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Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

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retrospective

Oubliette

spankingtheatre:

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And then she announced:

“… the next item on the menu… will be bare licked cunt…”

She let her words hang in the air, where they seemed to charge the atmosphere between us like a tiny erotic thunderstorm.

In the vast treasure trove of my memories, that one moment blazes with an exceptional clarity. Somehow perfectly preserved, infinitely replayable.

Yet behind every memory is a story, a winding path of strange happenstance and improbable events that stretch back into the hazy mist of every experience. Stories lie submerged like icebergs, their brilliant summits glowing as vivid snapshots, their intricate genesis hidden, lost deep beneath our minds’ turbulent waves.

What could be more human than forgetting? We are not machines or paintings or books. We are biochemical repositories of circumstance, whose subtle complexities of existence are readily outshone by visceral moments of dazzling pleasure.

Yet, it is our stories that define us. Not those seductive, emotion-charged glimpses that we can summon on demand to burst like gratifying fireworks in our minds. Our stories are always there, lurking unbidden, the true substrate of our being.

Perhaps we were never meant to probe too deep, to pull on the loose threads of our memories, to let them unravel. Who knows what unexplored paths exist in the Minotaur’s maze? Perhaps they really are best left alone, unvisited and forgotten. Who knows where those passages might have led…


To those that enjoy dining well, there is one establishment whose reputation exceeds all others. One whose name is spoken with hushed reverence.

It is La Oubliette.

The Forgotten Place.

It holds no official awards, and appears in no guidebooks. No one can even say for certain where it really is, let alone how to make a booking. It is as if the outside world had indeed forgotten its existence, to become a closely guarded secret known only to an elite cognoscenti.

Some mock it as an in-joke, some dismiss it as a preposterous myth. Yet if it exists, it is a destination of intimidating exclusivity. No bribe, no level of celebrity will secure you a table there. Some say all guests must be personally invited. I know prominent individuals who had lived and died waiting for a coveted invitation, which never came.

Life had been kind to me, but I am neither rich or famous. Yet one morning last year, completely out of the blue, I received a powder-blue envelope in the mail. It looked expensive and classy, crisp artisanal paper, my address elegantly handwritten. And when I opened it, I was staggered to realise it was a message purporting to be from the famed Chez Oubliette. Somehow, for some inexplicable reason, they had sent me an invitation.

The single page missive stated that a table had been booked for me, and me alone, on the 28th of December. This date was not negotiable, if I wanted to accept, I would be met somewhere in Geneva by a member of La Oubliette’s staff. If I declined, the message politely assured me, I would never hear from them again. There was also an ominous warning: not to tell anyone else I’d received an invitation, or it would be immediately withdrawn.

The date they’d offered was intriguingly bizarre, just after Christmas. A time when most folk were still on holiday. Perhaps it was a quiet period, between two festivities. But I had no say in the matter, my only choice being to accept or decline. At stake was only a dinner, but something told me if I said no, I’d regret it for the rest of my days. Within the hour I emailed the one-time RSVP address, confirming my acceptance.

My rendezvous instructions arrived the following week. Soon after, I booked my plane ticket with quivering hands. But what exactly was I getting into?

The restaurant’s name suggested a place that wanted to be forgotten, but there was also another, more sinister and disturbing meaning. An oubliette is the term for hidden dungeon cell. Typically one with a concealed entrance, like a trapdoor in the ceiling. One difficult to find, and impossible to escape from. A place where people could be made to disappear, somewhere they could be permanently forgotten…

Keep reading

At the end of a turbulent decade, on the brink of a brand new one…

What better story to choose for the next entry in the retrospective than Oubliette.

This is an appropriate tale for this time of year. A story about looking back on cherished memories and regrets of roads not taken. Yet this story is also about the future. How everything can change in an instant, through unexpected invitations, and new connections.

Oubliette is a story is a story of how the past influences our futures, how the echo of events can propagate across even billions of years of time. But it’s also a story of the beautiful serendipity of our own short lifetimes, and the transformative magic of love and lust.

Oubliette is one of my more philosophical stories. Look closer and you may see many meanings embedded within its delightfully explicit paragraphs.

