Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears





I wandered into their world at Hallowe’en, when the boundaries between our realities are at their thinnest.

The further I fled from the city, the lonelier the roads became, until I found myself quite alone, coasting down country lanes. Destination anywhere.

Just the hum of my car, the whirr of its tires, and all around me, the mesmerising colours of autumn. It was meditative, yet almost sublimely unsettling, driving into a forest that had once been so verdant, so full of life, but now was withering.

I sped through a beautiful melancholy. Around me, it felt as if the spirit of nature itself was dying – or fleeing, aware of the advance of a malign icy force lurking over the horizon. A presence that was slowly obscuring  the sun, concealing its light, lengthening the shadows. I could already feel its chill influence when I ventured outside, a frosty spirit that sapped me of energy, encouraging my primeval self to retreat back to my shelter.

For our ancestors the encroaching winter must have felt like a malevolent invasion, as if the world around them was fighting for its continued existence. Precarious, anxiously awaiting the chilling, killing, smothering shroud of snows.

I stared through the windscreen at the passing blur, feeling a lingering sorrow for the leaves, their lifeforce being inexorably extinguished by the cold enveloping mists. Never was the passage of time so evident, at Autumn we watch as what was once so exuberant shrivels with age, yellowing and tumbling before our eyes. Annihilated by an invisible, irresistible power, one scarier than any monster we can imagine.

Perhaps our unease at this time of year fuelled folk tales of ghosts and vampires. Yet they don’t haunt our imaginations in the dark depths of midwinter, their time is at the end of October, when the world around us is visibly dying. Hallowe’en was a memento mori, a reminder that regardless of your youth or your power, vitality was transient. That everything you held dear, all you’d ever love and struggle for, all would ultimately shrivel and fall. It was inescapable, indisputable, immutable; whether meek or mighty, in time we’d all share the fate of the leaves.

A chill sensation ran over my skin, raising goosebumps. And it felt like everything and nothing had suddenly changed…

Keep reading

The alphabetical retrospective of stories reaches the eerie, metaphysical tale Runway.

This story was written for Halloween, but is not about ghosts or ghouls, but something I regard as much, much scarier: the sensation of feeling that we no longer belong.

It’s a tale written in the same magic realism style of Grimoire and Glimpse, and I hope it demonstrates a compelling spanking story can be written without describing a single swat.

What readers have said about this story:

“Very atmospheric, with an ending that was both satisfying and left me wanting more. So much feeling packed tight into such a short story.“

“This is a wonderful story, well written and very descriptive. The
description of the seasons is superb and I’ve been down a few autumn
roads as described. But I have always had a plan. If you’re running away from something without a plan then you are left with two chooses Left or Right. Take Your Pick.“

“A dream of a story in many ways – it teases you over to another world so
smoothly that you don’t even notice the transition. Beautiful, evocative
writing – her soul seems to blend with the landscape.“

“What I love about the spanking genre is the scope for such variety of
style and treatment. I guess this is magic realism, beautifully written. The heroine can’t stand to merely fade into a future without reason
for existence. She makes a bold decision to simply go, and discovers
that transition is possible, though she must accept it. Then follows
rejuvenation, unprecedented fulfilment and welcome…“

What do you think?

Punishment Panties


“On the whole human beings want to be good, but not too good, and not quite all the time.” – George Orwell

Alice wore her reins, every day.

She wore them to work under her elegant business suit. She wore them around the house under her jeans. She wore them whenever she went out, hidden beneath her pretty summer dress as she casually chatted with friends. She even wore her reins when she went to the gym, they were clearly visible whenever she undressed, yet no-one ever noticed. It was her kinky secret, hidden in plain sight, beyond the perception of all around her, as they busied themselves with towels, leotards, sprays and all the other paraphernalia of fitness.

Only He could see her reins, only He knew how to take them. He could control her with just one skillful hand. He could tug her, slowly increasing the force she felt, quickly silencing her bratty mouth until she was as still as a statue. He could tease her, slowly releasing his hold, feeling her squirm and longing for more, arching her back expectantly… until another firm tug brought a moan, and a reminder of who was really in charge.

