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Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

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Share the joy of the written word

spankingtheatre:

New readers might be interested in this master list of all my stories, ranked by popularity. The up arrows indicate stories that have moved up the leaderboard, whilst new icons show stories that you might not have encountered yet.

The pumpkins are beside Halloween stories. You can also see this list categorised by theme if you’re looking for a particular style of story. 

Give a shout-out to your favourites!

The master library catalogue has been updated with the new stories…

a good hot story

crimson-uncovered:

This morning, for the first time in ages, I masturbated to fiction.

Specifically, this piece by a longtime favorite, @spankingtheatre: Pride and Obedience. This story has everything that I sought in erotic fiction back when I discovered it as a teenager: spanking (duh), training, discipline, humiliation, and it takes place in regency England, which is always a bonus. I don’t know why historical fiction gets me going more than other types of erotica, but I’m not complaining.

I forgot what it was like to get caught up in erotica so gripping and arousing that I just can’t tear my eyes away. As I read, I could feel myself throbbing hard, could feel my pussy swelling and spreading. It was a slow burn, and that’s the best kind of burn because the relief of putting that fire out is nothing short of euphoric. Reading this made me feel nostalgic for being eighteen or nineteen and hungrily devouring whatever spanking-related story I could find on the internet before getting under the covers and furiously rubbing one out. 

It’s nice to know that a good story can still do that for me. That I can still get sucked into worlds in which unruly young women are sent to strict, cane-friendly boarding schools, or are married off to no-nonsense men who believe wives should obey their husbands lest they get spanked. Stories like that taught me who I am and what I need.

Side note: I showed the above story to BB and he said we should make a stool like the one pictured. Maybe it’ll be something I’ll have to sit very still on as punishment. I don’t know what I get myself into sometimes.

Except, I do.

I guess I can thank a good, hot story for that, too.

Thank you @crimson-uncovered, for this lovely reminder of the magic of the written word.

Through fiction’s enchantment, one can read a story and see extraordinary new
sights in our mind’s eye. Those who’ve read Pride and Obedience will have witnessed the scene in the parlour, as vividly as if they’d been lurking unseen behind the curtains. These are gifts of
imagination, new treats to add to your own private collection, to be safety retained in your most secure and private
repository, the one between your ears.

For we writers, the imagining is even more vivid. An idea tumbling from the fiery forge is when
it’s at its most intense. We witness the brilliance of an idea’s
initial glow, something we can never quite express to you in words, no
matter how articulate and loquacious we might be. We have the honour of
fashioning ideas to our whim, thrilling in a shower of sparks as we
hammer our stories into shape. Oh the details I have seen, dear reader. I wish you could have seen them too. It was like walking in a lucid dream.

Immersive stories reward those who return to read them, each
visit reinforcing and refining your imagined world. As Picasso once
said, everything you can imagine becomes real.

Yet whereas erotic videos come fully rendered, with little room for your
imagination, the cinema between your ears has infinite scope. A
limitless special effects budget, your favourite actors, your pick of
the world’s locations, and you in the director’s chair. All you need is a
screenplay – and that’s where we writers come in.

Even
better, the scenes you add to your erotic lexicon can be acted out,
either by yourself or with your partner. Each scene can become a
playground, with endless opportunities for improvisation. How will you
interpret that lifted skirt or passionate kiss, that lingering bottom
inspection or that thorough spanking? You might even find reading it written down helps overcome the awkwardness of erotic experimentation. After
all, it was the story that made me do it.

So, Crimson’s partner is absolutely right, you definitely should be creating your own obedience stool.

And continuing the adventure this story has started…

Share the joy of the written word

spankingtheatre:

New readers might be interested in this master list of all my stories, ranked by popularity. The up arrows indicate stories that have moved up the leaderboard, whilst new icons show stories that you might not have encountered yet.

You can also see this list categorised by theme if you’re looking for a particular style of story. 

Cast your votes and like your favourites!

Many thanks to all those who comment and share. Most erotic pictures
routinely get hundreds or even thousands of likes, but written posts
rarely achieve a fraction of that. Yet original writing is the result of
a great deal of creative effort, and it needs its own champions. So, if
you find erotic words arousing, do share your favourites, and help
spread the magic of the written word!

Share the joy of the written word

spankingtheatre:

Here’s an updated list of what I’ve written, ordered by popularity…

I think some of those stories deserve a bit more love, don’t you? Especially some of the undiscovered gems at the bottom of the list.

Most erotic pictures routinely get hundreds or even thousands of likes, but written posts rarely achieve a fraction of that. Yet original writing is the result of a great deal of creative effort, and it needs its own champions. So, if you find erotic words arousing, perhaps you’ll share a few of your favourites?

Now updated with my latest story!

Share and enjoy!