So as a new decade dawns, I wish you all a road ahead that it is deeply fulfilling. Even if sometimes you might need to go on an adventure to find it.

Each of us is the latest chapter in a rolling story billions of years in the making. There’s not many collections of molecules in this universe with the capacity to dream and love. You are one of them.

Make your own unique epic story memorably wonderful.

Wishing every reader a fantastic new year!

The Caning Emporium

spankingtheatre:

A story about imagining

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In the dark castle of your imagination are many rooms

You could spend a lifetime roaming its stark alluring corridors

Peeping through the keyholes

To be aroused and thrilled

By sights unseen


* * 1 * *

The opening door silenced the hubbub of two dozen voices. One of the idiosyncrises of their teacher, Mr Bowman, was he often arrived in class a couple of minutes late. As his new class would soon discover, he had a taste for theatrical flourishes, a penchant for engineering drama and building anticipation. As if the whole class was itself entering a story that had already started.

Even his clothes had the air of a showman. Today he’d dressed in a black thigh-length Edwardian frock coat. A snow white cravat bulging out from his iridescent blue silk waistcoat. He removed his tall top hat as he stepped into the classroom, doffing it respectfully to the young ladies present.

Mr Bowman’s class was incredibly popular. Always oversubscribed, it was one of only two classes in the school to have a waiting list. Preference was given to students with a strong academic record, as this was not a subject for the indolent or immature, but for grown-up minds who wanted to push their boundaries. A class of the school’s best and brightest. He entered the room to a buzz of expectation, to survey a sea of wide and eager eyes.

After all, who wouldn’t want to be able to write? To communicate, to reach out to and inspire and arouse their imaginations of strangers they’d never met. To be able to harness the most powerful creative force in the known universe, the one that covertly lurked between their own two ears.

He paused before the class, his eyes roaming his audience’s faces, nodding, as if in agreement with whatever they were silently thinking. He could sense their curiosity, the murmur of prolific potential straining to be unleashed.

Mr Bowman could feel himself being charged up by their enthusiasm, pulling off his frock coat and melodramatically flinging it over the hook of the nearby coat stand, before striding up to the blackboard. The chalk squeaked and scratched as he wrote two short words in neat block capitals.

“Erotic Writing”, he began, regarding what he’d written for a moment before turning back to face the class.

This was no ordinary creative writing class. His pupils were not silly little girls, but young ladies, each now keenly aware of their own simmering sexuality. The enlightened board of governors believed this course would help them express the powerful feelings that often surged through their febrile minds, and the pyretic urges that now surged through their burgeoning bodies.

Mr Bowman let the class stare at what he’d written for a moment. He wondered how many were fixated on just the first word, and what visions those six little letters had already conjured in their minds. He waited, then broke the silence.

“On our journey through life, each of you will write a veritable library of words. Instructions, memories, descriptions and proposals. Words of joy, expressions of sorrow, words of apology and gratitude. In your years at this school each of you has learnt how to write essays, poems and reports, the art of expressing the ideas within your head. Yet…”

“Hands up. Who’s ever imagined a scene of a sexual nature?”

A murmur of suppressed gasps swept the room. From his vantage point at the front of the class the variation in sexual confidence within his class was obvious, but unsurprising. There were the girls with their jaws open, taken aback by the bluntness of his question. Others were looking around furtively, waiting to see if anyone else had put their hand up…

Keep reading

Next in my retrospective of past stories is The Caning Emporium. This is a meta-story, a story about the process of writing spanking stories. It also features a scene with erotic writing class, which is an activity I’m keen to tutor and encourage in the new role-playing chat group.

If you’ve ever wondered about the process of erotic story-writing, the deep alluring mystery of sexual fantasies, or even just dreamt of buying your own cane, I think you’d enjoy your visit to The Caning Emporium

Waiting

spankingtheatre:

I’d never been good at waiting.

But his instructions were quite clear.

“Stand still, be quiet — and don’t turn around.”

So I just stare at the wall and listen to footsteps walking away. He stops after 10 steps. Behind me, a hinge creaks. There’s some clattering and some rustling. What is he doing?