That familiar soreness between her legs had been the sensation of discipline for as long as she could remember. It had begun with the appointment of Ms McGiven, an old-fashioned governess who’d brought with her some very old-fashioned methods of dealing with naughty girls. Goodness, it must have been fifteen years now since the first time.

We are the sum of our stories. And Alice could remember one particular story like yesterday. She thought of it often, retrieving it from her memory like a treasured relic, replaying it when drifting off to sleep with her fingers between her thighs, that one beautiful summer when Penny came to stay.

Keep reading

The alphabetical retrospective of stories reaches the perennially popular Punishment Panties.

This story began when I was thinking about reins – a familiar means of control for horses, but what would the equivalent device be for people who enjoyed sexual submissiveness? It would have to be something discreet, something that wouldn’t look out of place, which could be sternly tugged when a young lady misbehaved. A continuing reminder of her disciplinarian’s authority.

She would be disciplined through her very own panties, tugged tight between her tingling slit.

It was such a good pretext for a story, I felt it deserved some memorable characters, and the best way to establish them seemed to be an evocative backstory. Hence we’re introduced to two wilful young ladies, Alice and Penny, and their strict governess, and her own unique means of discipline.

The story grew from there, like all satisfying stories tend to do. The plot is non-linear, featuring dreams, fantasies, confessions and even a transcript. The joy of reading is to add new sights
to our mind’s eye, and through this tale you’ll witness intimate bottom inspections, bathtime
spankings, toilet predicaments, dressing up, public panty play and erotic jeopardy. Gifts of discrete
imagination, new treats to add to your personal fantasy collection.

It’s little wonder that at time of writing, Punishment Panties is still my most popular story.

What do you think?

Pride and Obedience


A Spanking Story


Image by Katou Kahoru (source unknown)

Regency England, 1817

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

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.

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.

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?

Playing Dolls: part 2


This is the concluding part of a two-part story, read the first part here.

The next morning you wake me with a chime, as a golden light spills through the open window like a luminously syrupy waterfall.

You bring me into the bathroom and sit me on the toilet. Then we shower, or at least I stand obediently as you lather me in warm foamy perfumed suds. A quick once-over with the razor to ensure everywhere is presentably smooth and flawless. After all, I’m going to be on display to the public today.

You dry me off, and clean my teeth, then lead me back to bedroom to dress me. You’ve chosen an adorable little outfit, a vintage Edwardian girl’s dress, powder blue, woven from the finest wool. You put my underwear on first, lifting my arms for my silk camisole, then stepping me into its matching half-slip, which you pull up to my waist. You repeat the same manoeuvre with my snow white lace-fringed petticoat. In the mirror, my ghostly reflection resembles something Wilkie Collins might have described.

Fortunately my charming little one-piece dress provides a splash of welcome colour, it’s knee length, with embroidered trimmings embellishing the side and around the skirt. You hoist it up to my chest, before feeding my hands through its armholes. I marvel at myself in the mirror, resplendent in a dress that’s over a hundred years old, wondering if the mother who bought it would ever be able to comprehend how it would eventually be worn.

I feel you moving behind me, buttoning me up at the back. After that, there’s just one final garment, a one-sided frilly pinafore with a high collar that covers my neck and extends down just as far as my nipped-in waist.

You sit me down by the dressing table to complete the look, plaiting my hair into a single braid, then applying a touch of white face powder, and a brush of rouge to my cheeks. When you’ve finished, I see you in the mirror, standing behind me, admiring me. You call me beautiful. And inside, unseen, I feel I might burst with pride.

I sit patiently at the dressing table, watching glimpses of you in the mirror as you put on your own costume. I see you’ve chosen your colonial era white linen suit, another vintage item that you’ve had tailored, so the double-breasted jacket perfectly fits your tall athletic frame. Your decide against the waistcoat, just a simple white shirt with a small butterfly collar, and a thin blood red tie. Then you appear in the mirror behind me, running gel through your hair before slicking it back with a comb.

Your own preparations complete, you place your hand on my shoulder as we pose together. We look magnificent, like travellers from the age of H.G Wells. Perhaps all you ever needed to travel through time was a fully committed imagination.

