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Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

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obedience

i’m so horny please tell me how to relieve myself daddy

As I’ve been teaching the students at school, only those who have been good, and resisted the temptation to touch deserve relief.

Being good means choosing between the transient gratification of a climax, or the long-term satisfaction of arousal and obedience.

And those who continue to fiddle with themselves like silly little girls deserve to be put into a Chastity Belt.

What is your preferred way to have your partners’ body hair, more specifically, the hair between their legs?

I encourage those I play with to keep themselves bare and smooth.

A shaved slit is more sensitive, and it provides a continual reminder to its owner that she is subject to my discipline. A reminder felt every time she pulls her panties up or down.

A bare slit also provides a rationale for regular inspections, an opportunity for a disciplinarian to visually confirm that their rules are being followed.

A bare slit reveals more of her arousal. A bare mound provides a greater surface area of sensitive skin to massage with oils, or lick and tease. And when bare, a skilful tongue can explore her soft wet folds unhindered.

I know shaving and waxing takes time, and can be a bit of chore, but that’s also why it can become a regular dedication – a devotion ritual, and a satisfying act of submissive obedience…

What do you think about collars and collaring? X

There are many different ways to think about collaring, the meaning varying depending on the time involved.

Long-term collaring is a form of consensual ownership, signifying the depth and durability of a kinky relationship. Since a sub only has one neck, this tends to imply a degree of exclusivity.

The collar can also offer a sense of reassurance, something to physically touch to allay anxiety when a couple are apart. Or a reminder to behave as its tightness presses against the throat. Or like Tolkien’s ring, it might embolden its bearer, granting super-powers of self-esteem and confidence.

Short-term collaring has a different meaning. Here the collar is worn as an aide, to help its wearer adopt a different persona. They might be a authoritative, no-nonsense professional during the working week, but want to spend the weekend as a sex slave. Here the collar signifies that whilst it being worn, the wearer intends to submit entirely to their partner’s whims.

It doesn’t even need to be a collar. It could be a gag or bridle, like the slaves in The Girl in the Mirror. Dressing up can also achieve the same purpose, which is why many adults like dressing up in school uniforms. They are effectively saying: for as long as I wear this, treat me accordingly.

And there is session collaring, where the collar is used as a prop during play. For instance, it might be worn secretly beneath clothing as a couple goes out for dinner. Or displayed in plain sight brazenly.

Perhaps with a cord tied to the front, dangling down between her breasts, right down between her lips, then up between her bottom cheeks, and up her back to be tied to the rear of her collar. Throughout the evening her partner might reach forward to stroke her neck discreetly, and tug the cord whenever her attention seems to wander.

There are many ways to play with collaring, because collars can be as unique as the one that wears it.

Ive been masturbating without permission almost daily and my mistress doesn’t know, should I tell her?

I believe I have already answered this question.

Of course you should confess.

It sounds like you need a reminder of why your Mistress insists on your obedience, and why she is going to need to pull down your panties…

i’ve been naughty & pleasuring myself all afternoon without my miss’s permission, but she’s out of state and would never know if I don’t tell her. should I still tell her ive been a bad girl even though I won’t get a spanking from her?

A naughty girl who breaks her disciplinarian’s rules should always admit her wrong-doing.

Perhaps you need to refresh yourself on why we are strict with you, why we set rules and and why we pull down your panties.

We disciplinarians ask for very little apart from your obedience. We set your rules for your own good, because we know you need limits, we know you crave structure.

We expect you to be a good girl. Not a perfect girl, but a good girl. One who is honest about her behaviour, and who understands that punishment is the price for rule-breaking. And one who will accept whatever punishment is decided, contritely and willingly.

A bad girl is a dishonest girl. Bad girls don’t deserve the privilege of someone strict to look out for them.

So, I expect you to send Miss a message confessing your misbehaviour, and in it, I expect you to include a link to this post. Even if she’s a thousand miles away, you are still subject to her rules, and she can decide on the punishment you deserve. 

Perhaps she’ll get you to spank yourself, or have you sit on your bare bottom and write a long essay on honesty and the importance of rules.

And by the end, I’d expect you’ll have a better understanding of what it takes to be a good girl, and a much greater appreciation of the strict lady who cares enough about you to spank your bottom…

Writing Lines

Writing lines.

Writing lines.

Writing lines.

Lines enough until your tendons ache

Until your throbbing muscles quake

And your haughty brattiness starts to break

Writing lines upon a cold hard stool

In your old uniform feeling quite the fool

You didn’t think I’d be so cruel

To recreate a scene from school

Where better to learn the golden rule

Writing as your pussy drools

I dictated the first line before I left

First eagerly scribbled with a tingling cleft

Only now you realise your labours’ heft

Nib scrawling dutifully across the page

As each line begins to take an age

On a silly little desk just like a cage

I deserve a good hard spanking on my bare bottom

I deserve a good hard spanking on my bare bottom

I deserve a good hard spanking on my bare bottom

Again and again and again and again

With each line echoing inside your brain

Wondering if I’ve gone to fetch the cane

Imagining the searing whacky stingy pain

The wait could drive a girl insane

Yet somehow never quite complain 

I deserve a good hard spanking on my bare bottom

I deserve a good hard spanking on my bare bottom

I deserve a good hard spanking on my bare bottom

Yes, I want you to sit in silent grind

Pushing all else from your noisy mind

You’ll come to realise my discipline is kind

Why I wait until you’re quite resigned

In a scene so carefully refined

Everything as I’ve designed

All alone with the scratchy scrabble of your pen

As an achy moistness seeps and soaks,

And then

I return

To see your tired slouch instantly transform

An attentive pupil with a straightened back

How manners improve before a thwack

Blushing pink so radiantly

You offer your page obsequiously

Your fate now fixed in cursive swirls

Yes, young lady

You do deserve a good hard spanking

A good hard spanking on your bare little bottom

Stand up.

Come here.

Look at me.

Now.

Bend over.

I am going to lift your skirt

And pull your clammy panties down

I trust there won’t even be a frown

Instead I’ll see your pretty pink lips agape

Glistening like a little mouth surprised

Yet you know exactly what’s to come

A single phrase that must be done

Please Sir

You admit unbidden

I deserve

A good hard spanking

On my bare bottom

spankingtheatre 2018

Verso, Recto – part 1

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.

image

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.”

“And chastity?”

“Yes…” I gulp nervously, earnestly hoping that wasn’t your actual intention.