There’s a hulking wooden cupboard at the back of the classroom. It’s always kept locked, like some ancient reliquary. What exactly lies within has been the subject of many speculative conversations among my peers, but no student has ever looked inside. He must be looking for a suitable implement to punish me with. What will it be, I wonder?

The suspense is building, my breathing quickening, but I dare not turn around. That would be asking for trouble. Yet, my curiously is an itch that must be scratched. Restraining my impulsiveness has always been my weakness. Maybe just a peek, I’m sure he won’t even notice me. I can’t even hear him, he must be still rummaging inside the cupboard. I take a chance, quickly turning my head — only to see him looming over me. His voice chastises my disobedience.

“I told you not to turn around”.

Keep reading

Next in the alphabetical retrospective of spanking stories is Waiting.

This school-set story also happens to be the very first post I made on this blog. It wasn’t the first spanking story I’d written, I’d been writing stories privately for a while, but it was the first I considered sufficiently good to risk posting publicly.

I had no idea how it would be received, whether those stumbling across it would think I was weird or perverted, or scoff at its amateurishness. My advice to new writers is not to let such petty concerns silence them before they’ve even started. All creative art has its critics. Write what you always intended to express, and those who imagine things the same way will find you, one by one.

The audience for this blog grew slowly. I posted several stories in the first few months, including Cosmopolitan and Carrot and Stick, to accumulate a body of work that might leave new readers eager for the next one.

I also made a point of talking to early followers via messaging, to discover what they thought of the stories, what worked and what didn’t. After all, the reason why I chose Tumblr for my writing was a community of readers already existed, one where you could share (by reblogging) the stories you liked, and which you thought would interest those you knew.

So, to those who have shared and encouraged these stories over the years, a massive thank you. This blog, and these stories, would not exist without the faith you showed. Your support has not just led to thousands discovering and exploring an interest in spanking, but tens of thousands of bedtime orgasms and well-spanked bottoms.

And this is how it all started

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…

Ups and Downs: Part 1

spankingtheatre:

A story of appreciation and discipline, in two parts


I’m standing in disgrace at the front of the class, in a classroom that’s not really a classroom. 

I must confess, I didn’t take my assignment seriously. I thought it was all a bit of a giggle. Now here I am, my back to the rest of the class and my dress hitched up above my waist. I can hear my classmates scribbling busily behind me, they’ve been warned that any dawdling and they’ll be dragged up here to join me. Even so, I wonder how many have risked looking up from their pages to sneak a peek at me.

I feel the tremble of approaching footsteps again. I hold my breath, bracing myself for what I know happens next. A single whack from a wooden ruler stings my left bottom cheek. I scrunch my mouth shut, I don’t want to give the class the satisfaction of hearing my discomfort.

Of course, the smack to my bum is more than just chastisement. It’s also my signal. I obediently lift my hands from the top of my head and reach downwards to my sides, my fingers sliding inside my knicker elastic. I bend at my waist, slowly pulling my panties all the way down to my ankles. From bitter experience I know if I attempt to pull down my underwear too quickly, I’ll get a volley of smacks across the backs of my thighs. 

So I must pull down my panties slowly… Very… Slowly… And that means lingering in the most shameful position of all. The one where my bare bum juts out towards the class, making my cheeks spread apart, admitting a breeze of cool air that tingles my most intimate parts. For several seconds as I lower my panties down my calves, I can’t help but reveal my bottom hole and the little slit that lies just beneath, and all its secret folds. The moment my panties reach my ankles I leap up, bolt upright, replacing my hands on the top of my head, my face burning, knowing I’ve just exposed my everything.

Behind me, I just know my classmates are surreptitiously looking up from their essays, sneaking sly looks at the pink patches now spreading across my newly exposed flesh. I know this because that’s exactly what I do when others occupy my current position. And then the footsteps recede again, and I’m left alone.

Waiting.

Blushing.

Throbbing.

All too soon I hear the footsteps return. The next whack is on my bare bum, applied to the sore patch now developing on my right bottom cheek. This is my cue to bend down and pull up my panties – slowly of course – allowing all those witnessing my disgrace another good long look between my legs.

