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Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

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morality

Verso, Recto

spankingtheatre:

A spanking story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, suddenly, my prayers were answered.

The door creaked open, and you returned.

Keep reading

Next in my alphabetical retrospective of spanking stories is Verso, Recto. Its setting is a old convent, haunted by the ghosts of the chaste and the pious.

This story has a philosophical observation at its heart. That whilst religions might consider themselves at the opposite end of the moral spectrum to kinky power transfer relationships. But actually, the two have many things in common. Both are rule systems, with a regime of sanctions and punishments. Both are ostensibly motivated by a profound kind of love. And both require disciplinarians to enforce discipline, and show those who submit The True Way.

For those who identify as kinky, dominance and submission are as much acts of faith as any religious practice. Our beliefs shape how we see the world, how we treat others, and what sets our own moral boundaries and expectations.

Perhaps, psychologically, the human mind yearns to submit to a force greater than its own. Or to be that force, and wield that power benevolently, but strictly. For most of human history, this urge has been manifested in sacred rituals and holy books. And some choose to channel this powerful yearning into their own sexuality, in pursuit of Heaven, on Earth.

I invite you to immerse yourself in the world of Verso, Recto, and let me know what you believe…

Weird

Ordinary decent citizens of the Real World

Tolerate poverty, pollution, wretched wars

And then call kinky sex… weird

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