“Submissiveness?”

“Oh yes.”

“Innocence?”

“Oh, very.”

“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.

image

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.

“Forgive me.”

I begin whipping myself.

“Harder.”

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.

“Harder.”

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…


Continued in part two

Pride and Obedience

spankingtheatre:

A Spanking Story

image

Image by Katou Kahoru (source unknown)

Regency England, 1817

Serena
raised the hem of her candy-striped skirt to her hips, and hovered over
the little ebony stool, as her Mistress looked on encouragingly.

“That’s
a good girl! Mister Cholmondeley and his wife will be here soon. You
know how proud I am to have you kneeling at my feet.”

Beneath her
elegant dress, Serena was wearing nothing else. Her underwear having
been confiscated when she’d first arrived at Althorp House. At the time
she’d protested vociferously, a bit too petulantly as it happened. A
little tizzy that had cost her all her clothes, and ended with her being
spanked like a silly little girl over the knee of her Ladyship, and
being put to bed with a very sore bottom indeed.

That first night,
Serena had wept into her own pillows, distraught at the prospect of
having to spend the summer in this horrible place. In subsequent days
she’d discovered just how seriously her hostess believed in discipline.
The house rules were numerous and byzantine, but there was only ever one
punishment for breaking them: a good hard spanking, on the bare bottom.

At
first, Serena behaved as if she had a choice when it came to following
her instructions – a delusion her new mistress had found cheerfully
endearing. But in the three weeks since she’d arrived here, Serena’s
obedience had improved considerably. When she’d first been introduced to
the stool, she’d resisted bitterly, of course. But now she welcomed the
firm deep push of its double protrusions, and would take her seat
without complaint. In fact, Serena couldn’t remember the last time she’d
sat upon a proper chair.

There was a knack to mounting this low
dildoed stool, which Serena felt she’d now mastered. The trick, she’d
found, was to straddle it, and lower herself until she felt the slick
head of smaller stem poke against her bottom hole. Then she’d allow
herself to sink ever deeper, until she could feel the bulge of its head
stretch her open and push inside her. As she sank ever lower, the
thicker bulge of the other phallus would intrude between her slit,
probing her wet entrance like an over-eager lover.

Serena
continued her slow descent to the floor, until her knees were embedded
in the lush velvety softness of the salon’s dark carpet. She stifled a
moan as the protrusions penetrated deeper and deeper, stretching her
wider and filling previously unfelt spaces. At that point Serena would
be sitting on her haunches, her bright red shoes on either side of the
stool’s tiny legs, with her bare bottom resting on the narrow wooden
platter that formed its seat.

Once seated, she’d let go of her
dress, allowing her hem to fall to the floor like a finale’s stage
curtain, completely concealing the stool and its intimate protrusions.
Any visitor subsequently arriving would be completely unaware that just
beneath her pretty striped dress, both her holes were filled by dildoes.
Visitors would simply see what they expected to see, a beautiful young
lady kneeling adoringly at her Ladyship’s feet.

Keep reading

Pride and Obedience was an opportunity for me to travel back in time, and write a spanking story set in the Regency era. Most readers will have encountered this world through the novels of Jane Austen, which give the impression of a chaste, modest, almost sexless world. But let’s no forget, de Sade’s groundbreaking erotic novels were written around 40 years earlier. Perhaps this age wasn’t as innocent as it seems…

Perhaps the social hierarchies of the aristocracy were sexual hierarchies too, where paying proper respect to those higher on the social ladder involved a degree of sexual submissiveness. Perhaps this wasn’t just an age of long skirts and strict manners, but also one of whips, obedience and discipline. What would such a world look like? I couldn’t help but visit it, through the time machine of my imagination.

Whilst researching I stumbled across the image by Katou Kahoru shown above, and knew immediately how that cruel double-protrusion obedience stool would fit within the story. I think many of those with submissive inclinations would love to kneel at the feet of their Master or Mistress, impaled and filled as their hair is gently stroked.

What do you think?

Ups and Downs: Part 2

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



* * 4 * *

Jenny and I are alone again, and my head is spinning at what I’ve
just seen. Her method of discipline was so utterly simple, so
restrained, yet devastatingly effective. Jenny never once raised her
voice, never needing to drag, bully or coerce. The girl simply
recognised the obviousness of her teacher’s authority and obeyed. I find
that astonishing – and absurdly arousing. My panties are sodden,
absolutely wet through. It feels like I’ve accidentally had a little
wee.

I have no doubt that Stephanie will not be involved in any further
scuffles, but mentally replaying what I’ve just seen I think I’m
beginning to understand what this whole episode was really about.

The real crime was not the scuffle, but the girl’s infatuation with
her teacher. There was something about how the girl left the room,
doe-eyed, hanging on Jenny’s every word, that makes me think her silly
unrequited desire for her chemistry teacher is now going to be replaced
by something more tangible – and possibly also much more manageable: a
submissiveness to the Headmistress’s will. I have no doubt Jenny is an
expert in channelling the passions of teenage girls. After all, the exam
scores this school achieves are quite exceptional.

But how funny to witness someone doing Ups and Downs again. It used
to be my very favourite way to play. All those times growing up when I’d
slide the latch to lock my bedroom door, and put on the special dress I
liked to play in, the one with the safety pin that lived permanently on
the back hem. I’d use it to pin up the back of my dress, enjoying how
the cool draught tickled goosebumps into my thighs.

Then I’d begin to pull my panties down.

So… so… slowly…

When you’re young and naive you can’t wait to tear open your
presents, to rip the paper asunder with your little grabby hands and get
at what’s inside. But as one gets older, and becomes more aware of
life’s vicissitudes, you learn to savour the great experiences, to
prolong the moment. I discovered an even greater joy lay in
anticipation, learning to delay my gratification for an even greater
ecstasy later…

That’s how I played, waiting with my hands on head, reliving the
naughty games I used to play with Jenny and my friends, enjoying the
sensation of cool air wafting between my legs.

Panties up, a short wait, then panties down again.

I started keeping the wooden ruler I used for my maths homeworks
beside me, so I could give myself a whack on my bum before every Up and
Down – just like our juvenile game demanded. It wasn’t long before my
bum was stinging, and I loved being able to admire myself in my
full-length bedroom mirror, watching my bum turning deliciously pink one
spank at a time.

Up… Down… Up… Down…

On every Up I tugged my panties a little bit higher, feeling them
slip just a little bit further into my puffy lips. This made my Downs a
delicious release as my panties slipped out from within my slit, my
stickiness becoming ever more noticeable, the caress of cool air over my
moist places ever more exciting.