My skin is now exquisitely sensitive, I can feel the material of my underwear tickling as it passes up my thighs. Then there’s a moment when my gusset nestles between my intimate lips just before I roll the rest over the tender flesh of my newly spanked bottom. My obligation done, my hands fly back to the top my head, and I wait for the dread thud of approaching footsteps again.

On the next stinging whack, I’ll pull my panties down again. 

Whack, up, wait. 

Whack, down, wait. 

Up and Down. Up and Down.

My slow-motion spanking will continue until the ruler-wielder is satisfied I’ve learned my lesson. Though I must confess, when I’ve watched this exquisite bottom-warming show from the classroom seats: I’ve never wanted it to stop. 

Does that make me a bad girl?

Keep reading

Next in the alphabetical retrospective of past stories is Ups and Downs, a two part long-form story that explores the wonder of mentorship, and the appreciation of strict discipline. 

In fact, the major themes of this story with be familiar to any who have read and understood my last post on why we pull down your panties. If you haven’t, I’d recommend reading that first.

One key theme is the erotic theatre of the
undressing ritual, a deceptively simple act capable of flooding a submissive girl’s mind with a heady mixture of trepidation, excitement and shame.

But the story deals with deeper psychological themes, such as what it means to submit oneself to physical discipline. During the story you’ll encounter good girls, who submit willingly to their discipline, and so are rewarded accordingly. But you’ll also encounter a bad girl, haughty, stubborn and resentful, who attitude to a spanking is very different indeed.

Who would you prefer to answer to?

A strict governess who whacked your bare bottom, and sent you to bed angry and unsatisfied?

Or a strict headmistress who ensured you were always soaking wet before she punished you? One who always sent you away grateful that she cared enough to steer and discipline you?

You may read Ups and Downs, and make up your own mind…

Treasure Hunt

spankingtheatre:

A bedtime story for those who still love to play

She’d been so close!
Agonisingly close!
She’d frantically scrambled around the utility room as the buzzing between her legs rose to a dizzying crescendo. Trying to retain her composure, to resist the temptation to sink to her knees and let the delicious wave of pleasure wash over her. All the while, he stood behind her holding the magic wand, chuckling at her slapstick search, gleefully reminding her that her time was almost up.

Moments later, the bell rang – and the vibrations between her legs abruptly stopped.
She squealed, emptying her lungs in frustration.
She had lost again. And that meant another visit to the spanking chair.
Rules were rules.

By tradition, the first Friday night of each month was Treasure Hunt night. The game had evolved over all the years they’d been together, and would now undoubtedly shock their friends with its brazen kinkiness and erotic inventiveness.

The objective of the game was simple. An object would be hidden somewhere in the house, and the seeker had six minutes to find it, all the while being shepherded by the devilishly distracting sensations of the remote control vibrator…

Keep reading

Next in the alphabetical retrospective of past stories is Treasure Hunt.

The previous post served as an appropriate prelude, as the central theme of this story is playfulness, the switch couple have invented their own little naughty game, with the winner taking charge for a night, in what has become a series of increasingly outrageous sex games.

This will be a familiar theme if you’ve my posts on the naughty well-behaved, and the secret of sexual spontaneity.

Fundamentally, this is a story about building your own sexual reality. It is a quest to discover what really turns your partner on, because really, that’s the greatest aphrodisiac of all.

But the very best sexual experiences often involve activities experienced for the very first time. Sometimes we don’t really know what we desire, and are reluctant to spell out what we want. And there is great pleasure in being surprised. That’s only possible inside a strong partnership, committed to continuing exploration and experimentation.

Those discoveries are the true Treasure.

And they’re well worth the Hunt.

Throne of Shame

spankingtheatre:

Her throne glimmered with gold. Ornately carved, fashioned by the continent’s finest craftsmen, it sat on a dais of burgundy and jade.

He took the princess’s hand delicately, elegantly holding hers on top of his, and led her.

“Your throne, your highness”

He enjoyed how quickly her expression changed from pride to shame, as she spied the finger-length protrusion of finest ivory just behind the centre of the velvet seat – as she realised just where it would penetrate.

Silken bonds dangled from the armrests. He reached behind her to undo her gown, which dropped around her feet.

“Please, be seated, highness…”

Keep reading

I haven’t quite finished the alphabetical retrospective of past stories, so next up is the deviant fairytale Throne of Shame.