Share the joy of the written word

spankingtheatre:

I’ve posted several new stories recently, making now a good time to update my list of what I’ve written. Here they are, ordered by their popularity…

I think some of those stories deserve a bit more love, don’t you? Especially some of the undiscovered gems at the bottom of the list.

Most erotic pictures routinely get hundreds or even thousands of likes, but written posts rarely achieve a fraction of that. Yet original writing is the result of a great deal of creative effort, and it needs its own champions. So, if you find erotic words arousing, perhaps you’ll share a few of your favourites?

Your stories are more than just sexual and highly arousing. They are intelligent, well-crafted, and engaging. It’s rare to find such a collection, particularly on tumblr. I appreciate all the work that must go into creating them. And if I’m being totally honest, all your stories turn me on. There is always an element in them that sparks something deep within. It’s why I keep coming back to read them over and over again.

Your pleasure is my pleasure.

Each story is the result of weeks (often months) of planning, writing and polishing. I do try to fashion tales that are thought-provoking as well as libido arousing, stories that will reward the contemplative reader, and those who return to re-read and savour them…

Your stories are more than just sexual and highly arousing. They are intelligent, well-crafted, and engaging. It’s rare to find such a collection, particularly on tumblr. I appreciate all the work that must go into creating them. And if I’m being totally honest, all your stories turn me on. There is always an element in them that sparks something deep within. It’s why I keep coming back to read them over and over again.

Your pleasure is my pleasure.

Each story is the result of weeks (often months) of planning, writing and polishing. I do try to fashion tales that are thought-provoking as well as libido arousing, stories that will reward the contemplative reader, and those who return to re-read and savour them…

Coming of Age: Part 2

This is the second part of three part story, part one is here.

.

.

.

“I’m thirsty.”

I’ve lost track of time, how long have I been talking now? It feels as if each salacious recollection has scorched my tongue, as if I’d been uttering words that sizzled with their own inherent heat.

Now in the darkness beyond my blindfold I feel you moving, your knees nestling into my armpits as you straddle my chest. I can feel the warmth of my own breath blowing across my face, reflected back by something right in front of me.

My parched lips venture forward, immediately encountering your slick wet cunt.

That makes me smile. Most would respond to a partner’s thirst with a glass of water. But you do things differently, that’s why I love you.

I let my dry mouth linger against your delectably damp slit, until I can feel your wetness seeping onto my wrinkled lips. My swollen tongue is still parched, so when I push it forward, I feel it rasp across your hot moist folds. You mew your approval, and I begin to feel my cock stir, a primal part of me already planning how to satisfy itself, wanting me to bury myself in your tight wet hole.

I contemplate surrendering to this urge, this libidinous impulse, and abandoning the story I’ve been telling. Just a few words would do it. Fetch a condom, I’d say. You’d do the rest, sucking me until I’m achingly stiff, rolling the rubber down my shaft. Then the glorious feeling of envelopment as you mounted me, slipping slowly down sighing one long girlish moan, until your beautiful soft arse is sitting on my thighs. And then, you’d ride me.

But should that really be how the story ends? The two of us fucking wantonly, until we both empty our lungs yelling into the hot summer night. Maybe that will be how our evening concludes. But not yet.

No, not yet.

For if what I’ve told you so far is the story of my naivety, what I still have to tell concerns coming of age, of mastering my energies and emotions, of becoming a man. Somewhere within is the tale of how I mastered my lust, and made it my might.

So I move my head back from your crotch, and make my counteroffer.

“Water…”

You might imagine that as a command. You might even hear it as a plea. But that’s the beauty of playing with power. What is top and what is bottom? Nothing in nature is ever permanent, ever settled, and we are creatures of glorious subtlety. Tides turn and even the mighty oceans flow.

I feel you move, a rustling in the distance, and then the cool rim of a glass touches my lips. I lap at its contents instinctively, the water is icy cold, deliciously fresh. I let it swill around my arid throat before leaning forward for another sip.

“Thank you.”

It’s your turn to speak.

“Now, tell me more!”

Are you commanding me, or pleading with me? It can be so difficult to tell, sometimes I think they sound exactly the same.

 

 


* * 4 * *

 

So where was I?

Ah yes, my first encounter with the condom and the scales. I’d just climaxed over the lap of my headmistress, and she’d told me in no uncertain terms that she expected “more of me” when I returned to visit her the following week.

I replayed her words in my mind as I walked home, rubbing my stinging bottom, feeling the heat from my spanking still radiating through my trousers.

“No masturbation without my permission” had been her words, which were sufficiently ambiguous to leave me wondering about the practicalities of her instructions.

Did that mean permission was available? How did I get it? Did I just need to pop into her office and ask? Would that be a one-off indulgence or would I be rationed, and given several opportunities to play spread throughout the week?