You walk over to the singing bowl on the bedside table, and strike it with the little mallet. I feel energy surge through my own muscles again. You ask me to stand and join you, I walk over to your outstretched arm smoothly and suavely. I can do anything when the bowl rings, as long as you’ve told me to do it first.

We leave our room, arm in arm, and stride down the chandelier-lit hallway to breakfast, to join the congregation of the dolls…

Keep reading

The second part of this story provided a chance to expand on the original concept, to create a secret society of Dolls and their owners, who’d gather at a remote mountain chateau to indulge their shared interest.

Inventing the programme that the doll owners peruse was a great deal of fun. I resisted the temptation to fully describe each scenario, I thought I’d leave those as prompts, seeds to germinate in the imagination of readers. I hope they flourished into sweet dreams.

Playing Dolls: part 1


A fantasy of statuesque submissiveness

One particular fairy-tale from my childhood has always haunted my dreams.

You may roam around my home,

He said, go anywhere you please.

Except the library in the tower

What a most peculiar tease.

One day bored, she disobeyed.

Sneaking up the twisty stairs, and there,

On a plinth beneath the steepling shelves

A tome awaiting one who dared.

Curiosity overtook the impetuous girl,

Heaving open the hefty umber book

She knelt amid the misty sunbeams,

And consumed it in a single look.

But disobedience has consequence

The minx had read an enchanted scrawl

Now high in the clouds she’s petrifying,

Slowly transforming… into a doll.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be one of my dolls. Not permanently, of course, that would quickly become very tiresome. Maybe just a hour or two. Long enough for someone to play with me, to stroke my cheeks and comb my hair.

Please, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not a narcissist, but I do know I’m beautiful. I see heads turn when I pass by, long leering looks as strangers admire me. I watch as their eyes rove across my pretty face, quickly, trying to avoid the awkwardness of accidental eye contact. As if my own eyes were too bright for mere mortals to behold, and they risked staring into the centre of the sun. Then, their gaze will usually drop, to my slender neck, to linger lewdly on the small round mounds of my breasts.

I notice when others appreciate my slender body, the hourglass curves of my torso and waist. I know those who pass behind me will glance furtively backwards, trying to catch a glimpse of my perfect pert bottom. I often wonder: is this how a statue feels? To be an object of rare and graceful beauty, somehow contrived from the disorder of the universe, existing to enrich all those who gaze upon it.

And when I think of myself as a statue, or a doll, as an object that arouses others – it excites me.

One of the happiest moments of my life was when my hungry mind began devouring Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Quite unexpectedly, I turned the page and stumbled across the story of Pygmalion and Galatea. That day I wept tears of joy, which trickled down my cheeks to splatter silently on his precious words. Across two millennia, this exquisite Roman poet taught me that I wasn’t weird. That I wasn’t alone, that the ancients also adored and eroticised the beautiful figures they crafted from stone.

Soon I learned there was a name for it too: Agalmatophilia – a sexual attraction to a statue, doll, mannequin or other immobile figure, and the sexual arousal of such transformations too. I began to think of myself as Galatea, the beautiful statue etched from marble by the sculptor Pygmalion, the outcome of his magnificent labour of love.

Yet, despite all I’ve learned since about the wonders of sex, still nothing turns me on more than the thought of becoming a doll…

Keep reading

Playing Dolls is a recent story you may not have read yet, a tale for those who especially enjoy the mental side of
submissiveness, of being denied and immobile, and completely under the
whim of another. And especially those who fantasise about being spanked,
whilst not being allowed to move or make a sound.

The title suggests being a plaything to be used, but that’s to miss the subtlety of submission. This is actually a story about mindfulness – of the ability of sexual surrender to quieten even the noisiest minds. It’s hard to think of a time when we’re ever more in the moment than when we’re naked before a lover. But what if the scene was so intense, you could go one step beyond, into a hyper-aware trance?

What do you think?

Message in a Bottle


I woke as dawn painted the bedroom amber, to find an envelope on the bedside table.

On the front your handwriting admonished me:

“Don’t open this until I tell you”.

You knew it would pique my curiosity. I turned the envelope over to see if any gaps in the seal would provide an opportunity to peek. But any plans for mischief were halted by your unequivocal message on the back: “I mean it, naughty!”

I actually giggled.

