, through the prism of experience, I can offer a more considered analysis: power makes most people uneasy.

Even something as tame as erotic powerplay between consenting adults is considered by many to be somehow “edgy”, even downright deviant.

Disparities make us uncomfortable.

Imagine a rich man ignoring a beggar. Can you picture it? A powerful entrepreneur, immaculately dressed, purposely striding toward a destiny of making things happen. Beneath him, a tatty beggar cowers on the pavement, his palm outwards in supplication, fearful of what the future holds.

Already you’re formulating moral judgements. Perhaps you consider the rich man heartless, or a greedy personification of wealth and privilege – or maybe you admire his success, perhaps you even envy him. As for the beggar, you might imagine him as unfortunate, a victim of injustices beyond his control, or perhaps you have less sympathy, considering him the feckless author of his own dismal situation.

Most of us are egalitarians at heart, our view of an ideal society is one where everyone has pretty much the same. Power makes us uneasy. Because the reasons behind why some are powerful, and some are powerless, are complex and uncomfortable.

So we invent a backstory for every individual we encounter, moralising, colouring in strangers with our own beliefs and prejudices. Perhaps that view of the ancient Greeks as fey sexual predators was a reflection of the inequality of our modern world. We were so used to seeing the strong exploit the weak. It was as if we couldn’t believe, in our unfeeling, indifferent times, that a society was ever possible where the strong would nurture the weak and expect nothing in return.

Because power disturbs us.

What if you saw an old man passionately kissing a beautiful young woman?

Would your heart leap at witnessing such a delightful act of romantic love, or would you recoil from its icky seediness?

What if it was an older lady and a young man of my age? Who is taking advantage of whom? Why do some see an act of love, and others see an act of exploitation? Do you really know their stories?

Adolescence had been a tumultuous time. My old familiar world of childish simplicity had suddenly disintegrated, replaced by an increasing number of grown-up issues and responsibilities. I had good relationships with my parents, but there were some things too intimate to discuss with them. I couldn’t ask my Dad how to talk to girls, or ask my Mum for advice on my demeanour and appearance. Perhaps I’m doing them a disservice, but I wouldn’t have felt comfortable attempting those kind of conversations.

Maybe that’s why in all the ancient fables, myths and fairy-tales told by cultures around the world, the hero’s mentors were often wizards and gurus, strangers fortuitously encountered from outside his family.

I was just glad that I’d stumbled across a warmhearted sage who’d been kind enough to teach me. But there was another revelation waiting for me in Campbell’s book, one that profoundly shocked me when I first read it. The seventh stage of the Hero’s Journey was The Meeting with the Goddess, something that could only occur after the hero had left his mentor behind, after he’d begun to walk alone along the Road of Trials.

My beautiful teacher was right, she was not destined to be my lover. I would have to embark on the most difficult voyages of my life by myself. But now I knew that sometime, somewhere I would eventually meet a goddess. And when that happened, I would encounter her with a wholesome heart.

 

 


 

 

Don’t worry, my dear, it wasn’t all philosophy and moralising, my sexual education continued too.

One week, for instance, she fixed me with her icy gaze and provocatively asked me:

“What do you fantasise about?”

Once upon a time a question like that would have left me blushing and stuttering. She enjoyed asking provocative questions, she always told me I’d never discover anything worthwhile about a stranger through smalltalk.

But I was different now. Over the time I’d been visiting her, I’d felt my confidence grow in every aspect of myself, physically, mentally and emotionally. The quality of my school work had soared and my social interactions with my peers were enjoyable when once they’d been anxious. I felt different, my chest bigger, my chin higher, my voice deeper, my mind bolder, as if I’d been bestowed a super-power.

She still put me over her knee on each visit, of course. Sometimes she’d critique my essays and assignments as she slapped my bottom, reminding me of the rewards of diligence and the prizes that lay in store if I excelled in my studies.

Initially, I ummed and erred evasively to her intimate question, searching my memories for something that seemed appropriate for her ears, something not too sordid or seedy, yet not too boring or tame.

“Don’t censor yourself!” she scolded, “Just tell me the very last fantasy you had.”

She was right, keeping secrets from her was being dishonest to us both, and defeated the whole object of the exercise. So I thought back to what I’d been fantasising about the night before, as I laid in bed stroking myself. I had been imagining what might happen during my next visit if could somehow control the levers of fate. I began to speak candidly, describing my most intimate thoughts with a vividness that took me by surprise.

I hoped she wouldn’t be offended by what I was about to say.

“I imagined arriving here, Ma’am, to find my schoolgirl uniform on your desk. You told me to undress, and fold my own clothes away in the cupboard. And then you pulled my penis back between my legs as I tugged up my knickers.”

I could feel my cheeks blushing, but my headmistress just nodded.

“When I was dressed up, you took a shiny badge from your desk and pinned it to my blazer, and appointed me Head Girl.”

That made her smile.

“You explained to me that a girl had been caught masturbating in the toilets, and that she had been told to visit your office after school. And then there was a knock on your door, and Amanda walked in.”

“Who is Amanda?”

“Oh, she’s one of my classmates.”

“Ah, you have a crush on her” she observed perceptively.

“Yes, Ma’am.” I conceded bashfully.

“Go on.”

“You told Amanda that she’d been very naughty, and that whilst there was nothing wrong with self-pleasuring, it was not the kind of behaviour that could be tolerated on school grounds. You explained school rules were very clear on the matter, and the only punishment was a good hard spanking on her bare bottom. And I, the Head Girl, would be here to witness it.”

“And did Amanda recognise you dressed as a schoolgirl?”

“No Ma’am. She looked right through me…” I replied.

“I see. Carry on.”

“Amanda readily admitted that she’d been very naughty, and that she deserved to be spanked. Then she mentioned whenever she’s naughty at home she gets spanked with a slipper, and reached into her satchel, taking out a soft rubber-soled bedroom slipper, which she handed to you reverently.”