I didn’t need to obey her, of course. Just as I didn’t need to visit her next Friday afternoon ever again. She had said if I stopped going, nothing more would be said, but the truth was by now I couldn’t resist her. My memories of the time I spent in her company dominated my idle thoughts whenever I happened to be alone. Her voice, her sweet spicy scent, the spankings, the dressing up, and the thrilling shame of ejaculating in front of her. Somehow I’d already become a moth to her flame.

So I tried to live up to her expectations. Instead of wanking myself dry every night, I tried to control myself, massaging my cock until just before the messy Point of No Return, and then stopping to go and do something else. A video game perhaps, before the lure of playing with another kind of joystick became too strong. My early attempts weren’t, in truth, completely successful, but I felt I was at least trying to abide by the spirit of her instructions.

Then before I knew it, it was Friday afternoon again.

Only a few weeks ago I remember dawdling towards the office of my Headmistress in an indignant slouch. Now I strolled forward purposefully and expectantly, aware I was going to get my bottom smacked, but at the same time, keen to add to my meagre set of sexual experiences. I think she must have heard my eagerness in how I knocked on her door, as she welcomed me with a warm, knowing smile.

She invited me to sit down, and I accepted her offer of a cup of tea. A British social grace intended as much to allow strangers to adjust to each others’ company as it is to provide a means of caffeinated refreshment. I cradled my little porcelain cup protectively as she sat down opposite me, and began to field her inquisitive questions.

This time our encounter was much less of an interrogation, and she occasionally responded to my trivial tribulations with some useful titbits of advice. As I became more comfortable in her presence, I felt the mood lightening, it became more conversational, I even managed to ask some bland questions of my own.

We probably talked for half an hour, and then she simply said:

“It’s time.”

I didn’t need to be told what she meant. It was time to get undressed, and time to be spanked. To be honest, I’d spent most of the last week thinking about this moment. Soon I was siting naked on the armchair as before, I frigged myself hard and, much to my personal satisfaction, put on the condom she passed me at my first attempt.

“Have you masturbated this week, young man?”

She skewered me with a stern gaze I found impossible to keep, and I found myself looking down at her lap by the time I ultimately answered.

“I’ve been trying to control myself better, Miss.”

“Show me.”

I grasped my erection with my right hand and began tugging and squeezing myself, feeling the thin skin of condom ripple beneath my sweaty palm. I pumped myself conspicuously, showing off, as if trying to demonstrate some barely-existent masculine sexual confidence. But, most importantly, I ensured I stopped before I got anywhere close to coming.

She didn’t need to say anything further, just a single elegant beckoning finger. Her right stocking was already rolled down, and I bent over her lap and slipped my erection into her tight nylon grasp.

Then she began to spank me. I controlled myself better this time, not thrusting between her thighs like a rutting animal. My bum was hot and stinging by the time I did eventually succumb and climax, but my spanking didn’t continue for long afterwards.

The final act was to take off my condom and have it weighed. My clumsy attempts at self-control during the previous week seemed to pay dividends, and the scales recorded a creditable score of 2.5 grams, for which I received praise from my headmistress as she meticulously scribbled my particulars into her notebook.

And then I got dressed, wished her a good weekend, and began thinking about my next visit almost as soon as I’d closed her door behind me.

 

 


 

 

By now my visits had become a regular event, the undisputed highlight of my week. We talked, and she guided me. I told her about my petty teenage problems and she listened to me, sometimes that was enough, sometimes she offered some solutions. The relationship between us had now changed, I no longer thought of her as intimidating authority figure, but as a confidente. I stopped referring to her as Miss, and started using the more respectful Ma’am.

She told me what food I should be eating, and insisted I took more exercise. I started running, and joined a football team. She instructed me on my grooming, I got a more stylish, more adult haircut, something I’d thought a waste of time and money. Yet afterwards, people seemed to behave differently around me, as if they began to finally notice me.

I bought an electric shaver and started grooming my body, shaving myself bare, everywhere. Keeping my pubis and scrotum bare served to remind me I was subject to her discipline every time I pulled down my pants, and every time I fondled my cock in bed. A reminder to maintain control of myself, and to live up to her high expectations.

My visits to her office followed a familiar pattern, we’d talk for most of our time together, then I’d get undressed, put on a condom and bend over her lap for a spanking. It wasn’t long before I’d become accustomed to her hand, so she began to introduce me to some of her more impactful implements, which she kept locked in a little cabinet at the side of her room. I had no idea there was such a range of canes and whips and paddles and floggers, and then there were all the items you might find lying around at home: rulers, hairbrushes, wooden spoons, spatulas and bath-brushes.

So you won’t be surprised to hear my fascination with spanking grew with every subsequent visit. I came to experience their different sensations, from the thuddy thump of a paddle to the sizzling sting of a riding crop. I was always spanked in the same position of course, over her lap, my stiff cock gripped between her thighs. She even caned me in that position, laying the cane flat across my bum, holding one end still and lifting up the other, before letting go, so the rod sprang back to whack me.