But what was inside? The growing tingle of anticipation somehow made the morning’s routine business meetings seem much more exciting.

Then, at lunchtime, I received a text. From you. It simply said: “Open it now”.
My trembling fingertips tore the envelope open.
I blushed as I read the contents:

“Before the 8 bells toll.
Unlock the door.
Stand in the hallway.
Face away from the door.
Plug your ears.
Don a blindfold.
Bind your hands.

I couldn’t wait for the day to end.

Keep reading

Message in a Bottle is one of my very first stories, and is in fact a collaborative tale written in conjunction with a playmate. But the voices mix so beautifully, I now find it difficult to tell who wrote which.

This is a story about sensations, and how dominance is exerted through the control of the senses, and the curation of a partner’s thoughts. The twist ending was my invention, I hope the echoes of this story will continue in your own imaginations…

What readers have said about this story:

“A very clever and surprising ending, a subtle touch that heightened the
intensity of an already intense story. Nothing fires up the imagination
as leaving it alone at a crucial moment…“

“A quite remarkable piece of prose. Full of suggestion and promise, unfulfilled promise.“

“Very clever story, leaving so much to the imagination of this reader,
which ran wild while reading this. This really left me wanting more. It
read a little like the movie 9-½ Weeks.“

“Your story was a delightful treat for my senses. I could not help but
see myself in this woman’s place. Her inner musings were exactly right.“

“The sensual descriptions in this story really draws the reader in. The
abrupt end of the note left me wanting more, but also, to my surprise,
pleased at the way it sparked my imagination. Effective and very well

What do you think?



A spanking story

The schoolgirls wearily traipsed through time.

They’d begun in ancient Assyria, bright-eyed and fizzing with eagerness, gazing upward with wonder at the monumental winged bulls at the entrance to the British Museum. They are called Lamassu, their teacher explained, sixteen tons of alabaster, hewn almost three thousand years ago, and exquisitely sculpted into a fantastical creatures.

These strange beasts had been buried for millennia, as a succession of mighty empires had risen, fought and crumbled on the sands above them. Now a new empire had uncovered and claimed the statues, and its unimaginable modern magic had transported the immense monuments over land and sea to the imperial metropolis of London.

The girls continued meandering through history, passing the spooky sarcophagi and cryptic carvings of ancient Egypt. Onwards to stare at cases of the slightly more comprehensible domestic pottery of ancient Greece. Until finally the grey-skirted stream of girls had ebbed into Roman times, feet scuffing, heels dragging. Behind teacher’s back, yawns were being stifled, and there were outbreaks of sniggering and nudging when artefacts with willies were sighted.

Yet through the dozy fug of her torpor, something nearby caught Jenny’s eye. She stopped and squinted into the brightly lit case as her classmates milled around her. Inside was what looked like a thin leather strap, discoloured black and desiccated by age. Had the object been intact it would have been as long as her forearm, but instead it lay broken in 4 unequal lengths.

Curiosity piqued, her eyes scanned the caption card beside it.

Leather (likely goat hide)  ~140 BC.
Found: Tiburi (now Tivoli), central Italy, 1855.
“Believed to be a flogging whip, intended for the purification and fertility rites of the festival of Lupercalia. Celebrated annually, beginning on the Ides (the 13th) and climaxing on the 15th of February, these purgative rituals held such significance in the Roman calendar that the month of Februarius was named after them. Although Lupercalia was a fertility rite, scholars believe its proximity to the contemporary St Valentine’s Day (the 14th) is purely coincidental.”

Jenny quivered. Recently, she’d become a reluctant expert on the subject of flogging. Only yesterday she’d neglected to do her Latin homework, and been kept behind after school to finish it. School rules were absolutely clear. Any pupil who missed an assignment would complete her work sitting on a sore spanked bottom…

Keep reading

Lupercalia is a spanking story about history, traditions, folklore and deep time.

We might think of ourselves as being the most open-minded, most progressive and most sexually permissive generation in human history, but we too easily forget we are the echoes of generations long past. That our ancestors were sexual beings, with erotic imaginations just as sophisticated as ourselves. And over the long arc of human history, culture has swung between repressive sexual conservatism and permissiveness.