“Interesting. Why do you think she brought a slipper to school?” she asked.

I thought about that for a moment, then concluded:  “I think I didn’t want to imagine her being caned.”

Actually, there was another reason. I paused for a moment, debating whether I should reveal it, before deciding my mentor had earned the right to hear all my secrets.

“It’s also a reference to another fantasy of mine, Ma’am. I like to imagine she fantasises about being summoned to your office for a good hard spanking. So sometimes she spanks herself with one of her slippers when she plays with herself. And so I imagine she likes to carry her slipper around, in the hope that one day you’ll apply it to her bare bottom.”

I leave unsaid that I’ve a whole canon of fantasies involving Amanda – brilliant, pretty, aloof Amanda – ones where she kneels on her bed, reaching backwards, rubbing, tapping her slipper against her gorgeous bottom, whispering to herself about what a naughty girl she’s been.

My headmistress pondered my additional explanation, nodding thoughtfully, before indicating I should continue.

“You sit down on the sofa, and ask Amanda to take off her blazer, and then her skirt. She pulls her panties right down without being told, placing them neatly along with the rest of her clothes.”

“Then you put her over your knee, with her left leg on the sofa, and her right foot on the floor, that leg clamped between your own.”

“That must give you a fine view of her vagina as I spank her…” she observed uncritically.

“Yes M’am. And I can see right away she’s very aroused. But after whacking her for a while your wrist begins to get sore, so you ask Amanda to stand up. Then you get up and direct me to sit in your place. You pass me the slipper and ask me to give her 20 more smacks.”

“Oh, do I now?” she remarked sardonically.

“Indeed Ma’am. So I take your place, and Amanda bends over my lap, and I resume her spanking. Underneath me, I can feel my erection stiff between my buttocks, aching to be released as she squirms across my lap.”

“Finally, I deliver her twentieth smack. Her bare bottom has been painted a pretty shade of pink by our efforts, and I can see her little slit glistening between her thighs. Then she rises from my lap and apologises profusely for being such a naughty girl, and thanks us both for her spanking.”

“And do you climax when you fantasise about righteously spanking naughty schoolgirls?”

“No Ma’am!” I protested, “I always try my best not to – I want to be good for you.”

“Then I think it’s time we checked, don’t you?”

“Yes, Ma’am!”

That was my cue to undress whilst she fetched a slipper from her wonderful cabinet of spanking implements, and given what I’d just told her, her selection seemed an entirely appropriate choice. Recounting my fantasy had already made me remarkably hard, and I obediently rolled down my condom as my disciplinarian took her usual seat.

I bent over her lap, nestling my erection between her thighs. She began to spank me hard, the slipper’s soft rubber sole stinging painfully with every thwack. And as was her custom, she punctuated my spanking with some words of wisdom; during a whacking she always had my complete attention.

“I’m afraid the situation you’ve described will have to remain a fantasy. I can not, and should not, ever deliver your desires to your lap.”

As she said that, she gave me a few harder whacks, as if to emphasise the point she’d been making.

“I quite understand, M’am.”

“One day you will get to spank the one you love, but you must work hard for that privilege. You must accumulate your authority, and earn her respect. And then, she’ll gladly hand her slipper to you.”

I knew she was right, even if I was desperately impatient for that day to finally arrive.

My own whacking continued, I tried to retain control of myself, but visions of spanking Amanda’s pretty little bum had already filled my mind. It wasn’t long before I came, gasping aloud as I finally spurted between her vice-like thighs. Each whack of her slipper seemed to induce another powerful spasm, and another blissful spurt – she spanked me until she was sure my balls were empty, and until my poor bum was stinging hot and sore.

Afterwards, I rolled off my condom, tying the end and placing it respectfully on her delicate little scales. The digits said 5.9 grams, a new record, which proved perfectly my earlier assertion that I hadn’t ejaculated at all this week.

“What a good boy!” she commended.

Then it was time to get dressed and wish each other a wonderful weekend. And I bounced home with a skip in my step, feeling on top the world.

 

 


* * 6 * *

 

When my final exams arrived, I threw myself into my studies and exceeded even her high expectations, winning grades that would gain me admission into one of the country’s most prestigious universities. And just like that, my schooldays were over.

On the day I got my results I went to her house to tell her the good news, and to thank her.

I’d never visited her house before, it was a cute little red-brick cottage in the corner of the school grounds, half-swallowed by blooms of violet wisteria. I strode purposefully up the gravel drive, knowing this time I’d be visiting not as her pupil, but as a grown man.

Perhaps you’re already picturing what happened next, about what transpired when I finally crossed the threshold of her home.

Are you imagining me smothering her in a deep embrace? Me, placing my finger underneath her chin so I could look deeply into her eyes, then taking her by her hand, leading her upstairs to her own bedroom. The moment the student finally became the master.

Maybe in your mind’s eye you’re already watching her undress, her elegant lingerie falling to the floor. Vicariously experiencing the thrill I experienced in seeing my beautiful teacher naked for the first time, before I knelt between her legs and paid my respects with an eager tongue.

But you would be wrong.

Yes, we hugged, and she invited me to come inside. But we got no further than her living room. I told her the great news about my exams, and she bounced on her feet, eyes shining, genuinely delighted. Tea was then offered and accepted, and we faced each other across her coffee table, excitedly talking about what the future held.

It wasn’t just my course I had to look forward to, I had a summer of daring exploits planned before I started at my new university. I intended to spend a month exploring Europe, it was a roll-call of exciting, urban adventures that slid off the tongue in a variety of exotic accents. Paris. Amsterdam. Copenhagen. Berlin. Munich. Vienna. Florence.

She was so excited to hear of the adventure I had in store, she’d always encouraged me to travel, to unfurl my sails and catch the wind. To open my eyes and broaden my mind. I wished she’d impetuously announce she wanted to come with me, to be my travelling companion. But I knew I was embarking on the Road of Trials, an adventure I had to undertake alone.