Occasionally she’d make me change into the schoolgirl skirt and knickers I’d worn that during that early formative visit. This was intended as a lesson in humility, a reminder that whilst women might be the focus of my romantic affections, underneath their skirts they were people, with feelings, hopes and dreams, no different from me. She made sure I understood that seduction was only ever to be a dance, never a conquest.

She knew, of course, that my submissiveness in her presence was born of deference. In our more candid conversations I’d made it clear I yearned to turn the tables and be the one giving the instructions, to be the one spanking her bottom. She’d listened politely to what I’d had to say, not dismissing or belittling my aspirations, but had made it perfectly clear afterwards I still had many lessons to learn before I’d be able to contemplate putting her over my knee. The way I stared at the floor as she skewered my dreams only emphasised how much more maturity and self-confidence I still needed to develop.

Yet I wasn’t just here to have my bottom smacked, my headmistress was more than happy to try and teach me what I lacked. Sometimes we roleplayed, and she taught me how to talk to a lady. You might call it the art of seduction, but that sounds so sordid. It was much more than that, learning how to talk to a stranger, to avoid empty compliments, how to genuinely communicate. And if I ever behaved like a nervous little boy, breaking eye contact or losing my nerve, she would stop our conversation right there and then, and I’d find myself over her lap once more, being spanked like one.

My teacher taught me the mating dance of human desire, although we never practiced it. She explained how lovers would first touch hands, then arms. Then would come the hugs, the embraces, the touching of hair and the caresses of the face. And if I ever reached that level of intimacy, then I was told, the object of my affection would expect to be kissed.

She explained how kissing would naturally turn to nibbling of the lips, nuzzles of the neck and throat. Then hands would stray to my lover’s breast, and it would feel like the most natural thing in the world. Once you get that far, she told me, the rest is instinctive, you already know it, no one needs to read a book before they can make love.

To my lingering regret, I never got to practice any of this with her. I longed to hug her, to kiss her, to undress her. But she never offered me any encouragement. I am your teacher, she would tell me, not your lover.

But what I really wanted was to spank someone myself. I told her that.

And she simply replied, “I know.”

But occasionally she did indulge me, instructing me to place a pillow on my lap, and then to smack it with my hand, to practice getting the force and the rhythm right.

Back home I had to amuse myself with spanking games, I scavenged a cane from a dying pot-plant, and practiced whacking two small round pillows I’d placed on the seat of a straight-back chair. Denied the opportunity to act them out, I began to channel my erotic energies into words, writing stories describing my spanking fantasies that I’d present as gifts to my mistress. She seemed to enjoy them, and encouraged me to express myself in words.

By now I was taking my enforced chastity seriously, and very rarely ejaculated between my visits across her knee. As my self-control improved, I inevitably spent longer and longer over her lap, stoically resisting the urge to spill, as she spanked my bare bottom to an ever deeper shade of pink.

She solved this potential dilemma by introducing what became known as “my treat”. If I hadn’t climaxed by the time she’d finished spanking, she’d make me get up from her lap and kneel on the sofa, my hands over the side resting on the floor. She’d then fetch my “treat” from her desk, a strange bulbous-headed stem of smooth white plastic with a long curved base. She referred to it as a prostate stimulator, but at the time, I had no idea what that meant.

Once she’d slathered the little device in lube, she’d tell me to hold my buttocks apart, and then slowly push it deep into my bottom, which was a shocking but unexpectedly pleasurable intrusion.

Then she’d reach underneath me to grasp my still sheathed cock with her left hand, whilst her right resumed spanking my already stinging buttocks. That never failed to finish me, I would clench the muscles in my groin trying to hold back, but now I’d feel an intense burst of pleasure at the base of my cock. It felt like a dam was cracking inside me, first a trickle of pleasure, then a rush, a sudden unstoppable surge as I convulsively emptied myself into my sheath.

The aftermath of my “treat” left me slumped over the armrest of the sofa, gasping, dizzy and delirious. I made have made an incongruous sight, a half-naked young man bent over with my bare bottom spanked to a bright pink, a condom heavy with my hot cum dangling between my legs beneath me.

And she then she would record me, and measure me, just to see how far I’d grown.

 

 


* * 5 * *

 

One hot summer afternoon I laid against a tree in the garden, sheltering under its canopy from the sizzling sun. I can still remember watching a fleet of long white clouds, drifting across the sapphire sky. You can see things in the sky if stare long enough, if you clear your mind empty enough. I saw an armada of triremes, a succession of immense sailing ships ploughing through the azure blue of Mediterranean seas.