I often gave myself 50 Ups and Downs before I allowed myself to touch myself.

100 if i’d been very naughty. My bum would be bright pink by the end.

Sometimes I could make myself come just through doing my Ups and Downs.

My record was 148.

And then, something happened.

I began to get impatient, I stopped dressing up and my slow Up and
Down ritual, it was no longer quick enough to indulge my urgent need for
pleasure. Now when I locked the door I’d head straight for my bed,
fiddling and rubbing inside my panties before I desperately tugged them
down and impaled myself greedily on my fingers instead.

Perhaps with the loss of my own self-discipline, I lost the moral
authority to enforce discipline on others. I began to whack bottoms like
I masturbated, quickly, loudly, and with no subtlety, hoping to achieve
an instant resolution, only later to realise an ultimately unsatisfying
ending.

Perhaps I’d been too quick to please the men in my life, who regarded
my expensively acquired lingerie as nothing more than overpriced
wrapping paper, something to be urgently torn away to reveal the
precious trinkets beneath. How did I let myself become a Christmas
present for little boys?

How foolish of me to forget, that the life’s sweetest delights come to those who wait.


Jenny finishes scribbling into the ledger on her desk and breaks the silence.

“So Clara. Now you know what a spanked bottom means at Wengrave Hall.”

“Goodness me…” I say weakly.

I’m slumped back on the sofa, my arms hanging heavily by my sides. I
dare not rest my hands on my lap, I’m using all my willpower to resist
the urge to rub.

“We both know a spanking is worthless unless it changes the course of
the recipient’s behaviour. And I’ve found my current approach produces
the best results by far.”

“I was most surprised to see the girl undress” I comment.

“I’ve found the girls are much more candid when they’re completely
naked. It’s much harder to lie with no mask to hide behind. Undressing
right at the start emphasises that what’s coming next is inevitable,
that there’s nothing left to negotiate.”

I nod in agreement, undressing did seem to rapidly assure Stephanie’s compliance.

“The first job of a disciplinarian is to get the one being
disciplined into the right mental state: a submissive one, so she’s
respectful and appreciative of your authority. An apology is worthless
unless the penitent really means it.”

It was difficult to disagree with that, certainly the girl seemed to
utter more thank you’s over the course of her spanking than ows and
ouches.

“You may have noticed Stephanie was bare? It’s part of an informal
social contract, I tell all girls under my care to keep themselves
smooth, so they each have a daily intimate reminder to be on their best
behaviour. After all, they never know when they might be standing naked
in front of me.”

“Do you ever use the cane or those other implements?”, I ask, pointing to the racks of rods in the glass cabinet behind me.

“Goodness no!” scoffs Jenny.

“Oh – they’re relics from a bygone era. Museum pieces! Decorations!
Just there for show. They’re probably all brittle with age by now, I bet
they’d snap if I used them! I’ve always preferred to use my hand
anyway. The most effective spanking is the one that leaves the longest
impression, and I’m not talking about welts on the bottom, but imprints
in the mind.”

“Is that why the girl was indulged with such pleasure at the end?” I inquire.

“You must know, discipline is about obedience, not bruises and
scourging. Our role is delivering care, not retribution. That girl had
suffered her punishment, the shame of exposing herself and the pain of
having her bottom smacked. And she had endured it in good grace. There’s
nothing to be gained by sending her away sulking with a sore bottom,
that will only foster resentment.”

Jenny looked at me knowingly, no doubt alluding to the resentful
stomping from the conservatory she witnessed when I last punished Xiu.
The blush on my cheeks betrayed me, I knew what she’d said was true.

“By giving her a happy ending I demonstrate who is in charge, and
that despite all her transgressions, the girl is still loved. No doubt
you noticed how she came promising to be a good girl?”

That was undeniable, I can’t remember hearing a more earnestly given promise.

“Are all visitors to your lap so deserving?” I enquire.

“Not all. If I’m particularly displeased about the circumstances that
have brought a girl to my door I will induce her climax by pushing my
finger deep into her bottom.”

I feel a reciprocal ache between my legs, I squirm as subtly as I can manage.

“Girls who continue to disappoint me will lose their finishing
privileges, I’ll make them sit in silence on their sore bottoms
afterwards and write an essay, so they can put into words why they’re
continuing to misbehave, and disappointing me so much.”

“And the note?” I wonder.

“I encourage each girl I spank to write a thank you note before they
go to bed, when the sting in their cheeks has faded, and they’ve had
time to reflect on what they did wrong, and resolved to behave better.”

“Here, let me show you…” Jenny proposes, inviting me to approach
the desk and look at the large leather-bound book in which she’d been
writing.

“This is the Punishment Book, where I record every spanking I administer.”

I can see the entry Jenny has just added, the black ink from her
fountain pen still glistening on the page. There’s Stephanie’s name,
today’s date, and a brief description of the circumstances that brought
her to the headmistress’s lap. And the resolution: 10 minutes Ups &
Downs, spanked naked for 8 minutes. It ends with a five word summary of
proceedings: Good Girl. Strong vaginal orgasm.

“And then I keep all the notes the girls write here, in a separate file…”

My friend opens a drawer at the side of her desk, and brings out a
lever arch file. I take it when offered and return to my seat to browse
through it.

What I notice right away is how different each page is, these are not
bureaucratic punishment forms, but every variety of paper imaginable.
Some have used lined A4 pages, no doubt taken from the same pads they
use to write notes in class. Others have taken the inside pages from
jotters, twin puncture marks in the middle where the staples used to be.
Others have chosen proper writing paper, some sheets are thick and
crisp, others textured like linen, some have cutesy little
illustrations, the kind the girls probably once used to write thank you
notes when they were much younger. I wonder if what I’m reading is the
first thank you its author had written for a long, long time.

I stop at a few at random and begin to read. They all seem to start
with a “Dear Miss, …”, before a heartfelt apology segues into an
effusive thank you.

Clearly their discipline has quite an impact, in several cases, the
writer has attempted to explain the background to their poor behaviour.
Some readily admit to just being poorly organised, missing assignments
because of a busy social life. More heartrending are those who confess
to problems at home, or issues with insecurity and self-confidence that
led to them showing off to their peers, in the desperate hope of fitting
in.