All too soon, our tea was supped, and all our news was told. There was a tension, a solemn realisation about what was about to happen next, something inevitable, something neither of us wanted.

My teacher stood, excused herself for a moment, and left the room. I looked down at the little canvas bag I’d brought, wishing it didn’t have to be like this.

When she returned she had something in her hand. This time she sat down on the sofa beside me, close enough for me to feel her body heat, and extended her palm.

“A memento, of our time together…” she explained, her voice affectionate, but unmistakably wistful.

I took her gift, thanking her before I’d even properly examined it. It was a little black leather slipcase, just slightly longer than my middle finger. It had been embossed with a short message in tiny gold capital letters:

BE A GOOD BOY

I spluttered with laughter as I read it, and continued laughing until both of us were dabbing our eyes. The sentiment behind her message was so typical of her: insightful and perfectly judged. She knew me too well, better than anyone else in the world. Superficially I might now appear to be the perfect young gentlemen, well-spoken and impeccably dressed – but she knew that deep inside, there still lurked the naughty little boy who’d once tried to peek up skirts.

There was something inside the leather case, and I slipped it out into my palm. It was my “treat” – that bulbous little device she’d often pushed deep into my bottom to massage my prostate.

“Something to remember me by…” she said.

“I’ll always wear it when I think of you!” I pledged, gently nudging her ribs in a way I’d never dared do before.

I tucked the slipcase into my jacket pocket, and reached down to retrieve my own gift. I could feel my fingers trembling as I lifted it, I was terrified it wouldn’t be good enough for her, that she’d thank me graciously now and then consign it to a cupboard when I’d gone. I’d bought a piece of parchment from an art store, written something on it, and then put it in a frame. They say it’s the thought that counts, but in a crisis of confidence I was desperately worried she’d see my creation as an embarrassingly amateurish piece of tat.

She had introduced me to one of Dante’s poems, La Vita Nuova, during one of our many long rambling conversations. I think we’d been discussing the nature of love, but I hadn’t really appreciated it at the time. To me love had been something mushy, idealistic and fantastic, I think I’d still been too immature to understand the power and mysteries of love.

But I could still remember the words, and it was only now that I was finally beginning to comprehend their meaning. I wished I could tell my mentor, my confidante, my guiding star, how much I owed her. How much the words I was about to speak encapsulated the depth of my gratitude. That she was the true author of my Bildungsroman. That in every sense, she had made me.

I held the parchment out in front of me, reading aloud what I’d inscribed to her, before I placed it in her hands.

“In that book that is my memory,

On the first page

That is the chapter when I first met you

Appear the words:

Here begins a new life.”

I never thought I’d do anything that would make my headmistress cry.

“I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me, Jenny. I owe you everything. Without you, I’d still be a lonely and confused little boy.”

And then we hugged.

And just hugged.

The time had come to part, and for a moment she felt so fragile in my arms, like a sudden gust of wind might shatter her into a thousand brittle autumn leaves.

I never did get to see her naked, caress her mound, or spank her bottom. I never got to taste her excitement, or hear the giggling song of delight she sang when she came. But she was always more than a lover to me.

We embraced one last time and kissed goodbye.

And I walked out of her home with a lump in my throat, heading for wherever life’s capricious currents might sweep me next…

 

 

 

[To be continued…]

 

 

 

@spankingtheatre 2015

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

You are welcome to share.

Coming of Age: Part 2

This is the second part of a three part story, part one is here.

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“I’m thirsty.”

I’ve lost track of time, how long have I been talking now? It feels as if each salacious recollection has scorched my tongue, as if I’d been uttering words that sizzled with their own inherent heat.

Now in the darkness beyond my blindfold I feel you moving, your knees nestling into my armpits as you straddle my chest. I can feel the warmth of my own breath blowing across my face, reflected back by something right in front of me.

My parched lips venture forward, immediately encountering your slick wet cunt.

That makes me smile. Most would respond to a partner’s thirst with a glass of water. But you do things differently, that’s why I love you.

I let my dry mouth linger against your delectably damp slit, until I can feel your wetness seeping onto my wrinkled lips. My swollen tongue is still parched, so when I push it forward, I feel it rasp across your hot moist folds. You mew your approval, and I begin to feel my cock stir, a primal part of me already planning how to satisfy itself, wanting me to bury myself in your tight wet hole.

I contemplate surrendering to this urge, this libidinous impulse, and abandoning the story I’ve been telling. Just a few words would do it. Fetch a condom, I’d say. You’d do the rest, sucking me until I’m achingly stiff, rolling the rubber down my shaft. Then the glorious feeling of envelopment as you mounted me, slipping slowly down sighing one long girlish moan, until your beautiful soft arse is sitting on my thighs. And then, you’d ride me.

But should that really be how the story ends? The two of us fucking wantonly, until we both empty our lungs yelling into the hot summer night. Maybe that will be how our evening concludes. But not yet.

No, not yet.

For if what I’ve told you so far is the story of my naivety, what I still have to tell concerns coming of age, of mastering my energies and emotions, of becoming a man. Somewhere within is the tale of how I mastered my lust, and made it my might.

So I move my head back from your crotch, and make my counteroffer.

“Water…”

You might imagine that as a command. You might even hear it as a plea. But that’s the beauty of playing with power. What is top and what is bottom? Nothing in nature is ever permanent, ever settled, and we are creatures of glorious subtlety. Tides turn and even the mighty oceans flow.

I feel you move, a rustling in the distance, and then the cool rim of a glass touches my lips. I lap at its contents instinctively, the water is icy cold, deliciously fresh. I let it swill around my arid throat before leaning forward for another sip.

“Thank you.”

It’s your turn to speak.

“Now, tell me more!”

Are you commanding me, or pleading with me? It can be so difficult to tell, sometimes I think they sound exactly the same.