As the sun baked the stones around me, I daydreamed, imagining myself in ancient Athens. Standing in an dappled olive grove on a hill above Piraeus, watching the little fishing boats come and go, their little white sails billowing in the arid wind. And beyond them a trireme leaving port, its huge square sail now hoisted up its tree-trunk mast, three rows of oarsmen working in rhythm, propelling the massive hulk out to sea. I could almost hear its sailors, muttering oaths to Poseidon as they ventured into waters of unknowable depth, towards a faraway port that must have seemed like the other side of the world.

As ever, my portal here had been a book.

Increasingly, as my background knowledge swelled, and my ability to debate improved, my weekly meetings with my tutor shifted from conversations to discussions. She challenged me to read widely, to judge what I read critically, to have the courage to form and defend my own opinions.

Books about growing up, and the acquisition of wisdom featured regularly, and she’d recently lent me a copy of Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces. This had introduced me to the idea of the Hero’s Journey, the universal coming of age story that seemed to feature in every culture’s mythologies and fairy-tales, in every era, in every corner of the globe.

That had kickstarted discussions about politics and culture, the origins of ethics, and where our values came from. Which was naturally followed by a crash course in ancient Greek philosophy.

You see, my visits weren’t all just about spanking and wanking, my dear.

Politics mattered, she taught me, because societies were more like games than machines, a web of beliefs and influence than connected every citizen, all governed by rules. She made sure I understood that I could distinguish principles from dogma, and taught me that no matter how passionately I believed in something, there would be others who disagreed.

She called it her first rule of Politics: that just because you felt strongly about something didn’t make you right.

True to her philosophy of free enquiry, she set me a challenge: to do my own research on the erastes and eromenos of ancient Greece, and come to my own conclusions.

Initially I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about, I even had to get her to write the words down. To me, they just sounded vaguely botanical, like some obscure parts of a plant.

My research began through the internet in the library, I discovered that in ancient Greek times, it was customary for young men (the eromenos) to be mentored by aristocratic older men (erastes). These relationships were only expected to last a few years, until the youths became citizens themselves. And during their time together the mentor would teach their charge religious and social customs, arts and literature and military and athletic skills.

But what really caused controversy was these relationships also seemed to have a sexual side. Paintings on vases from the time often showed mentors with erections between their students’ thighs. That did make me smile.

There was little consensus amongst historians as to whether this practice was a positive or negative arrangement. Some seemed to find it a natural extension of Greek social customs of the time, whilst others condemned it as exploitative and abusive.

“Do you think the mentors behaved improperly?” she challenged, when we came to discuss it.

I was able to answer her immediately. I’d already asked myself the same question, and arrived at my own opinion. It was all very patriarchal in those days, of course, men did the teaching and boys did the learning. But I doubted there could ever be a better tutor for a young man than an experienced woman. Speaking from experience, our relationship had never been abusive, after my initial punishment, which I fully deserved, she had never coerced me. I could have stopped visiting her at any time, but I returned because I wanted to – and later, because I felt I needed to.

“No, I don’t, M’am.”

She asked me why. I argued that it’s inevitable we view ancient cultures through our modern day eyes, but this was a world before printed books, before universities, a world of oral teaching and personal tutors. As for the sexual bit, it seemed odd to make such a fuss. But perhaps that’s the influence of our Christian culture, one that had spent two thousand years branding sexuality as shameful and dirty. I didn’t see a problem meeting her secretly, not because I was ashamed of our relationship, but because it was nobody else’s business but ours.

I certainly didn’t think I was being exploited either. What a sad and dismal view of sex that would be – that any expression of sexuality was as an act of gratification. Who knows what her motivations were for teaching and disciplining me? And if she was motivated by love, what did it matter if the spankings she gave me made her panties wet?

Moreover, as much as I’d fantasised about it, I’d never seen her naked. In fact, aside from the time I spent across her lap there had been very little physical contact between us.

So I told her. That from the bottom of my heart I appreciated the discipline and instruction she’d given me, the values she’d taught me and the love and compassion she’d shown me.

Her face shone when she heard that from me.

 

Now, through the prism of experience, I can offer a more considered analysis: power makes most people uneasy.

Even something as tame as erotic powerplay between consenting adults is considered by many to be somehow “edgy”, even downright deviant.

Disparities make us uncomfortable.

Imagine a rich man ignoring a beggar. Can you picture it? A powerful entrepreneur, immaculately dressed, purposely striding toward a destiny of making things happen. Beneath him, a tatty beggar cowers on the pavement, his palm outwards in supplication, fearful of what the future holds.

Already you’re formulating moral judgements. Perhaps you consider the rich man heartless, or a greedy personification of wealth and privilege – or maybe you admire his success, perhaps you even envy him. As for the beggar, you might imagine him as unfortunate, a victim of injustices beyond his control, or perhaps you have less sympathy, considering him the feckless author of his own dismal situation.