This story looks back over two thousand years, to the era of the Roman Republic, and a celebration of sexuality and flagellation that rather unexpectedly, continues to resonate into the present day. And for those who regret the absence of the phallic ritual today, you can always recreate it. Haven’t you always wanted to be spanked and climax whilst gasping out Latin?

What readers have said about this story:

“Yesterday I made the poor choice of reading your Lupercalia story in a
study period class. Silly me, by the end I’d soiled my panties! Oops!
It was brilliant, I thoroughly enjoyed it and I’m in complete awe; it
was beautifully written.”

“Lupercalia was phenomenal! It made me soak my panties!“

“I was soon head over heels, completely immersed within the story. I
pictured myself running through the streets away from the ‘wolves’,
dripping from the excitement of being pursued, imagining a well-muscled,
naked man panting just behind me. I ran and ran, until inevitably I was
caught, pinned down like the prey I am, my clothing ripped from my body
before a hard spanking, his hands wandering my body before taking me
right there in the open.“

“I first read Lupercalia in public, getting wetter and wetter as I sat, surrounded by people,
trying so hard not to squirm or draw attention to myself. Once I’d
finished, I did something I’d never risked
doing before. I went to the nearest loo, locked myself in a cubicle, spread my
legs and played there and then.  It wasn’t the usual slow, sensual play.  It
was the rushed, feverish play of a naughty girl so so desperate to
come.  I needed to so badly, that I wouldn’t have cared if someone had
heard me gasping and coming right there.“

What do you think?



The taxi-pod conveys me swiftly, just one of thousands of tiny metal corpuscles skimming across the city’s asphalt veins. I’m all alone in my little speeding bubble. I remember grandad telling me how taxis used to have drivers, and how we laughed at how preposterous that all seemed. That people used to control their road vehicles by treading on pedals and turning a wheel. What were they operating? Steamships?

I often wonder what dear old grandad would make of London now, whether he’d even recognise it. The skyline now resembles a giant apothecary shelf, countless rows of colourful glass towers, like a higgledy collection of antique medicine bottles. They said The Flood would drown this city, but we just dammed the Thames and kept building higher.

And what would my dear grandfather make of my destination, I wonder? If I told him what was about to happen, would he be shocked? Or would he just bellow with laughter, with that infectious mirth of his that soon moistened the eyes of all in earshot. Would he regard my future as ridiculous as we found his past?

Because I’m on my way to be spanked. Or fucked. Or licked. Or teased and pleasured and tormented. To be honest, I’ve no idea what’s in store. But that’s all part of the fun. It’s a very 22nd century way to spend an afternoon.

My destination is Sexcapade, Inc. The pioneers of recreational sexual adventures. The business sensation of the decade, the inspiration behind a thousand meagre low-rent copycats. But none of its competitors has come close to surpassing the variety, subtlety and outrageous ingenuity that Sexcapade experiences continue to provide.

The idea behind Sexcapade is astonishingly simple: using your sexual past to inspire your sexual future. But this simple idea had to wait until the cultural climate was right, until we lost our prudishness, and finally admitted to ourselves that sexual experiences were just activities like any other in life. That great sex could be scripted, crafted, and enacted. That great sex was too important to be left to fate…

Keep reading

Inevitable is, to date, my sole science fiction spanking story. Yet I wrote it with a philosophical question in mind: would we want our inner sexual desires fulfilled, even if we didn’t quite consciously know what they actually were?

In the story, there’s no questionnaires – partly because the Sexcapade institution doesn’t trust its clients to answer honestly, and partly because it doesn’t believe its clients actually know what they want. So like any good scientist, it forms hypotheses, puts them to the test, and observes.

I think we’re all like old maps, with familiar territories of experience and unexplored blank spaces of desire and fantasy. How much of your own erotic map do you think you’ve discovered?

What readers have said about this story:

“If only such a company really existed, indeed… I especially loved
this final experience – almost like a piece of performance art.”