This is one of my earlier stories, written almost seven years ago! But I think it’s aged well, partly because it’s structured as a timeless fairytale. I believe fairytales fascinate because they are abstract stories,
they tell of a imagined past that never was, yet one we can conjure
effortlessly into being in our imaginations. Fairytales are not
histories, but fables – stories about morals, archetypal characters and aphorisms.

Carl
Jung believed these archetypes came from our common psychology, the
thoughts, dreams and values we share with every human being ever born.
These universal stories form the foundations of our shared culture.

And
I believe fairytales have a special, secret magic: that each story
shares the same words with its darker twin, hidden in plain sight, which
we can see if we read the tale just slightly differently. Through a
glass, darkly.

If your mind is so attuned, you’ll see the secret
world that others can’t. You’ll begin to watch for it, you’ll learn to
recognise the covert clues, even when it’s in disguise. Where others see
an innocent fairytale, you’ll see a tale of submission and dominance,
obedience and rebelliousness, subjugation and eroticism.

Perhaps
you’ll develop a special fascination with the stern, domineering
characters, you’ll imagine their dungeons as places of taboo excitement
rather than despair. Maybe you’ll see the story not as good versus evil,
but as a banal, rule-bound world being rattled by iconoclast upstarts.
What is wickedness, really? Seeking to corrupt innocence and virtue, or
seeking to impose it?

The magic of fairytales is they contain two
stories, light and dark, coexisting, twisted around each other like a
double helix, waiting to be untangled by the reader’s mind. Is it a
story of escape or desertion, capture or salvation?
Do you see ravishment or submission? Do you see an abduction or a rescue?
Do you see love or lust? And does the story end in agony or ecstasy?



What readers have said about this story:

“Your writing is rich with lyrical images that took me in at the start:
ribbon of rivers, dark shadows of forests, a red dots of faraway fires,
small harbors of safety in the inky black night. I was beguiled by your
poetry. This love story, the King who learned how to read the needs of
the princess with his gentle touch, was beautifully drawn, mysterious,
probing, as smooth as velvet, yet as wicked and inevitable as the
passage of time. I am spellbound, dear author.“

“This was quite a trip! Your imagination takes you places that are quite
different from the places my own imagination takes me. That’s why I read
stories here! In the future, I hope we get to travel together often.“

“That story is just amazing! It has one particular line that really resonates with me: ‘She calls herself a Princess, yet wets herself like a slut.’ Wow.“


And don’t forget, if you have the right kind of dildo, you can create your very own Throne of Shame in the privacy of your own bedroom too…

The Sit-Down Dance: part 1

spankingtheatre:

Every girl in the school knew about it, even if they’d just heard the whispered rumours. They talked about it ominously, like a ghostly legend, or a terrible curse. And when it was discussed, it was only ever in hushed voices and the merest mumblings. It was the threat that hung over them all, the most feared punishment, the just deserts awaiting the perpetrators of the very naughtiest misbehaviour.

How many times had a group of friends begun to scheme some illicit hijinks, only for one of them to stop, and suddenly exclaim: “We can’t do that! We’d all do the Sit Down Dance for sure!”

There was no greater shame than to be summoned to the front of the class, having finally exhausted your teacher’s patience. And then having to stand there, head bowed, as she scribbled your name and misdemeanour onto a little red-bordered card. All while your classmates were excitedly whispering and sniggering just behind you…

“The Sit Down Dance! She’s going to do the Sit Down Dance!”

There was no greater embarrassment than pushing through the double doors of the staff wing, an area normally strictly off-limits for pupils, once the final bell of the school day had rung. Clutching your little red-bordered card to your chest, proffering it to each passing teacher, your pass to the inner sanctum, shirking with shame as they read your name and your crime, scowling disdainfully.

And there was no greater anxiety than trudging down the long corridor, past all the staff rooms and the Headmistress’ office. To shuffle inevitably towards the Punishment Room, tummy tumbling with trepidation.

The door to that notorious room was old and heavy, a dark mahogany hunk that looked incongruously out of place amidst the school’s modern decor, like a pirate ship had somehow been moored at the end of the corridor. Even just turning the ornate brass handle gave the feeling you were about to leave the modern world behind and step beyond into the captain’s cabin.