They end as they began, in contrition, each desperately sorry for
disappointing their headmistress. The language used throughout is
informal, chummy, almost affectionate, and by the end I can feel the
sorrow in their hearts. Most sign their name with love, some even
include kisses.

“They…” I struggle for the word I want to use, before realising the answer is obvious.

“… they… love… you.”

I feel my eyes mist as I say it.

“Discipline is love” Jenny observes.

It wasn’t a flippant remark, and now in retrospect I understand
exactly what she meant. Yet it made me think of what I’d just witnessed,
the ramifications of one schoolgirl’s crush; there was one more
question I had to ask.

“But don’t you ever have problems with girls deliberately getting into trouble to get your attention?”

Jenny gives me a wry smile, and gazes silently into the space in the middle of the room.



Clara’s question was insightful.

Yes, some girls can’t wait to visit me. Which presents something of a
dilemma. Standards must be maintained, I can’t be seen to turn a blind
eye to rule-breaking, and I certainly won’t tolerate any of my girls
performing anywhere underneath their best. Yet some girls do develop
such a craving for my hand that they deliberately get themselves into
trouble.

Consequently, if I ever think a girl’s misbehaviour was actually
motivated by a desire to dance across my knee, I would offer her a deal:
be a model student during the coming month and at the end of it, she
would earn a trip across my lap.

As it happened, one such girl visited my office yesterday as part of
our special agreement. Bethany is an exceptional pupil, clever, diligent
and ambitious, she’d just received an offer to enter medical school.
But at the beginning of the year I’d been puzzled by her
uncharacteristically childish behaviour, and it was clear I would need
to intervene to preserve her academic prospects. So I had invited her to
my office, and we began a candid discussion of the real reasons behind
her failing performance, whilst she stood naked in front of me with her
panties around her ankles, of course.

The real reason, it transpired, was Bethany had become fascinated
with spankings. Several of her friends had gone across my knee, and
their accounts had been fuelling her own nocturnal fantasies. Like any
conscientious scientist, Bethany had started experimenting with her own
bedroom slipper, trying to replicate the sensations her friends had
described. She had discovered how much she’d enjoyed her re-enacting her
friends’ experiences, the escalating eroticism of pulling her panties
up and down, ritual of bending over, and the unexpected pleasure that
accompanied each stinging smack to her bottom.

Eventually her curiosity overwhelmed her, and she had decided to try
to earn a visit to see me. She had started handing in her homeworks
late, and made sure she would be overheard using profane and unladylike
language whenever I passed her group of friends in the school corridors.
It wasn’t long before I felt I had to intervene. So I had summoned her
to my study, where she obediently pulled down her panties, and
eventually, bared her soul.

Yesterday I’d been sitting at my desk, responding to email while I
awaited her latest visit. There were a couple of quick raps on my study
door.

Bethany entered nervously at my invitation, her shoulders slumped
forward and her hands clasped in front of her waist. Even though she was
here voluntarily, she adopted the classic naughty girl posture. I’d
seen it countless times before.

To lighten the atmosphere and put her at ease we indulged in a bit of
smalltalk, until I felt it was appropriate to begin the business at
hand.

“So Bethany, have you earnt the right to stand naked in front of me this month?”

“Yes Miss!” she announced proudly, “I achieved A+ in both of my recent biology and chemistry assignments!”

I knew this already, of course, I keep a close eye on the performance
of all my girls, regardless of whether they’re due across my knee. But
there’s no harm letting them glory in their achievements.

“You are such a clever girl!”

My praise was sincerely meant, from what I’d read from her tutors,
she’d been performing genuinely excellent work. I could see her
struggling to suppress a smile of pride.

“Then you may undress for me.”

I noticed her shimmy in a little excited jig at my instruction. She
undressed quickly and enthusiastically. Slow stripteases can be very
tantalising of course, but I find it even more erotic to see someone
urgently tear off their clothes because they just can’t wait to be naked
in front of me.

Moments later, Bethany was standing with her hands on her head,
wearing only her underwear, her chest heaving from the exertion of
undressing so rapidly, obediently waiting my next instruction.

“Now pull down your panties like a good girl.”

In contrast to the frantic pace of her undressing, she performed my
command very slowly indeed, taking what seemed like an age to peel down
her underwear, revealing her immaculately smooth mound and the fleshy
pink contours of her vulva. Being hairless means a much more pleasant
experience when a girl inevitably grinds herself along my thigh; for
both of us.

As her panties reached mid-thigh I could see a sanitary pad in her
gusset. But it wasn’t because it was her monthly time, we always
schedule our appointments to avoid that. Rather, many girls find the
prospect of an after-school visit with me very exciting, but rather than
spend the school day squirming in wet panties, some elect wear to pads
to absorb the physical manifestations of their excitement.

“Is that the only pad you’ve worn today?” I enquired when she had finished lowering her underwear.

“No Miss. I changed it at lunchtime.”

“Give it to me, please.”

She reached down to the floor and pulled the pad from the material of
her panties with a faint tearing noise, before hobbling towards my
desk, her underwear taut like manacles between her ankles. She placed
the pad in my outstretched palm then shuffled backwards to her original
position.

The pad was sticky on both sides, from its adhesive on the bottom,
and several hours of its wearer’s excitement on the top. I brought it
slowly up to my face, scrutinising the glistening tidemarks and
dried-out creamy splots. I raised it to my nostrils, looking deep into
the girl’s eyes as I inhaled the musky scent of her arousal deep into my
lungs. She smelt of girly perfume and zesty sweat, of damp earth after a
summer storm, of honeysuckle flowers and musty old books. She smelt of
that indescribable spirit we desire the most.

As I inhaled her very essence, I watched my student look back at me
with lust burning in her eyes. I’m sure at that moment had her hands not
been pinioned on her head, she would have plunged them into the wet
puffy crevice between her legs. The relief she gained when I signalled
she could pull up her panties came as little consolation.

I placed her pad on my desk delicately, I would come back and enjoy that later.

“Now Bethany, I want you to promise me you’ll never waste my time with anything less than your very best.”

“Of course, Miss.”

She spoke with a degree of earnestness that suggested the very idea
of failing to excel was quite ridiculous. I nodded, and gestured that
she could pull her panties down again.

“Are you doing your Up and Downs every night?”

“Yes Miss. I do them after I finish my homework.”

A wave of my hand, and she slowly pulled her panties up.

“And how often do you masturbate?”

“Every night before falling asleep Miss.”

“And how do you like to do it?”

