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.
“Do you like my painting?”
I nod my head enthusiastically.
“It’s a Martin van Meytens. An 18th century studio copy, admittedly. The original is in the national gallery in Stockholm. Such a lovely place.”
“It’s beautiful,” I reply.
“What do you see?”
“Humility, grace, and piety.”
“Yes…” I gulp nervously, earnestly hoping that wasn’t your actual intention.
“And yet, sometimes appearances can be deceptive…”
I stare back, puzzled, not quite sure to what you’re referring. The canvas? Or me?
“Did you know some paintings have two sides? Collectors call them Verso and Recto, rather than front and back – because sometimes it’s hard to say which side deserves the honour of being displayed, and which side should be hidden…”
I watch in quiet fascination as you reverently turn over the portrait, surprised that it reveals another complete picture, painted on the reverse of the canvas. It is a scene of startling candour, its explicitness making my clit throb even before my mind has fully deciphered what I’m seeing.
She must be the same subject, but this time depicted from behind. Perhaps her innocence was just a front. Perhaps all innocence is just a front. This angle reveals a different side of her, naked flesh in place of her religious habit. This is a woman depicted as a sexual being. Curvaceous and alluring. The glory of the Creator’s vision manifested, no long hidden, but celebrated.
“Now, what do you think of your chaste and innocent nun?”
I’m speechless. Not because I’m embarrassed by seeing nakedness, but because I so crave the sensuality of what the image represents.
And it seems our desires are aligned, because you reach down and lift the hem of my own tunic, dragging it upwards until it gathers on the small of my back, until my own buttocks are as bare as those in the painting above me.
“What do you see in this painting? Voyeurism? Shame? Humiliation? Punishment?”
I find myself nodding, all of those, and more.
“Did you know Sisters were flogged in the position you now find yourself?”
I shook my head. I did not.
And now I see you’re dangling something in front of my face.
“This little whip is called a Discipline. Notice how there’s seven leather fronds, one for each of the deadly sins. Every nun here would carry one, hanging from the belt of her habit, a continuing reminder of her oath of obedience. And every one of them would be expected to spank her own bottom every night, after confessing her sins in her bedtime prayers.”
You place it in my hand, and guide my right arm backwards until I can feel the whip’s cool thin straps sway against my bottom.
“But…! For what sins am I to be punished?” I ask indignantly.
By way of response, you reach down, dragging your fingers between my legs, before smearing my lips with the salty goo of my own excitement.
“The Almighty sees everything, Child.”
A flush of heat sears my face, I feel my cheeks burn with embarrassment.
I begin whipping myself.
Despite the short backswing, I can hear the tails of the whip whistle through the air before they strike. The seven thick flanges at the end of each frond landing in a simultaneous, stinging eruption.
I reach back as far as I can, swinging the whip with all my strength. I know this is how a nun would feel, knowing she was being overseen at all times, watched by the Almighty.
I grimace as each whack lands, knowing you’re not interested in my pitiful whimpering. This is my penitence. My spanking, my absolution.
I look up at the painting, and her beautiful buttocks. Is that a hint of pink I see? Or is she whispering her confession prayer, the moment of righteous retribution just moments away.
Please, forgive my obscene excitement.
Let me atone for the sins of my flesh…