* * 4 * *

So where was I?

Ah yes, my first encounter with the condom and the scales. I’d just climaxed over the lap of my headmistress, and she’d told me in no uncertain terms that she expected “more of me” when I returned to visit her the following week.

I replayed her words in my mind as I walked home, rubbing my stinging bottom, feeling the heat from my spanking still radiating through my trousers.

“No masturbation without my permission” had been her words, which were sufficiently ambiguous to leave me wondering about the practicalities of her instructions. 

Did that mean permission was available? How did I get it? Did I just need to pop into her office and ask? Would that be a one-off indulgence or would I be rationed, and given several opportunities to play spread throughout the week?

I didn’t need to obey her, of course. Just as I didn’t need to visit her next Friday afternoon ever again. She had said if I stopped going, nothing more would be said, but the truth was by now I couldn’t resist her. My memories of the time I spent in her company dominated my idle thoughts whenever I happened to be alone. Her voice, her sweet spicy scent, the spankings, the dressing up, and the thrilling shame of ejaculating in front of her. Somehow I’d already become a moth to her flame.

So I tried to live up to her expectations. Instead of wanking myself dry every night, I tried to control myself, massaging my cock until just before the messy Point of No Return, and then stopping to go and do something else. A video game perhaps, before the lure of playing with another kind of joystick became too strong. My early attempts weren’t, in truth, completely successful, but I felt I was at least trying to abide by the spirit of her instructions.

Then before I knew it, it was Friday afternoon again.

Only a few weeks ago I remember dawdling towards the office of my Headmistress in an indignant slouch. Now I strolled forward purposefully and expectantly, aware I was going to get my bottom smacked, but at the same time, keen to add to my meagre set of sexual experiences. I think she must have heard my eagerness in how I knocked on her door, as she welcomed me with a warm, knowing smile.

She invited me to sit down, and I accepted her offer of a cup of tea. A British social grace intended as much to allow strangers to adjust to each others’ company as it is to provide a means of caffeinated refreshment. I cradled my little porcelain cup protectively as she sat down opposite me, and began to field her inquisitive questions.

This time our encounter was much less of an interrogation, and she occasionally responded to my trivial tribulations with some useful titbits of advice. As I became more comfortable in her presence, I felt the mood lightening, it became more conversational, I even managed to ask some bland questions of my own.

We probably talked for half an hour, and then she simply said: 

“It’s time.”

I didn’t need to be told what she meant. It was time to get undressed, and time to be spanked. To be honest, I’d spent most of the last week thinking about this moment. Soon I was sitting naked on the armchair as before, I frigged myself hard and, much to my personal satisfaction, put on the condom she passed me at my first attempt.  

“Have you masturbated this week, young man?”

She skewered me with a stern gaze I found impossible to keep, and I found myself looking down at her lap by the time I ultimately answered.

“I’ve been trying to control myself better, Miss.”

“Show me.”

I grasped my erection with my right hand and began tugging and squeezing myself, feeling the thin skin of condom ripple beneath my sweaty palm. I pumped myself conspicuously, showing off, as if trying to demonstrate some barely-existent masculine sexual confidence. But, most importantly, I ensured I stopped before I got anywhere close to coming.

She didn’t need to say anything further, just a single elegant beckoning finger. Her right stocking was already rolled down, and I bent over her lap and slipped my erection into her tight nylon grasp.

Then she began to spank me. I controlled myself better this time, not thrusting between her thighs like a rutting animal. My bum was hot and stinging by the time I did eventually succumb and climax, but my spanking didn’t continue for long afterwards.

The final act was to take off my condom and have it weighed. My clumsy attempts at self-control during the previous week seemed to pay dividends, and the scales recorded a creditable score of 2.5 grams, for which I received praise from my headmistress as she meticulously scribbled my particulars into her notebook.

And then I got dressed, wished her a good weekend, and began thinking about my next visit almost as soon as I’d closed her door behind me.


By now my visits had become a regular event, the undisputed highlight of my week. We talked, and she guided me. I told her about my petty teenage problems and she listened to me, sometimes that was enough, sometimes she offered some solutions. The relationship between us had now changed, I no longer thought of her as intimidating authority figure, but as a confidente. I stopped referring to her as Miss, and started using the more respectful Ma’am.

She told me what food I should be eating, and insisted I took more exercise. I started running, and joined a football team. She instructed me on my grooming, I got a more stylish, more adult haircut, something I’d thought a waste of time and money. Yet afterwards, people seemed to behave differently around me, as if they began to finally notice me.

I bought an electric shaver and started grooming my body, shaving myself bare, everywhere. Keeping my pubis and scrotum bare served to remind me I was subject to her discipline every time I pulled down my pants, and every time I fondled my cock in bed. A reminder to maintain control of myself, and to live up to her high expectations.

My visits to her office followed a familiar pattern, we’d talk for most of our time together, then I’d get undressed, put on a condom and bend over her lap for a spanking. It wasn’t long before I’d become accustomed to her hand, so she began to introduce me to some of her more impactful implements, which she kept locked in a little cabinet at the side of her room. I had no idea there was such a range of canes and whips and paddles and floggers, and then there were all the items you might find lying around at home: rulers, hairbrushes, wooden spoons, spatulas and bath-brushes.

So you won’t be surprised to hear my fascination with spanking grew with every subsequent visit. I came to experience their different sensations, from the thuddy thump of a paddle to the sizzling sting of a riding crop. I was always spanked in the same position of course, over her lap, my stiff cock gripped between her thighs. She even caned me in that position, laying the cane flat across my bum, holding one end still and lifting up the other, before letting go, so the rod sprang back to whack me.

Occasionally she’d make me change into the schoolgirl skirt and knickers I’d worn that during that early formative visit. This was intended as a lesson in humility, a reminder that whilst women might be the focus of my romantic affections, underneath their skirts they were people, with feelings, hopes and dreams, no different from me. She made sure I understood that seduction was only ever to be a dance, never a conquest.