Most of us are egalitarians at heart, our view of an ideal society is one where everyone has pretty much the same. Power makes us uneasy. Because the reasons behind why some are powerful, and some are powerless, are complex and uncomfortable.

So we invent a backstory for every individual we encounter, moralising, colouring in strangers with our own beliefs and prejudices. Perhaps that view of the ancient Greeks as fey sexual predators was a reflection of the inequality of our modern world. We were so used to seeing the strong exploit the weak. It was as if we couldn’t believe, in our unfeeling, indifferent times, that a society was ever possible where the strong would nurture the weak and expect nothing in return.

Because power disturbs us.

What if you saw an old man passionately kissing a beautiful young woman?

Would your heart leap at witnessing such a delightful act of romantic love, or would you recoil from its icky seediness?

What if it was an older lady and a young man of my age? Who is taking advantage of whom? Why do some see an act of love, and others see an act of exploitation? Do you really know their stories?

Adolescence had been a tumultuous time. My old familiar world of childish simplicity had suddenly disintegrated, replaced by an increasing number of grown-up issues and responsibilities. I had good relationships with my parents, but there were some things too intimate to discuss with them. I couldn’t ask my Dad how to talk to girls, or ask my Mum for advice on my demeanour and appearance. Perhaps I’m doing them a disservice, but I wouldn’t have felt comfortable attempting those kind of conversations.

Maybe that’s why in all the ancient fables, myths and fairy-tales told by cultures around the world, the hero’s mentors were often wizards and gurus, strangers fortuitously encountered from outside his family.

I was just glad that I’d stumbled across a warmhearted sage who’d been kind enough to teach me. But there was another revelation waiting for me in Campbell’s book, one that profoundly shocked me when I first read it. The seventh stage of the Hero’s Journey was The Meeting with the Goddess, something that could only occur after the hero had left his mentor behind, after he’d begun to walk alone along the Road of Trials.

My beautiful teacher was right, she was not destined to be my lover. I would have to embark on the most difficult voyages of my life by myself. But now I knew that sometime, somewhere I would eventually meet a goddess. And when that happened, I would encounter her with a wholesome heart.

 

 


 

 

Don’t worry, my dear, it wasn’t all philosophy and moralising, my sexual education continued too.

One week, for instance, she fixed me with her icy gaze and provocatively asked me:

“What do you fantasise about?”

Once upon a time a question like that would have left me blushing and stuttering. She enjoyed asking provocative questions, she always told me I’d never discover anything worthwhile about a stranger through smalltalk.

But I was different now. Over the time I’d been visiting her, I’d felt my confidence grow in every aspect of myself, physically, mentally and emotionally. The quality of my school work had soared and my social interactions with my peers were enjoyable when once they’d been anxious. I felt different, my chest bigger, my chin higher, my voice deeper, my mind bolder, as if I’d been bestowed a super-power.

She still put me over her knee on each visit, of course. Sometimes she’d critique my essays and assignments as she slapped my bottom, reminding me of the rewards of diligence and the prizes that lay in store if I excelled in my studies.

Initially, I ummed and erred evasively to her intimate question, searching my memories for something that seemed appropriate for her ears, something not too sordid or seedy, yet not too boring or tame.

“Don’t censor yourself!” she scolded, “Just tell me the very last fantasy you had.”

She was right, keeping secrets from her was being dishonest to us both, and defeated the whole object of the exercise. So I thought back to what I’d been fantasising about the night before, as I laid in bed stroking myself. I had been imagining what might happen during my next visit if could somehow control the levers of fate. I began to speak candidly, describing my most intimate thoughts with a vividness that took me by surprise.

I hoped she wouldn’t be offended by what I was about to say.

“I imagined arriving here, Ma’am, to find my schoolgirl uniform on your desk. You told me to undress, and fold my own clothes away in the cupboard. And then you pulled my penis back between my legs as I tugged up my knickers.”

I could feel my cheeks blushing, but my headmistress just nodded.

“When I was dressed up, you took a shiny badge from your desk and pinned it to my blazer, and appointed me Head Girl.”

That made her smile.

“You explained to me that a girl had been caught masturbating in the toilets, and that she had been told to visit your office after school. And then there was a knock on your door, and Amanda walked in.”

“Who is Amanda?”

“Oh, she’s one of my classmates.”

“Ah, you have a crush on her” she observed perceptively.

“Yes, Ma’am.” I conceded bashfully.

“Go on.”

“You told Amanda that she’d been very naughty, and that whilst there was nothing wrong with self-pleasuring, it was not the kind of behaviour that could be tolerated on school grounds. You explained school rules were very clear on the matter, and the only punishment was a good hard spanking on her bare bottom. And I, the Head Girl, would be here to witness it.”

“And did Amanda recognise you dressed as a schoolgirl?”

“No Ma’am. She looked right through me…” I replied.

“I see. Carry on.”