“My hand just starts wandering, Miss, I stroke myself all over, until eventually I stray into my pyjama bottoms…”

At my signal, she pulls her panties down again.

“… then I rub up and down my lips until they get puffy and wet. I
usually pull my bottoms off then, so I don’t make a mess inside them.”

My position as headmistress has given me an enviable expertise on the masturbatory habits of teenage girls.

The clitoris tends to be first pleasure spot to be discovered, so
rubbing tends to be popular with the younger girls, typically as they
lie on their backs with a finger or two between their legs or face down
with a palm under their crotch. Pillows feature regularly too,
especially amongst those keen to recreate the experience of going over
my knee, a couple placed between the thighs so they can grind
rhythmically with their bare bottoms in the air. I’ve found those who
play when they’re alone in the house often like to recreate their
spankings, tapping and smacking their own bottoms with a slipper, ruler
or hairbrush.

As they get older, fingers start to explore deeper inside, with the
more adventurous daring to probe their tightest hole. Once bank cards
and the confidence to shop online are acquired, dildos and vibrators
start to appear. By sixth form, the erotic knowledge of some of my
students is extraordinary, I’ve found some can even teach me a thing or
two.

Some might think my enquiries intrusive, but I consider it vital to
know the sexual health of every girl in my care. If a girl is not
masturbating, I believe it is important to know why. Lingering notions
of shame or dirtiness need to be challenged at an early age. I’ve seen
the damage done by unreleased sexual frustration, how it can drive girls
into the arms of unworthy and boorish men. The prudish might try to
deny it, but we all have a sexual side. I consider it far better that
each girl leaves my care with healthy understanding of her own
sexuality, believing it is a gift to be treasured, not a dirty secret to
be buried.

“And what do you think of when you play?” I asked.

“Sometimes being spanked by you Miss, and…”

She hesitated, unsure whether to continue talking so frankly. I
encouraged her on with a friendly smile and gestured that she could
expose herself. Being naked before me always seems to loosen tongues.
She slipped her panties down to her ankles again.

“Sometimes I imagine doing naughty things to you Miss.”

“Oh really? What kind of naughty things?” I asked curiously.

“I imagine kneeling in front of you, Miss. I’m watching you slowly pulling your panties down, then up, then down again… and…”

She hesitates, uncertain if she’s said far too much. I smile sympathetically and wave her on.

” … and every time you pull your panties down, I kiss you between your legs.”

I had to fight to keep my composure. What I like best about Up and
Downs is how the candidness of answers increases every time the panties
are lowered, as if the voluntary lowering of panties is an unmasking,
shedding layers until the subject is fully exposed, naked in body and
mind.

“Then I slide a finger inside you Miss. I hope you don’t mind…” she added hurriedly.

“Not at all” I said as casually as I could manage.

At that point I waved her panties upwards, buying a minute’s grace to compose myself.

“And then?”

“I keep sliding my finger in and out until you finish, Miss.”

“Until I climax?”

“Yes Miss. I hope that’s not too presumptuous, Miss.”

“Oh, heavens no! That’s very considerate. You are a sweetheart!”

I rewarded her revelation by allowing her to pull her panties down again.

I can still remember the longing ache I felt in my own crotch as my
eyes first wandered across my prodigy’s naked body. She was sexually
precocious, though perhaps still slightly too young to allow her to act
out all her fantasies right now. But I believe it’s important to keep my
star students striving, with appropriate incentives to improve
themselves.

“And then you put me over your knee Miss, and spank me hard until I finish too.”

I smiled warmly.

“Well now! I know a delightful young lady who’s earned a good hard spanking on her pretty little bottom!”

I could see Bethany beaming with glee, her eyes sparkling.

At that point I rose from behind my desk and strode over to the
spanking stool. Once I’d sat down I hitched up the hem of my skirt,
exposing the tops of my thighs. All it takes is a knowing look down at
my knee, my best students don’t need a verbal invitation, she
immediately stepped out of her sticky panties, leaving them lying on the
floor.

She was familiar with my disciplinary ritual by now, for her ultimate
act of exposure. She knelt in front of me with her legs apart, reaching
down to spread her labia apart with her fingertips, revealing her
little glistening pearl and her slick pink crevice.

“I’ve been a very good girl for you, Miss. Please may I have a long hard spanking on my bare bottom?”

And she had indeed been a very good girl, so a good hard spanking was the very least she deserved. All I needed do was nod.

At my signal, Bethany stood, taking a step forward before lunging
enthusiastically across my lap, her outstretched hands reaching for the
floor, her legs on either side of my left knee. I could feel the heat of
her bare mound on my thigh, then a sudden hot wetness, like the top of
my leg had just received a particularly sloppy kiss. The hot wet mark
slid up my thigh as she bent further and further forward, moaning
contentedly until the palms of her hands were on the floor and her feet
had lifted off the ground.

“Such a good little girl” I told her, as I massaged and stroked her bottom cheeks.

And then I started spanking, slowly, deliberately and hard. I spanked
her just as hard as I would punish any naughty girl, she’d have felt
cheated if it was any other way. The only difference is that where I
would usually scold the girl on my lap for her delinquency, now I
punctuated my spanks with praise.

With every smack, I could feel her smooth mound grind against my
thigh, and she moaned or thanked me after every stroke. Two round pink
patches soon appeared on her bottom, and in-between I could see her
vagina begin to gape.

“You are such a clever girl, Bethany. All your teachers think very highly of you.”

I married my praise with a flurry of spanks, causing my student to
mew wordlessly in appreciation. Sincere flattery, the ultimate feel-good
accolade; because how many of us really know how much others appreciate
us?

“All your hard work will be so well rewarded, Bethany. You can be anything you want to be. The whole world’s at your feet.”  

What a thrill it was to deliver a spanking with such positivity. I
looked down at the beautiful young woman perched naked on my lap, and
felt my bosom swell with pride. I had known her for seven years, ever
since she was a little girl. I remember her entrance interview,
trembling nervously, the painfully reticent girl who, when finally
coaxed from her shell, burst with extraordinary ideas. I never thought
I’d need to spank her bottom, not for bad behaviour anyway.

When I could sense she was getting close, I began to run my fingers
through her hair. I grabbed a bunch of her soft black curls, tugging
firmly to win back her attention, before treating her to another series
of hard stinging spanks. In response, she squirmed delightfully on my
lap.

“Miss, please!” she gasped, “I’m so close!”