She knew, of course, that my submissiveness in her presence was born of deference. In our more candid conversations I’d made it clear I yearned to turn the tables and be the one giving the instructions, to be the one spanking her bottom. She’d listened politely to what I’d had to say, not dismissing or belittling my aspirations, but had made it perfectly clear afterwards I still had many lessons to learn before I’d be able to contemplate putting her over my knee. The way I stared at the floor as she skewered my dreams only emphasised how much more maturity and self-confidence I still needed to develop.

Yet I wasn’t just here to have my bottom smacked, my headmistress was more than happy to try and teach me what I lacked. Sometimes we roleplayed, and she taught me how to talk to a lady. You might call it the art of seduction, but that sounds so sordid. It was much more than that, learning how to talk to a stranger, to avoid empty compliments, how to genuinely communicate. And if I ever behaved like a nervous little boy, breaking eye contact or losing my nerve, she would stop our conversation right there and then, and I’d find myself over her lap once more, being spanked like one.

My teacher taught me the mating dance of human desire, although we never practiced it. She explained how lovers would first touch hands, then arms. Then would come the hugs, the embraces, the touching of hair and the caresses of the face. And if I ever reached that level of intimacy, then I was told, the object of my affection would expect to be kissed.

She explained how kissing would naturally turn to nibbling of the lips, nuzzles of the neck and throat. Then hands would stray to my lover’s breast, and it would feel like the most natural thing in the world. Once you get that far, she told me, the rest is instinctive, you already know it, no one needs to read a book before they can make love.

To my lingering regret, I never got to practice any of this with her. I longed to hug her, to kiss her, to undress her. But she never offered me any encouragement. I am your teacher, she would tell me, not your lover.

But what I really wanted was to spank someone myself. I told her that.

And she simply replied, “I know.”

But occasionally she did indulge me, instructing me to place a pillow on my lap, and then to smack it with my hand, to practice getting the force and the rhythm right.

Back home I had to amuse myself with spanking games, I scavenged a cane from a dying pot-plant, and practiced whacking two small round pillows I’d placed on the seat of a straight-back chair. Denied the opportunity to act them out, I began to channel my erotic energies into words, writing stories describing my spanking fantasies that I’d present as gifts to my mistress. She seemed to enjoy them, and encouraged me to express myself in words.

By now I was taking my enforced chastity seriously, and very rarely ejaculated between my visits across her knee. As my self-control improved, I inevitably spent longer and longer over her lap, stoically resisting the urge to spill, as she spanked my bare bottom to an ever deeper shade of pink.

She solved this potential dilemma by introducing what became known as “my treat”. If I hadn’t climaxed by the time she’d finished spanking, she’d make me get up from her lap and kneel on the sofa, my hands over the side resting on the floor. She’d then fetch my “treat” from her desk, a strange bulbous-headed stem of smooth white plastic with a long curved base. She referred to it as a prostate stimulator, but at the time, I had no idea what that meant.

Once she’d slathered the little device in lube, she’d tell me to hold my buttocks apart, and then slowly push it deep into my bottom, which was a shocking but unexpectedly pleasurable intrusion. 

Then she’d reach underneath me to grasp my still sheathed cock with her left hand, whilst her right resumed spanking my already stinging buttocks. That never failed to finish me, I would clench the muscles in my groin trying to hold back, but now I’d feel an intense burst of pleasure at the base of my cock. It felt like a dam was cracking inside me, first a trickle of pleasure, then a rush, a sudden unstoppable surge as I convulsively emptied myself into my sheath.

The aftermath of my “treat” left me slumped over the armrest of the sofa, gasping, dizzy and delirious. I made have made an incongruous sight, a half-naked young man bent over with my bare bottom spanked to a bright pink, a condom heavy with my hot cum dangling between my legs beneath me.

And she then she would record me, and measure me, just to see how far I’d grown.


* * 5 * *

One hot summer afternoon I laid against a tree in the garden, sheltering under its canopy from the sizzling sun. I can still remember watching a fleet of long white clouds, drifting across the sapphire sky. You can see things in the sky if stare long enough, if you clear your mind empty enough. I saw an armada of triremes, a succession of immense sailing ships ploughing through the azure blue of Mediterranean seas.

As the sun baked the stones around me, I daydreamed, imagining myself in ancient Athens. Standing in an dappled olive grove on a hill above Piraeus, watching the little fishing boats come and go, their little white sails billowing in the arid wind. And beyond them a trireme leaving port, its huge square sail now hoisted up its tree-trunk mast, three rows of oarsmen working in rhythm, propelling the massive hulk out to sea. I could almost hear its sailors, muttering oaths to Poseidon as they ventured into waters of unknowable depth, towards a faraway port that must have seemed like the other side of the world.

As ever, my portal here had been a book.

Increasingly, as my background knowledge swelled, and my ability to debate improved, my weekly meetings with my tutor shifted from conversations to discussions. She challenged me to read widely, to judge what I read critically, to have the courage to form and defend my own opinions.

Books about growing up, and the acquisition of wisdom featured regularly, and she’d recently lent me a copy of Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces. This had introduced me to the idea of the Hero’s Journey, the universal coming of age story that seemed to feature in every culture’s mythologies and fairy-tales, in every era, in every corner of the globe.

That had kickstarted discussions about politics and culture, the origins of ethics, and where our values came from. Which was naturally followed by a crash course in ancient Greek philosophy.

You see, my visits weren’t all just about spanking and wanking, my dear.

Politics mattered, she taught me, because societies were more like games than machines, a web of beliefs and influence than connected every citizen, all governed by rules. She made sure I understood that I could distinguish principles from dogma, and taught me that no matter how passionately I believed in something, there would be others who disagreed. 

She called it her first rule of Politics: that just because you felt strongly about something didn’t make you right.