“A brilliant concept brilliantly executed. This kept me riveted from start to finish. It’s an amazing fantasy.“

“Wow, what an erotic story! That much one-sided dialog is difficult to
maintain, but you did it superbly. I felt just like he was talking to me
and rather wished that he was.“

“Nice to read a story set in the future that isn’t dystopian. I like the
idea of technology being used for pleasure and your writing style is
wonderfully erotic. Thank you for sharing such a clever piece of

“One of the best sci-fi stories I’ve read, the future world was plausible
and coherent. Though the final experience was indeed
“inevitable”, it wasn’t predictable to me as a reader, any more than it
was to the character in the story. A great piece of erotic writing.“

What do you think?



There’s something about bookshops, something inexplicable, something that ignites a throbbing almost primal desire to be dirty deep within me. It makes me want to wander and lose myself among those mazes of shelves, venturing further and further until I’m finally beyond the librarian-like scrutiny of the bookshop’s sentinels and the scratchy shuffling of its clientele.

Somewhere deep inside, I finally reach where I need to be. Impetuously, I sweep the shelf clear of its books. Dickens, Poe, James, Proust. Over the years the worthy words of all the greats have fallen open around my ankles. The smell of musty paper wafts from the open volumes. I inhale it deeply, closing my eyes, imagining the words condensing in my lungs.

And then a hand pushes into the small of my back, bending me over the denuded shelf, so my head and arms protrude into the adjacent aisle. I let my hands dangle, caressing the books in the shelves below me, the worn leather of antique books rough beneath my fingertips.

Moments later, the hem of my skirt is hitched above my waist. Instinctively I reach back to resist, but my arms are blocked by the bookshelves. Someone drags my panties down to my ankles and over my shoes, the sticky garment wantonly discarded on top of an open page of some literary masterpiece. A hand slaps my bum, hard, then pulls my legs apart, exploring the warm wet crevice in between.

And then I am thoroughly violated, right there in the aisle, deep within this maze of books. Just far enough away from prying eyes – yet so close to getting caught. Another stinging smack to my bum echoes around the bookshelves. The sound of my spanking might yet betray us, but that just adds to my excitement. My nostrils fill with the intoxicating scent of vintage books, mixed with the smell of sex and sweat.

That’s what I see when I pass by a bookshop, not a sophisticated repository of humanity’s collected brilliance, but the prospect of another musky-smelling carnal den, hidden somewhere deep within its paper labyrinth. A bookshop is somewhere to get lost, a place to discover nooks where one might be secretly disgraceful, observed only by the disapproving spines of the masters’ books.

And now, I’m standing all alone in a bookshop.

And I can hear my heartbeat in my ears…

Keep reading

Grimoire is another personal favourite. It is also the result of a challenge, to tell a tale about the spanking of a thief. I opted for the style of magic realism, those familiar with Borges’ Zahir will recognise the frenzied descent into feverish obsession, a longing that many who crave punishment will recognise. They say books are portable magic, so come, let me weave my spell.

What readers have said about this story:

“This may well be the most perfect story I have ever read. As a lifelong
bibliophile, the bookstore description is wonderfully evocative. I love
the sequence of imagined punishments for stealing the book. It’s far
more enticing to let the reader imagine all the possibilities. The
entire concept invites the reader to imagine more stories written in the
grimoire. Thank you for sharing this fabulous and tantalizing story.“

“This is so good it defies description. Your command of the language is
really awesome, and your imagination really, really beyond compare.“

is sheer perfection in style and content: I think if Jorge Luis Borges
had written a spanking story, this would be it, which is the greatest
praise I can think of. I am speechless, and cannot love this enough!“

“An incomparably written tale–gripping from beginning to end. The author
has a mastery of the English language that may be the envy of many.“

“Wow! Thank you. Amazing. I might not be reading it anymore, but it’s still playing in my mind.“

“Absolutely fabulous. I cannot decide if the author is French or not my
tentative conclusion is not. They are certainly cultured and have a
remarkable imagination and a real gift of writing. I had thought a
grimoire was a collection of unpleasant stories. Now I know better. I am in

“Superbly told, highly atmospheric, evoking the place, and the magic of
the both the book and the written, punitive word. The author brings a
great and detailed depth to what is from the start a brilliant concept.“

“I feel like this library is my own Grimoire, just as the book in the
story was. I read every night as she did and live vicariously though the
characters in the stories. This beautifully written story, obviously
spoke to me. This is one of the best I’ve read.“

What do you think?

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