I spanked her hard for her temerity, reminding her I decided when
those underneath my palm were granted release. Gasps and moans peppered
her apologises. I continued spanking until I was sure her rosy cheeks
would still be stinging by the time she masturbated in bed tonight.

Pain and pleasure made Bethany grind herself deliriously on my lap.
It was only then that I placed my fingertip at the entrance to her
vagina, as if I was shushing the lips of a noisy child.

“Oh please Miss!” my pupil pleaded.

Two of my fingers slid into her effortlessly, then curled downwards,
gripping her tight. I always relieve the good girls this way; most of my
girls tend to play by rubbing their clits, so my method feels exotic,
like a special treat. But such pleasure must be earned, if I believe a
girl performs her Ups and Downs poorly, or I feel her apologies are
insincere, or I believe she hasn’t learnt her lesson yet, I shall push
my index finger into her bottom, and masturbate her anally instead.

I could feel Bethany’s vagina begin to quiver around my fingers. Any
moment now. I lowered my lips to her closest ear and whispered:

“I’m so proud of you, Bethany.”

My star pupil came exuberantly moments later, bucking vigorously on
my thigh, her hands supporting herself on the floor, her bare feet
kicking wildly in the air.

I kept my fingers inside her as she lay sprawled on my lap, feeling
the aftershocks of her climax quivering against my fingers. With my
other hand I stroked her hair during several minutes of intimate
silence.

And then afterwards, when strength had returned to her wobbly legs,
because she’d been such a good girl, I allowed her a single kiss.

But I tell Clara none of this.



Clara must have noticed my vacant stare, her voice interrupts my reminiscence.

“Yes…?” she prompts.

“Yes” I admitted, “Some girls do develop a bit of a crush on me. But
that’s why I question each girl so intimately, to discover the real
reason she’s here. Often it’s just that basic human need, to feel
someone cares about you.”

Clara nods in understanding.

“If a girl isn’t misbehaving, I always offer her a deal: if she
excels in her schoolwork, she can visit me every month. What happens
will be exactly the same, she’ll undress to her panties, then pull them
up and down at my command until she’s soaking wet. Then I’ll put her
over my knee and spank her hard until she comes. And if she wants to
come back next month, the only requirement is she performs even better.”

I shuffle through the pages of my desk diary.

“I have appointments with two such prodigies tomorrow, Melissa is
currently excelling in Maths, and Rei is producing some remarkable
written English, it seems her poetry is attracting quite a following
online.”

“To be honest, Clara, I spank many more good girls than bad girls these days.”

At this, I see my friend’s eyebrows rise in surprise, so I continue to explain.

“I’ve always thought the defining characteristic of a good
headmistress is the ability to convert naughty girls into good girls,
and keep them that way. One that spends her time punishing with no
discernable improvement in behaviour is a poor disciplinarian indeed.”

Clara’s wide-eyed expression now resembles one of incredulity. Is she
really that surprised that I use spankings more as a means of
encouragement than as a means of punishment? From what I witnessed last
week, I was inclined to think her approach to increasing disobedience is
simply to spank harder. Yet, there is another way. A better way.

I believe I have one more lesson to teach.


* * 5 * *

Jenny’s last comment had left me dumbstruck. That some of her girls,
her best performing girls, wanted to go over her knee so badly they made
appointments. I can see her looking at me intently, like she was an
owl, and I was a mouse.

“Now, that just leaves one more naughty girl to punish” Jenny observes.

Instinctively, I look back at the door, waiting for another knock,
but nothing breaks the awkward silence. I look back at Jenny, who is
still looking directly at me. And then, suddenly, I understand.

“Get undressed, Clara” the headmistress orders.

The bluntness of her command leaves me reeling.

“What?! No!” I reply instinctively.

My objection prompts Jenny to jump to her feet, stepping around her
considerable desk until all of a sudden she’s looming above me.

“Do you need me to undress you, young lady?” she asks sternly.

She reaches down to grasp my wrist, and pulls me to my feet. I want
to protest, but I just feel like a little girl again. My big girl voice
seems to have deserted me. Somehow my fingers have risen to my own
throat, and I find myself beginning to unbutton my blouse. Jenny helps
it off my shoulders, then reaches around me and unhooks my bra. My
nipples, still hard from watching Stephanie’s spanking, send a tingle
across my body when finally exposed.

Visibly pleased by my acquiescence, Jenny turns and sits down on the
spanking stool, and watches as I slip off my shoes and unfasten my
skirt, letting it drop unceremoniously to my feet. I roll down my nude
tights to reveal my last remaining garment: my skimpy ivory-coloured
satin briefs, which reveal my hips and barely cover my mound, I might as
well be wearing a thong.

Some distantly remembered muscle memory makes me put my hands on my
head, and I stand in front of Jenny again, awaiting her scrutiny.

“It seems someone found watching a schoolgirl getting her bare bum spanked rather exciting…” she observes.

The evidence of my disgrace is plain to see, the front of my briefs are soaked through, as if I’d wet myself.

“Pull down your panties, Clara.”

A shiver runs the length of my body. Jenny has no idea how long I’ve
waited to hear those words again. This all feels so unreal, slightly
fuzzy around the edges, like some vivid dream or hallucination. But I do
as she instructs, my fingertips reaching under the elasticated ribbon
at my waist, slowly tugging my remaining modesty down my hips. I feel so
naughty when the damp fabric of my briefs clings momentarily to my
sticky lips.

This time there’s no one behind me to stare between my bottom cheeks
as I bend at my knees, but I find the motion just as exciting as I
remember. Once my underwear is at my ankles I stand upright again for
Jenny’s scrutiny.

“I expect my students to keep themselves bare,” she observes, “that will have to go.”

I look down at the little bush on my mound, and nod agreeably whilst I
process what she’s just said, how she’d placed her emphasis on ‘my
students’. It echoes around my head as I search for nuances and hidden
meaning, wondering if meant she considers me one of her own pupils now.

Jenny flutters her finger, and I obediently pull my panties up again.

Part of me wants to speak up, to refuse to continue with this silly
ritual. I’m too proud to admit I deserve the same treatment as her
naughty schoolgirls. I’m Clara Tayborn! I tell myself. Professional
governess. Much too important to be subjected to an indignity like this.
But then Jenny’s finger instructs me to tug my panties down again. And
as I do so, I feel my resistance weaken further.

“Why do you spank your girls?” Jenny asks.

“Because they’ve been naughty” I reply, trying not to sound flippant, I thought that much was obvious.