True to her philosophy of free enquiry, she set me a challenge: to do my own research on the erastes and eromenos of ancient Greece, and come to my own conclusions.

Initially I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about, I even had to get her to write the words down. To me, they just sounded vaguely botanical, like some obscure parts of a plant. 

My research began through the internet in the library, I discovered that in ancient Greek times, it was customary for young men (the eromenos) to be mentored by aristocratic older men (erastes). These relationships were only expected to last a few years, until the youths became citizens themselves. And during their time together the mentor would teach their charge religious and social customs, arts and literature and military and athletic skills.

But what really caused controversy was these relationships also seemed to have a sexual side. Paintings on vases from the time often showed mentors with erections between their students’ thighs. That did make me smile.

There was little consensus amongst historians as to whether this practice was a positive or negative arrangement. Some seemed to find it a natural extension of Greek social customs of the time, whilst others condemned it as exploitative and abusive.

“Do you think the mentors behaved improperly?” she challenged, when we came to discuss it.

I was able to answer her immediately. I’d already asked myself the same question, and arrived at my own opinion. It was all very patriarchal in those days, of course, men did the teaching and boys did the learning. But I doubted there could ever be a better tutor for a young man than an experienced woman. Speaking from experience, our relationship had never been abusive, after my initial punishment, which I fully deserved, she had never coerced me. I could have stopped visiting her at any time, but I returned because I wanted to – and later, because I felt I needed to.

“No, I don’t, M’am.”

She asked me why. I argued that it’s inevitable we view ancient cultures through our modern day eyes, but this was a world before printed books, before universities, a world of oral teaching and personal tutors. As for the sexual bit, it seemed odd to make such a fuss. But perhaps that’s the influence of our Christian culture, one that had spent two thousand years branding sexuality as shameful and dirty. I didn’t see a problem meeting her secretly, not because I was ashamed of our relationship, but because it was nobody else’s business but ours.

I certainly didn’t think I was being exploited either. What a sad and dismal view of sex that would be – that any expression of sexuality was as an act of gratification. Who knows what her motivations were for teaching and disciplining me? And if she was motivated by love, what did it matter if the spankings she gave me made her panties wet?

Moreover, as much as I’d fantasised about it, I’d never seen her naked. In fact, aside from the time I spent across her lap there had been very little physical contact between us.

So I told her. That from the bottom of my heart I appreciated the discipline and instruction she’d given me, the values she’d taught me and the love and compassion she’d shown me.

Her face shone when she heard that from me.

Now, through the prism of experience, I can offer a more considered analysis: power makes most people uneasy.

Even something as tame as erotic powerplay between consenting adults is considered by many to be somehow “edgy”, even downright deviant.

Disparities make us uncomfortable. 

Imagine a rich man ignoring a beggar. Can you picture it? A powerful entrepreneur, immaculately dressed, purposely striding toward a destiny of making things happen. Beneath him, a tatty beggar cowers on the pavement, his palm outwards in supplication, fearful of what the future holds.

Already you’re formulating moral judgements. Perhaps you consider the rich man heartless, or a greedy personification of wealth and privilege – or maybe you admire his success, perhaps you even envy him. As for the beggar, you might imagine him as unfortunate, a victim of injustices beyond his control, or perhaps you have less sympathy, considering him the feckless author of his own dismal situation.

Most of us are egalitarians at heart, our view of an ideal society is one where everyone has pretty much the same. Power makes us uneasy. Because the reasons behind why some are powerful, and some are powerless, are complex and uncomfortable.

So we invent a backstory for every individual we encounter, moralising, colouring in strangers with our own beliefs and prejudices. Perhaps that view of the ancient Greeks as fey sexual predators was a reflection of the inequality of our modern world. We were so used to seeing the strong exploit the weak. It was as if we couldn’t believe, in our unfeeling, indifferent times, that a society was ever possible where the strong would nurture the weak and expect nothing in return.

Because power disturbs us.

What if you saw an old man passionately kissing a beautiful young woman?

Would your heart leap at witnessing such a delightful act of romantic love, or would you recoil from its icky seediness? 

What if it was an older lady and a young man of my age? Who is taking advantage of whom? Why do some see an act of love, and others see an act of exploitation? Do you really know their stories?

Adolescence had been a tumultuous time. My old familiar world of childish simplicity had suddenly disintegrated, replaced by an increasing number of grown-up issues and responsibilities. I had good relationships with my parents, but there were some things too intimate to discuss with them. I couldn’t ask my Dad how to talk to girls, or ask my Mum for advice on my demeanour and appearance. Perhaps I’m doing them a disservice, but I wouldn’t have felt comfortable attempting those kind of conversations.

Maybe that’s why in all the ancient fables, myths and fairy-tales told by cultures around the world, the hero’s mentors were often wizards and gurus, strangers fortuitously encountered from outside his family.

I was just glad that I’d stumbled across a warmhearted sage who’d been kind enough to teach me. But there was another revelation waiting for me in Campbell’s book, one that profoundly shocked me when I first read it. The seventh stage of the Hero’s Journey was The Meeting with the Goddess, something that could only occur after the hero had left his mentor behind, after he’d begun to walk alone along the Road of Trials.

My beautiful teacher was right, she was not destined to be my lover. I would have to embark on the most difficult voyages of my life by myself. But now I knew that sometime, somewhere I would eventually meet a goddess. And when that happened, I would encounter her with a wholesome heart.


Don’t worry, my dear, it wasn’t all philosophy and moralising, my sexual education continued too.

One week, for instance, she fixed me with her icy gaze and provocatively asked me:

“What do you fantasise about?”

Once upon a time a question like that would have left me blushing and stuttering. She enjoyed asking provocative questions, she always told me I’d never discover anything worthwhile about a stranger through smalltalk.

