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Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

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sex

How do you have romantic slow sex? Its something ppl talk about but is it actually a thing ppl do??

I’d call slow sex any sexual activity where both partners are content to simply take their time.

It’s sex where the goal is not to climax, or splatter with cum, but instead to simply enjoy the physical sensation of being intimate with another human being. Feeling the warmth of your partner’s body. And the thrilling buzz you feel from their every gasp and giggle.

It is a form of sexual mindfulness, where each successive moment is savored for its fragile transient beauty. A time to appreciate how something as magical as love could actually come to exist in this cold, empty universe of ours.

tl;dr

It’s different from fucking.

Sexual Confidence

image

Sexual interactions require a special kind of
confidence, because what you’re revealing about yourself is so personal
and intimate. When you talk about sex face-to-face, or engage in sexual
activity, you’re putting entire package of who you are on the line.
That’s a lot of pressure to put on yourself.

Then you start worrying – what if this comes across as weird? What if I seem like a slut – or a pervert?

From an early age, the adjectives we’re taught to associate with sex are negative: slutty, naughty, seedy, filthy, dirty. So is
it any wonder that when we experience sexual self-doubt, the
associations that spring to mind are shameful and embarrassing ones?

That’s
despite the fact we know the terminology that we should associate with
sex is pleasurable, erotic, joyful and adventurous. But old habits die
hard.

The problem is that for most of us, sexuality is learned in private, furtively and embarrassingly, without a teacher. As
a result, you find yourself asking: am I doing this right? Is this
deviant? This feels good but is it too weird? 

With little guidance
from anyone else, most people make it up as they go along, learning what they can from giggling friends, the illicit world of porn and erotica,
or some unsatisfying and uncomfortable sexual encounters.

I’ve often
wondered how sexuality would be different if everyone had a private
sexual tutor during their teenage years, someone to explain, instruct
and correct. How our sex lives might have turned out if everyone was
instilled with a bit more confidence earlier on. It’s actually quite a
good idea for a story I think. But it’s never too late to learn those
lessons…

Some people are lucky enough to have such tutors, of
course. They’re the ones who enter into healthy sexual relationships,
and get to learn about their sexuality by interacting with others,
without shame or judgement. They’re the ones with the sexual confidence others envy, the ones who make life seem so effortless and cool.

Of
course, most of us aren’t that fortunate. But most people don’t have a
personal trainer either, but that doesn’t mean they can’t get themselves
fit. You just have to get into training, and take responsibility for
building up your own sexual confidence.

Sexual confidence is the
remedy to any embarrassment you feel. Learn to talk casually about love
and sex. Imagine a persona for yourself: a cool open-minded adult. Then,
in sexual situations, ask yourself: how would they act? What would they
do?

Begin to consider every sexual situation as a training
opportunity. After all (and this might seem counter-intuitive) most of
the time we interact with others sexually, we do so fully clothed.

  • Explicit scene in a movie? Don’t giggle, nod approvingly.
  • Someone is flirting with you? Tease back.
  • See a couple fondling at a party? Rather than frowning at their brazenness, smile at their adventurousness.
  • See someone topless? Ignore them, because it’s literally no big deal.
  • Conversation with friends veers onto sex? Be forthright. Talk like an adult, not an adolescent.
  • Witness something sexually inappropriate? Never be too embarrassed to stand up for yourself or others.
  • People talk disapprovingly about others’ sexual encounters? Call them for being uptight, ask them why they’re slut-shaming.

Always
remember: sex is natural, everyone has fantasies and almost everyone
masturbates.

As for the kinky stuff – remember, spanking is probably humanity’s most popular fetish; half
the world’s population loves spanking; the other half just haven’t
really tried it yet.

So if you’re in “polite company” and talking about
sex, consider yourself to have a licence to say whatever you want. Don’t
become part of the conspiracy of shame that perpetuates sexual
embarrassment by sneering, giggling and humiliating. Learn to recognise the sexual
insecurity of others, and if they ever attempt to shame you, be prepared
for it, point out their childishness and treat it dismissively.

When dealing with sexual situations, erotic stories can be your teacher. Borrow
from them if you need to, imagine you’re a character like Alice or Penny
– two strong personalities who, whilst submissive, are also supremely sexually
confident too. Or consider how the relationship between the characters in Coming of Age grows by being flirtatiously sexual.

Sexual confidence is like any other form of
confidence, academic or sporting. You just need to work on it,
progressively and continually. With time, you’ll feel your attitude to
sexual situations begin to change, from immature giggling and embarrassment to
the self-assured, opinionated outlook you’d expect from a sexually
mature adult.

But being here means you’ve already started; so welcome on your journey.

This blog is about stories, and through these stories I hope to kindle your sexual desire. But surely we’re all red-blooded and horny, and sex itself is healthy and natural, so why would we ever need help fanning our flames?

Interesting question, isn’t it? Might it be that sexual desire doesn’t always come as naturally to us as we might expect?