“Amanda readily admitted that she’d been very naughty, and that she deserved to be spanked. Then she mentioned whenever she’s naughty at home she gets spanked with a slipper, and reached into her satchel, taking out a soft rubber-soled bedroom slipper, which she handed to you reverently.”

“Interesting. Why do you think she brought a slipper to school?” she asked.

I thought about that for a moment, then concluded:  “I think I didn’t want to imagine her being caned.”

Actually, there was another reason. I paused for a moment, debating whether I should reveal it, before deciding my mentor had earned the right to hear all my secrets.

“It’s also a reference to another fantasy of mine, Ma’am. I like to imagine she fantasises about being summoned to your office for a good hard spanking. So sometimes she spanks herself with one of her slippers when she plays with herself. And so I imagine she likes to carry her slipper around, in the hope that one day you’ll apply it to her bare bottom.”

I leave unsaid that I’ve a whole canon of fantasies involving Amanda – brilliant, pretty, aloof Amanda – ones where she kneels on her bed, reaching backwards, rubbing, tapping her slipper against her gorgeous bottom, whispering to herself about what a naughty girl she’s been.

My headmistress pondered my additional explanation, nodding thoughtfully, before indicating I should continue.

“You sit down on the sofa, and ask Amanda to take off her blazer, and then her skirt. She pulls her panties right down without being told, placing them neatly along with the rest of her clothes.”

“Then you put her over your knee, with her left leg on the sofa, and her right foot on the floor, that leg clamped between your own.”

“That must give you a fine view of her vagina as I spank her…” she observed uncritically.

“Yes M’am. And I can see right away she’s very aroused. But after whacking her for a while your wrist begins to get sore, so you ask Amanda to stand up. Then you get up and direct me to sit in your place. You pass me the slipper and ask me to give her 20 more smacks.”

“Oh, do I now?” she remarked sardonically.

“Indeed Ma’am. So I take your place, and Amanda bends over my lap, and I resume her spanking. Underneath me, I can feel my erection stiff between my buttocks, aching to be released as she squirms across my lap.”

“Finally, I deliver her twentieth smack. Her bare bottom has been painted a pretty shade of pink by our efforts, and I can see her little slit glistening between her thighs. Then she rises from my lap and apologises profusely for being such a naughty girl, and thanks us both for her spanking.”

“And do you climax when you fantasise about righteously spanking naughty schoolgirls?”

“No Ma’am!” I protested, “I always try my best not to – I want to be good for you.”

“Then I think it’s time we checked, don’t you?”

“Yes, Ma’am!”

That was my cue to undress whilst she fetched a slipper from her wonderful cabinet of spanking implements, and given what I’d just told her, her selection seemed an entirely appropriate choice. Recounting my fantasy had already made me remarkably hard, and I obediently rolled down my condom as my disciplinarian took her usual seat.

I bent over her lap, nestling my erection between her thighs. She began to spank me hard, the slipper’s soft rubber sole stinging painfully with every thwack. And as was her custom, she punctuated my spanking with some words of wisdom; during a whacking she always had my complete attention.

“I’m afraid the situation you’ve described will have to remain a fantasy. I can not, and should not, ever deliver your desires to your lap.”

As she said that, she gave me a few harder whacks, as if to emphasise the point she’d been making.

“I quite understand, M’am.”

“One day you will get to spank the one you love, but you must work hard for that privilege. You must accumulate your authority, and earn her respect. And then, she’ll gladly hand her slipper to you.”

I knew she was right, even if I was desperately impatient for that day to finally arrive.

My own whacking continued, I tried to retain control of myself, but visions of spanking Amanda’s pretty little bum had already filled my mind. It wasn’t long before I came, gasping aloud as I finally spurted between her vice-like thighs. Each whack of her slipper seemed to induce another powerful spasm, and another blissful spurt – she spanked me until she was sure my balls were empty, and until my poor bum was stinging hot and sore.

Afterwards, I rolled off my condom, tying the end and placing it respectfully on her delicate little scales. The digits said 5.9 grams, a new record, which proved perfectly my earlier assertion that I hadn’t ejaculated at all this week.

“What a good boy!” she commended.

Then it was time to get dressed and wish each other a wonderful weekend. And I bounced home with a skip in my step, feeling on top the world.

 

 


* * 6 * *

 

When my final exams arrived, I threw myself into my studies and exceeded even her high expectations, winning grades that would gain me admission into one of the country’s most prestigious universities. And just like that, my schooldays were over.

On the day I got my results I went to her house to tell her the good news, and to thank her.

I’d never visited her house before, it was a cute little red-brick cottage in the corner of the school grounds, half-swallowed by blooms of violet wisteria. I strode purposefully up the gravel drive, knowing this time I’d be visiting not as her pupil, but as a grown man.

Perhaps you’re already picturing what happened next, about what transpired when I finally crossed the threshold of her home.