But I was different now. Over the time I’d been visiting her, I’d felt my confidence grow in every aspect of myself, physically, mentally and emotionally. The quality of my school work had soared and my social interactions with my peers were enjoyable when once they’d been anxious. I felt different, my chest bigger, my chin higher, my voice deeper, my mind bolder, as if I’d been bestowed a super-power.

She still put me over her knee on each visit, of course. Sometimes she’d critique my essays and assignments as she slapped my bottom, reminding me of the rewards of diligence and the prizes that lay in store if I excelled in my studies.

Initially, I ummed and erred evasively to her intimate question, searching my memories for something that seemed appropriate for her ears, something not too sordid or seedy, yet not too boring or tame.

“Don’t censor yourself!” she scolded, “Just tell me the very last fantasy you had.”

She was right, keeping secrets from her was being dishonest to us both, and defeated the whole object of the exercise. So I thought back to what I’d been fantasising about the night before, as I laid in bed stroking myself. I had been imagining what might happen during my next visit if could somehow control the levers of fate. I began to speak candidly, describing my most intimate thoughts with a vividness that took me by surprise.

I hoped she wouldn’t be offended by what I was about to say.

“I imagined arriving here, Ma’am, to find my schoolgirl uniform on your desk. You told me to undress, and fold my own clothes away in the cupboard. And then you pulled my penis back between my legs as I tugged up my knickers.”

I could feel my cheeks blushing, but my headmistress just nodded.

“When I was dressed up, you took a shiny badge from your desk and pinned it to my blazer, and appointed me Head Girl.”

That made her smile.

“You explained to me that a girl had been caught masturbating in the toilets, and that she had been told to visit your office after school. And then there was a knock on your door, and Amanda walked in.”

“Who is Amanda?”

“Oh, she’s one of my classmates.”

“Ah, you have a crush on her” she observed perceptively.

“Yes, Ma’am.” I conceded bashfully.

“Go on.”

“You told Amanda that she’d been very naughty, and that whilst there was nothing wrong with self-pleasuring, it was not the kind of behaviour that could be tolerated on school grounds. You explained school rules were very clear on the matter, and the only punishment was a good hard spanking on her bare bottom. And I, the Head Girl, would be here to witness it.”

“And did Amanda recognise you dressed as a schoolgirl?”

“No Ma’am. She looked right through me…” I replied.

“I see. Carry on.”

“Amanda readily admitted that she’d been very naughty, and that she deserved to be spanked. Then she mentioned whenever she’s naughty at home she gets spanked with a slipper, and reached into her satchel, taking out a soft rubber-soled bedroom slipper, which she handed to you reverently.”

“Interesting. Why do you think she brought a slipper to school?” she asked.

I thought about that for a moment, then concluded:  “I think I didn’t want to imagine her being caned.”

Actually, there was another reason. I paused for a moment, debating whether I should reveal it, before deciding my mentor had earned the right to hear all my secrets.

“It’s also a reference to another fantasy of mine, Ma’am. I like to imagine she fantasises about being summoned to your office for a good hard spanking. So sometimes she spanks herself with one of her slippers when she plays with herself. And so I imagine she likes to carry her slipper around, in the hope that one day you’ll apply it to her bare bottom.”

I leave unsaid that I’ve a whole canon of fantasies involving Amanda – brilliant, pretty, aloof Amanda – ones where she kneels on her bed, reaching backwards, rubbing, tapping her slipper against her gorgeous bottom, whispering to herself about what a naughty girl she’s been.

My headmistress pondered my additional explanation, nodding thoughtfully, before indicating I should continue.

“You sit down on the sofa, and ask Amanda to take off her blazer, and then her skirt. She pulls her panties right down without being told, placing them neatly along with the rest of her clothes.”

“Then you put her over your knee, with her left leg on the sofa, and her right foot on the floor, that leg clamped between your own.”

“That must give you a fine view of her vagina as I spank her…” she observed uncritically.

“Yes M’am. And I can see right away she’s very aroused. But after whacking her for a while your wrist begins to get sore, so you ask Amanda to stand up. Then you get up and direct me to sit in your place. You pass me the slipper and ask me to give her 20 more smacks.”

“Oh, do I now?” she remarked sardonically.

“Indeed Ma’am. So I take your place, and Amanda bends over my lap, and I resume her spanking. Underneath me, I can feel my erection stiff between my buttocks, aching to be released as she squirms across my lap.”

“Finally, I deliver her twentieth smack. Her bare bottom has been painted a pretty shade of pink by our efforts, and I can see her little slit glistening between her thighs. Then she rises from my lap and apologises profusely for being such a naughty girl, and thanks us both for her spanking.”

“And do you climax when you fantasise about righteously spanking naughty schoolgirls?”

“No Ma’am!” I protested, “I always try my best not to – I want to be good for you.”

“Then I think it’s time we checked, don’t you?”

“Yes, Ma’am!”

That was my cue to undress whilst she fetched a slipper from her wonderful cabinet of spanking implements, and given what I’d just told her, her selection seemed an entirely appropriate choice. Recounting my fantasy had already made me remarkably hard, and I obediently rolled down my condom as my disciplinarian took her usual seat.

I bent over her lap, nestling my erection between her thighs. She began to spank me hard, the slipper’s soft rubber sole stinging painfully with every thwack. And as was her custom, she punctuated my spanking with some words of wisdom; during a whacking she always had my complete attention.

“I’m afraid the situation you’ve described will have to remain a fantasy. I can not, and should not, ever deliver your desires to your lap.”

As she said that, she gave me a few harder whacks, as if to emphasise the point she’d been making.

“I quite understand, M’am.”

“One day you will get to spank the one you love, but you must work hard for that privilege. You must accumulate your authority, and earn her respect. And then, she’ll gladly hand her slipper to you.”  

I knew she was right, even if I was desperately impatient for that day to finally arrive.