Visitors saw a small brass plaque mounted at eye-height, a few lines engraved in cursive writing for those about to enter to ponder. It was a quotation from long ago, from when school itself had still been young.

Heaven is not always angry when he strikes,

But most chastises those

Whom most he likes.

– John Pomfret

Alice could feel the dampness of her own palm as she gripped the handle, but after a moment’s hesitation, she pushed the heavy door ajar.

Yet no matter how many times Alice had visited the Punishment Room, the world beyond that antiquated door never failed to surprise her…

Keep reading

Next in the alphabetic retrospective of stories you might have missed is the epic four-part tale The Sit-Down Dance, its constituent parts being:

This story was an opportunity to revisit some of the characters I’d conjured into being in Punishment Panties a few years earlier, and was a world I greatly enjoyed revisiting. I’d had this story planned in my head (and sketched out in my notebook) for so long, so it was very satisfying to finally to be able to render it into written
words. 33,000 words as it turned out, the story grew in the telling.

Here’s a review that nicely captures how this story was received by many readers, judging by my inbox. And, in case you’re curious, some pictures of a naughty young lady doing The Sit-Down Dance courtesy of the lovely @asajones2.

What readers have said about this story:

“At the end of the story, I found myself grinning, curled into my
pillows, yearning to know what happens next! The vivid imagery, the wildly creative antics.,I’m finding myself a little tongued-tied at the moment, legs still
wobbly from post orgasm bliss, fingers trembling from the vigorous
rubbing they had just partaken in. I adored it. Truly!“

“I am amazed by how much Sir’s writings arouse me. So many details
in your stories seem like they have been plucked directly from my most
shameful desires. And when it came to this story there were so many of
them!

Being summoned in front of the class to get your little red card,
everyone knowing what’s awaiting you when lessons are over. The walk to
the punishment room and having to show your little badge of shame to all
the teachers you pass. The imagery of the punishment room and the
girls’ preparation. And then the actual punishment, Sir.

It delighted me in such a wicked and shameful way! The position the
girls have to assume and the constraints to assure they retain the
proper posture. The tugging down of the panties and the inspection! The
tissue, Sir, and hav-… having your bottom wiped. The mere idea of
being sat on the potty, piddling like a little girl. Your Mistress or
Sir having to wipe you dry. How can things so debasing be at the same
time so arousing, Sir?” 

What do you think?

Sandalwood and Ginger

spankingtheatre:

A spanking story, for Christmas

Do you know what it’s like to be spanked in public?

You might think the bystanders would interrupt, outraged at the indecency.
But they don’t.
They stay.
They lurk.
And they watch.

They are mesmerised by my nudity, their gaze ensnared by the curves of my cheeks, fascinated by the bright pink patches that suddenly appear.
They are captivated by the sound, that slow one-handed clap, that erotic rhythm, underlaid by my plaintive little moans. Because the sound of a bottom smacking is unique, and as seductive as a siren’s song.

I know this because I’ve been spanked in public countless times. In library aisles. In gloomy bars. On golden beaches. On garden lawns and under trees in parks. Often on the bare, always in front of disbelieving eyes.
But you never forget your first time.

Ah, now you’re curious, aren’t you?
Are you imagining me?
Bending over and exposed, about to get what naughty girls deserve.
Say it with me, under your breath.
I deserve a good spanking.
It feels good, doesn’t it?
I deserve a long, hard spanking.
Say it like you mean it.
And I’ll tell you my story…

Keep reading

It may have a Christmas setting, but Sandalwood and Ginger is really a story about masks we wear, about the secret desires we keep hidden, and what might happen if someone appeared in your life to make them real.

The Ginger part of the title, as you might expect, refers to figging, the exquisite torment of a burning heat inside a spanked bottom. The Sandalwood is more Proustian, a sweet aromatic scent that invokes memories, a trigger for latent carnal cravings.

So, for those yet to read it, I do hope you’ll enjoy this tale of masked balls, gyno inspections, panty-gags, public spankings, ginger plugging and good old-fashioned slipperings. Whatever the time of year.

Your ticket to the masked ball awaits

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