Are you imagining me smothering her in a deep embrace? Me, placing my finger underneath her chin so I could look deeply into her eyes, then taking her by her hand, leading her upstairs to her own bedroom. The moment the student finally became the master.

Maybe in your mind’s eye you’re already watching her undress, her elegant lingerie falling to the floor. Vicariously experiencing the thrill I experienced in seeing my beautiful teacher naked for the first time, before I knelt between her legs and paid my respects with an eager tongue.

But you would be wrong.

Yes, we hugged, and she invited me to come inside. But we got no further than her living room. I told her the great news about my exams, and she bounced on her feet, eyes shining, genuinely delighted. Tea was then offered and accepted, and we faced each other across her coffee table, excitedly talking about what the future held.

It wasn’t just my course I had to look forward to, I had a summer of daring exploits planned before I started at my new university. I intended to spend a month exploring Europe, it was a roll-call of exciting, urban adventures that slid off the tongue in a variety of exotic accents. Paris. Amsterdam. Copenhagen. Berlin. Munich. Vienna. Florence.

She was so excited to hear of the adventure I had in store, she’d always encouraged me to travel, to unfurl my sails and catch the wind. To open my eyes and broaden my mind. I wished she’d impetuously announce she wanted to come with me, to be my travelling companion. But I knew I was embarking on the Road of Trials, an adventure I had to undertake alone.

All too soon, our tea was supped, and all our news was told. There was a tension, a solemn realisation about what was about to happen next, something inevitable, something neither of us wanted.

My teacher stood, excused herself for a moment, and left the room. I looked down at the little canvas bag I’d brought, wishing it didn’t have to be like this.

When she returned she had something in her hand. This time she sat down on the sofa beside me, close enough for me to feel her body heat, and extended her palm.

“A memento, of our time together…” she explained, her voice affectionate, but unmistakably wistful.

I took her gift, thanking her before I’d even properly examined it. It was a little black leather slipcase, just slightly longer than my middle finger. It had been embossed with a short message in tiny gold capital letters:

BE A GOOD BOY

I spluttered with laughter as I read it, and continued laughing until both of us were dabbing our eyes. The sentiment behind her message was so typical of her: insightful and perfectly judged. She knew me too well, better than anyone else in the world. Superficially I might now appear to be the perfect young gentlemen, well-spoken and impeccably dressed – but she knew that deep inside, there still lurked the naughty little boy who’d once tried to peek up skirts.

There was something inside the leather case, and I slipped it out into my palm. It was my “treat” – that bulbous little device she’d often pushed deep into my bottom to massage my prostate.

“Something to remember me by…” she said.

“I’ll always wear it when I think of you!” I pledged, gently nudging her ribs in a way I’d never dared do before.

I tucked the slipcase into my jacket pocket, and reached down to retrieve my own gift. I could feel my fingers trembling as I lifted it, I was terrified it wouldn’t be good enough for her, that she’d thank me graciously now and then consign it to a cupboard when I’d gone. I’d bought a piece of parchment from an art store, written something on it, and then put it in a frame. They say it’s the thought that counts, but in a crisis of confidence I was desperately worried she’d see my creation as an embarrassingly amateurish piece of tat.

She had introduced me to one of Dante’s poems, La Vita Nuova, during one of our many long rambling conversations. I think we’d been discussing the nature of love, but I hadn’t really appreciated it at the time. To me love had been something mushy, idealistic and fantastic, I think I’d still been too immature to understand the power and mysteries of love.

But I could still remember the words, and it was only now that I was finally beginning to comprehend their meaning. I wished I could tell my mentor, my confidante, my guiding star, how much I owed her. How much the words I was about to speak encapsulated the depth of my gratitude. That she was the true author of my Bildungsroman. That in every sense, she had made me.

I held the parchment out in front of me, reading aloud what I’d inscribed to her, before I placed it in her hands.

“In that book that is my memory,

On the first page

That is the chapter when I first met you

Appear the words:

Here begins a new life.”

I never thought I’d do anything that would make my headmistress cry.

“I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me, Jenny. I owe you everything. Without you, I’d still be a lonely and confused little boy.”

And then we hugged.

And just hugged.

The time had come to part, and for a moment she felt so fragile in my arms, like a sudden gust of wind might shatter her into a thousand brittle autumn leaves.

I never did get to see her naked, caress her mound, or spank her bottom. I never got to taste her excitement, or hear the giggling song of delight she sang when she came. But she was always more than a lover to me.

We embraced one last time and kissed goodbye.

And I walked out of her home with a lump in my throat, heading for wherever life’s capricious currents might sweep me next…

 

 

 

[To be continued…]

 

 

 

@spankingtheatre 2015

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

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This was the second story I posted here. There is a backstory behind this particular piece of writing that only two people know, which makes it special to me.

Message in a Bottle

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