“No. No. No! That’s not WHY you should be spanking them.” corrected
Jenny, scolding my ignorance like I was a silly child. I’m directed to
pull my panties down as penitence.

“You should only spank because you care.”

I nod my understanding bashfully.

“Why do you shout at your girls?” Jenny asks.

“Because they don’t listen!” I answer, rather tetchily.

“I’d say it’s more that they don’t hear anything worth listening to” she observes.

“But… I need to preserve my authority somehow…” I whine.

As I tug up my panties, I can feel the ache caused by her criticism throbbing in my tummy.

“The strictest words are softly spoken” Jenny says quietly, as if to emphasise her point.

At her direction, I begin to expose myself again. In that long
awkward silence I begin to admit my failings to myself. What I was
wielding wasn’t authority, not like the authority Jenny has. I begin to
recognise that the discipline I’d inflicted on my girls had been
completely counter-productive. My chastisements had been delivered in
anger, and had only served to foster more resentment. This horrid
realisation shocks me. All I can do is burble a meek apology.

“I’m so so sorry, Miss”

My voice doesn’t sound like a big girl’s any more. I realise I need
my friend’s approval, her acceptance, more than anything. I want her to
make things right. That’s when a sinking fear begins to swell inside me:
that she’ll stop right now, tell me I’ve learnt my lesson and instruct
me to get dressed, and then send me home without the punishment I know I
deserve.

“I deserve a good spanking Miss!” I blurt out.

“I know” she says simply.

There is another long silence, I can feel her eyes roving across my
body, as if she’s peering under my skin, verifying my sincerity.

“Give me your panties, and kneel.” she says at last.

I step out of my embarrassingly sodden underwear and creep forward
humbly, like a wretched peasant approaching a regal throne, kneeling
before the Queen to present my shabby gift.

“Knees apart. Hold yourself open and show me your clit.”

I am under her spell now. I want to do anything she asks of me, no
matter how explicit or humiliating. I part my legs, reaching down to my
crotch with both hands, splaying my labia apart with the fingers of one
hand, and pulling the hood of my clit back with the other. I can feel my
pearl throbbing with every thumping heartbeat.

I look up into her eyes and find myself imploring her.

“Please spank me, Jen,” I’m begging now, “… spank me like a naughty girl … spank me hard on my bare bottom.”

A thrill shimmers through me as I see Jenny hitching the hem of her
skirt, revealing the beautifully smooth expanse of her thigh.

“Over my knee…” she says simply.

I stand as quickly as my trembling legs will allow, and straddle
Jenny’s leg just as her pupil had done, lunging past Jenny’s hip until
my palms are resting on the ground. I gasp as my weight leaves my feet
and my wet crotch slides along her thigh.

Jenny parts my bottom for a cursory inspection, and then begins
spanking me without saying another word. Each hard whack leaves a fiery
imprint on my cheeks. I’d forgotten how sore a proper spanking could be,
each smack a little ring of blazing pain that quickly becomes a
stinging ache, then another, and again until all the patches begin to
overlap, throbbing into a smarting medley of burning torment.

And yet I hear my own voice, asking – begging – to be disciplined harder.

I feel Jenny’s hand running through my hair, gathering a bunch and
tugging hard. I arch my back, presenting my bottom for her attention. I
am her puppet, completely under her control. I find myself thinking back
to that night I disciplined Xiu, how crude my whackings must have
seemed, how disappointed she must have been in me.

In between gasps I heard myself desperately apologising for my poor
stewardship of those in my care. I know I’ve failed them, and as my
bottom burns I beg my friend to teach me the art of loving discipline.

“I’d be delighted to teach you” says my oldest friend.

Once, when I was a girl, I broke a neighbour’s window with a ball.
Somehow I managed to run away and never admitted to it. A policeman even
visited our street, but I was so innocent back then; they blamed it on a
group of rowdy boys instead. I used to fantasise about the whacking I
would have received had I not run and been caught. How I’d be put over
my neighbour’s knee and have my bottom bared, and then be slippered like
I was the naughtiest girl in the entire world. I spent years wondering
how sore a spanking could really be. And now I know, at last the
spanking I’ve long-deserved.  

I’m almost delirious now, only just aware of Jenny’s middle finger
hovering below my nose. I take it into my mouth, sucking it submissively
like a pacifier, something to soothe me as her strict palm repeatedly
stings my bottom.

Then her finger withdraws, I whine childishly. Moments later I feel a
damp fingertip circling my bottom hole. Now I remember what Jenny said,
that a finger in the bum is what naughty girls get. I feel a pang of
deep regret, that I’d been such a disappointment to my old friend, that I
don’t even deserve her fingers in my pussy.

She pulls my hair like reins, and I lift my stinging bottom
dutifully. My tight hole offers surprisingly little resistance to her
fingertip. By the time her first knuckle enters me, I knew my body had
surrendered to her.

“Make me better, Jen” I gasped.

A sense of tranquility washes over me, a sense of contentment, of
things making finally making sense. That what had been missing from my
disciplinings was not just authority, but love. I feel myself relaxing,
welcoming rather resisting Jenny’s probing finger.

Then a second digit begins to enter my bottom. It hurts – my whole
bum hurts – but Jenny tugs my hair and I push back compliantly, quickly
impaling myself. Now I can feel both her fingers deep within me, like
she’s somehow giving my insides a delightful tickle. Her tickling
becomes a pleasurable shiver, and I realise I’m about to pass the point
of no return.

I manage to gasp Jenny’s name just before every nerve in my body
seems to fire. Each patch of my skin seems to tremble, the burning pain
of my spanked bottom instantly numbed. I come squirming and kicking on
her lap, my back arched, grinding my soaking crotch against her thigh as
her fingers are squeezed tight by my quivering hole.

It is the most extraordinary orgasm of my life. An epiphany.

Although I remember virtually nothing of it, later Jenny told me I spent a couple of minutes dancing and moaning upon her lap.

When I eventually recover the strength to stand again, Jenny makes me
bend over the stool with my legs apart, and wipes me clean like a
naughty little girl. I had made quite a mess on her thigh too.

* * *

That night I stayed at Jenny’s residence. I found my old friend’s
company intoxicating, and we talked well into the early hours. My heart
leapt when we agreed to meet regularly in future, she as the judicious
teacher, me as her grateful student.

I had so wanted to repay the favour, to give her the pleasure that she had bestowed on me.

But she simply kissed me and told me that too was a privilege I’d have to earn.