My own whacking continued, I tried to retain control of myself, but visions of spanking Amanda’s pretty little bum had already filled my mind. It wasn’t long before I came, gasping aloud as I finally spurted between her vice-like thighs. Each whack of her slipper seemed to induce another powerful spasm, and another blissful spurt – she spanked me until she was sure my balls were empty, and until my poor bum was stinging hot and sore.

Afterwards, I rolled off my condom, tying the end and placing it respectfully on her delicate little scales. The digits said 5.9 grams, a new record, which proved perfectly my earlier assertion that I hadn’t ejaculated at all this week.

“What a good boy!” she commended.

Then it was time to get dressed and wish each other a wonderful weekend. And I bounced home with a skip in my step, feeling on top the world.


* * 6 * *

When my final exams arrived, I threw myself into my studies and exceeded even her high expectations, winning grades that would gain me admission into one of the country’s most prestigious universities. And just like that, my schooldays were over.

On the day I got my results I went to her house to tell her the good news, and to thank her.

I’d never visited her house before, it was a cute little red-brick cottage in the corner of the school grounds, half-swallowed by blooms of violet wisteria. I strode purposefully up the gravel drive, knowing this time I’d be visiting not as her pupil, but as a grown man. 

Perhaps you’re already picturing what happened next, about what transpired when I finally crossed the threshold of her home.

Are you imagining me smothering her in a deep embrace? Me, placing my finger underneath her chin so I could look deeply into her eyes, then taking her by her hand, leading her upstairs to her own bedroom. The moment the student finally became the master. 

Maybe in your mind’s eye you’re already watching her undress, her elegant lingerie falling to the floor. Vicariously experiencing the thrill I experienced in seeing my beautiful teacher naked for the first time, before I knelt between her legs and paid my respects with an eager tongue.

But you would be wrong.

Yes, we hugged, and she invited me to come inside. But we got no further than her living room. I told her the great news about my exams, and she bounced on her feet, eyes shining, genuinely delighted. Tea was then offered and accepted, and we faced each other across her coffee table, excitedly talking about what the future held.

It wasn’t just my course I had to look forward to, I had a summer of daring exploits planned before I started at my new university. I intended to spend a month exploring Europe, it was a roll-call of exciting, urban adventures that slid off the tongue in a variety of exotic accents. Paris. Amsterdam. Copenhagen. Berlin. Munich. Vienna. Florence.

She was so excited to hear of the adventure I had in store, she’d always encouraged me to travel, to unfurl my sails and catch the wind. To open my eyes and broaden my mind. I wished she’d impetuously announce she wanted to come with me, to be my travelling companion. But I knew I was embarking on the Road of Trials, an adventure I had to undertake alone.

All too soon, our tea was supped, and all our news was told. There was a tension, a solemn realisation about what was about to happen next, something inevitable, something neither of us wanted.

My teacher stood, excused herself for a moment, and left the room. I looked down at the little canvas bag I’d brought, wishing it didn’t have to be like this.

When she returned she had something in her hand. This time she sat down on the sofa beside me, close enough for me to feel her body heat, and extended her palm.

“A memento, of our time together…” she explained, her voice affectionate, but unmistakably wistful.

I took her gift, thanking her before I’d even properly examined it. It was a little black leather slipcase, just slightly longer than my middle finger. It had been embossed with a short message in tiny gold capital letters:

BE A GOOD BOY

I spluttered with laughter as I read it, and continued laughing until both of us were dabbing our eyes. The sentiment behind her message was so typical of her: insightful and perfectly judged. She knew me too well, better than anyone else in the world. Superficially I might now appear to be the perfect young gentlemen, well-spoken and impeccably dressed – but she knew that deep inside, there still lurked the naughty little boy who’d once tried to peek up skirts.

There was something inside the leather case, and I slipped it out into my palm. It was my “treat” – that bulbous little device she’d often pushed deep into my bottom to massage my prostate.

“Something to remember me by…” she said.

“I’ll always wear it when I think of you!” I pledged, gently nudging her ribs in a way I’d never dared do before.

I tucked the slipcase into my jacket pocket, and reached down to retrieve my own gift. I could feel my fingers trembling as I lifted it, I was terrified it wouldn’t be good enough for her, that she’d thank me graciously now and then consign it to a cupboard when I’d gone. I’d bought a piece of parchment from an art store, written something on it, and then put it in a frame. They say it’s the thought that counts, but in a crisis of confidence I was desperately worried she’d see my creation as an embarrassingly amateurish piece of tat.

She had introduced me to one of Dante’s poems, La Vita Nuova, during one of our many long rambling conversations. I think we’d been discussing the nature of love, but I hadn’t really appreciated it at the time. To me love had been something mushy, idealistic and fantastic, I think I’d still been too immature to understand the power and mysteries of love.

But I could still remember the words, and it was only now that I was finally beginning to comprehend their meaning. I wished I could tell my mentor, my confidante, my guiding star, how much I owed her. How much the words I was about to speak encapsulated the depth of my gratitude. That she was the true author of my Bildungsroman. That in every sense, she had made me.

I held the parchment out in front of me, reading aloud what I’d inscribed to her, before I placed it in her hands.

“In that book that is my memory,

On the first page

That is the chapter when I first met you

Appear the words:

Here begins a new life.”

I never thought I’d do anything that would make my headmistress cry.

“I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me, Jenny. I owe you everything. Without you, I’d still be a lonely and confused little boy.”

And then we hugged.

And just hugged.

The time had come to part, and for a moment she felt so fragile in my arms, like a sudden gust of wind might shatter her into a thousand brittle autumn leaves.

I never did get to see her naked, caress her mound, or spank her bottom. I never got to taste her excitement, or hear the giggling song of delight she sang when she came. But she was always more than a lover to me.

We embraced one last time and kissed goodbye.

And I walked out of her home with a lump in my throat, heading for wherever life’s capricious currents might sweep me next…

Continued in Part 3 …

@spankingtheatre 2015

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

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