My beautiful friend can be so cruel.


* * 6 * *

I sent the photo of the inscription I found inside Clara’s bench to a
polyglot friend. It is indeed written in Arabic script, but its words
are actually in Farsi, the ancient language of Persia. The text turns
out to be the opening lines of 13th century Sufi love poem by Rumi, an
eight-hundred year old voice that whispers like the desert sands:

“If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting will look,
lift your face
and say,
Like this.”

It is a secret message, one intended to be seen solely by the
individual bent over the bench, and then only when she tosses her head
as she comes.

How delightful. Could you ever imagine such an artefact, or indeed
such a beautifully erotic sentiment, originating from the pious darkness
of 13th century Europe? I wonder how Clara came by it. Some erotic
adventure in a sand-blown souk no doubt.

This new revelation makes me wonder if that beautiful piece of
furniture was initially created as a fucking bench rather than a
spanking bench. It’s become my new favourite fantasy – imagining myself
in the glorious walled city of old Baghdad, in one of the last glorious
summers of the Abbasid Caliphate, the fin de siècle before the
devastating Mongol storm.

Maybe the bench was a gift, a wedding present from the son of the
Caliph to his new bride. It excites me to think of her, raising her head
to read the secret inscription in the moonlight just before her
consciousness is swept away by an irresistible wave of ecstasy.

It thrills me to imagine all those who must have lain in the same
position over the ages. Restrained and surrendered, enjoying the kisses
of whips and their lovers’ lips. I picture each lucky captive being
teased, feeling the head of her lover’s stiff cock bobbing between her
legs whilst his nimble fingers massage her petals apart.

Once I dreamt of a camel train, trudging over golden dunes. Behind
them proud Baghdad, smouldering mournfully under a shroud of smoke, the
river Tigris running black with the ink of looted books. The camels
carry many priceless treasures, and on the back of one, I see the bench.
It is the beginning of an epic wandering journey; until seven hundred
years later, it finally encounters me.

I have already planned a new episode for her beautiful bench, one that I hope befits its glorious history.

The family is away this weekend, so we shall have the house to
ourselves. It will be a hot, sticky midsummer night, and I’ve already
told Clara that when I arrive tomorrow evening I expect to find her
wearing just her panties. It shall be the most she wears all weekend.

When the full moon has risen high in the night sky, I shall lead
Clara by the hand to the conservatory. I shall climb to the top of the
bench and sit astride it, like a Queen mounted on her royal steed, and
command her to begin her Ups and Downs. I shall look down on her with
regal authority as she repeatedly exposes herself, looking up to me with
wide obedient eyes.

When I am satisfied by her submissiveness I shall dismount, and
instruct her to bend over her own beautiful bench. Only when I have
fastened her by hand and foot, will I undress completely. This way Clara
will be unable to see behind her, I will be blur in the corner of her
eyes, an apparition, her very own angel of discipline.

I plan to chastise her with her own whip. I will spank her bottom
hard just like a naughty girl, but pausing from time to time to run the
stem of the crop between her needy lips. I shall use its round leather
tip to flog the tender regions between her open cheeks, and continue
until I’ve painted every part of her backside pink. I shall spank her
until I’ve quashed the resistance within her muscles, to the point when
her struggles cease, and she finally slumps over the bench subdued.

Then I will reach over and lower a blindfold over her eyes. Because I intend to tease every one of her senses.

Only then shall I walk in front of her, and bend over in front of her face.

So first she will smell me.

I will let her inhale the scent of my cunt. I shall say nothing. I shall let her animal mind wake her from her slumber.

And then she will feel me, as I back into her eager face.

The tip of her nose will be the first to feel my heat, before her mouth touches the velvety softness of my lips.

Then she will taste me.

I shall shimmy my hips, dancing until she has covered every part of her tongue with my sweet musky flavour.

Only then she will hear me.

All my little gasps and moans as I enjoy her tribute.

But still her eyes will remain denied. I know Clara has never seen my
cunt, and how she longs to see me intimately. Perhaps if her tongue is
diligent, I will turn around and lift her blindfold, but keep my bottom
pressed into her face, so all she sees is the blurry outline of my
cheeks.

Only when she’s brought me to the very edge will I slowly walk
forward. I want the first sight she has of my cunt to be a vision, like
an oasis emerging from a desert haze.

I expect I’ll feel her hot breath blowing across my wet, excited
lips. I shall tease her by revealing just how close she came to making
me come.

Eventually I will release her, help her down, and take her place on
top of the bench. And then I intend to surrender myself to Clara’s
erotic imagination. I want to know how eager to please my marvellous new
student can be.

And more than anything, I want to read that message in the moonlight as I come.


Tomorrow evening, my dear teacher Jenny is coming back to visit me –
to stay the night. I find myself trembling with excitement. She has
promised me a very special surprise.

Since becoming her student, I have solemnly promised not touch myself
without her permission, as I attempt to relearn my self-discipline. I’m
shaved bare now, of course, which helps me feel like I’m one of her
schoolgirls. And every night before going to bed I do my Ups and Downs.

I’m writing this, dear diary, dressed only in my panties, already
damp through anticipation. In a moment I shall put down my pen, and walk
to the middle of the room. I’ll feel my chest swell as I take several
deep, almost yogic, breaths.

And then I’ll slowly pull my panties down.

I perform my ritual like Jenny has taught me, standing with my
underwear around my ankles and my hands on my head, breathing slowly and
deeply, filling and emptying my lungs. Soon, I’ll feel my head
clearing, the mental fog of the day somehow dissipating. For a moment,
I’ll meditate on the virtues of self-discipline as cool air wafts across
my cheeks. And then I slowly pull my panties up again.

I always take my time of course, Jenny is teaching me to enjoy the
journey of arousal rather than rushing to its destination. She is very
strict about such things.

Afterwards I often send her an image of my wetness, my swollen pink
folds, politely and respectfully asking permission to take the final
step and rub myself towards relief. The pause whilst I await her reply
is such a thrill, even when the answer is sometimes: No.

At first, I resented my frustration, the cruel times when I was sent
to bed with such longing burning between my legs. But soon I began to
understand: that gratification and denial were like light and shadow,
each inextricably linked, each meaningless with each other. It wasn’t
long before her wisdom won my obedience.

Panties up, then panties down.

Up, then down.

Up, then down.

I’m a good girl doing Up and Downs again.

.

.

.

@spankingtheatre 2014

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

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