This article is well worth reading, it describes aspects of sexual desire that we should all be familiar with – but aren’t. That we actually have two forms of arousal: spontaneous and responsive, the former when we anticipate something sexy, the latter that emerges in response to something sexy.

I bet most of us have grown up feeling that our desire is supposed to be completely spontaneous. Suddenly appearing out of nowhere, wild and wanton. But what if such spontaneity doesn’t come naturally? The good news is: that’s perfectly normal (we just don’t tend to talk about it).

The remedy is to work on your responsive desire, think of it like your partner in crime in a heist movie: a little luck and lots planning . This article will tell you why you should have a getaway plan for your sex life. One where you can take inspiration from the erotic stories, games and fantasies you’ll find in this blog. That is, after all, why I create them…

The science of sexual desire

There’s powerful magic in books.

Another great cartoon by Grant Snider.

There’s powerful magic in books.

Another great cartoon by Grant Snider.

Carrot and Stick

It all began with a half-stifled gasp.

Stepping quietly down the hall, he’d been on his way to bed when he’d heard the tell-tale rustling from behind her bedroom door. The barely audible rhythmic creaking, and those little moans that can’t be muffled.

Or, thought of another way, it all began earlier that day, as she’d been kept behind for after-school detention. Later that night, as she lay in bed, memories of the experience bubbled back into her empty mind. She recalled how she’d childishly provoked Miss Summers by facetiously scrawling her detention essay in the style of a cranky 7 year old. In response, the normally mild-mannered Miss Summers had taken her completely by surprise by putting her over her knee and tugging down her panties. Miss had then applied the ruler to her bare bottom until she really was acting like a 7 year old, crying and kicking and pleading.

Yet she had found the whole experience unexpectedly, unexplainably, unaccountably erotic. And in the darkness, as she lay massaging her tender cheeks, replaying what had happened, an itch had started. She knew she wasn’t allowed to play with herself on a school night, but the itch had escalated into a throb. I’ll never get to sleep like this! she thought. Suddenly, rubbing became the lesser of two evils. Just as long as she wasn’t caught, of course.

Meanwhile, he lingered outside, silently listening.

Her reluctance to sit down on returning from school had prompted him to decree a bottom inspection, and he’d seen first-hand what a good job her teacher had done. Naturally, she’d have to be punished again at home for misbehaving at school, but he decided that could wait until her soreness faded.

The little gasps were quicker now; whilst she could stifle her delight, she couldn’t stifle her breathing. Not that the sounds from behind her door came as any surprise. In his experience, every girl who got her bottom spanked would pleasure herself afterwards. It was a natural law, a universal principle, energy can not be created or destroyed, only transformed; and so the erotic energy delivered to a spanked bottom would have to be expressed somehow.

Some couldn’t wait, immediately dashing to the loo to try and rub the pain away. Whilst some waited until they were in bed later that night, savouring their discomfort, feeling the warmth in their bottom ebb between their legs. Whilst others would wait even longer, ruminating on the shame and embarrassment for days, even weeks, before finally releasing themselves volcanically when they could bear it no more…



Suddenly, from behind the door came a long muffled gasp, like someone downstairs being taken by surprise. Or someone just realising they’d forgotten their best friend’s birthday. It was the unmistakable, irrepressible cry of a spanked girl coming.

It hadn’t taken long for her to rub her itch away, leaving a haze of heat in her mind and a blush on her face. Her orgasm had been satisfyingly prolonged, so long in fact she’d rolled over and cried out into her pillow in ecstasy. She laid back, panting, absent-mindedly wiping the evidence of her misadventure onto her sheets. It wasn’t until the thump of her heartbeat quietened that she heard… something.

It sounded like a shuffle outside her door. Was he there?
She couldn’t see any shadows in the slit of light beneath her door.  
A childhood memory surfaced, hiding in the pantry beside the biscuit jar, as footsteps paced the kitchen outside. She felt the familiar panic spread. If he walked in now, she’d be in deep trouble. Not asleep and caught playing with herself, after just being spanked at school too.

His hand hovered over the door handle… he considered walking in and surprising her, finding her hot and flustered, her fingers sticky, her clit swollen, her slit slick and puffy. But then he’d have to scold her, put her over his knee, and give her an appropriately thorough spanking.
And then they’d never get to sleep, and it was a school night.

He moved away from the door, soundlessly.
Consequences could wait.
At least until tomorrow.

In the darkness, she listened intently, so much so her ears buzzed. Nothing. She brought the covers up to her neck, feeling drowsiness warm her. And soon she was asleep.


—-


The next morning, after she’d left for school he checked her sheets.
A wide white stain at waist level betrayed her naughtiness, and whilst her pyjama top was rumpled, her pyjama bottoms were incriminatingly clean and unworn, she must have taken them off before playing with herself.
Well, if she enjoys doing it herself, he thought…

He positioned it in its traditional spot.
He wouldn’t be home to discipline her tonight.
But he would leave her a note with his instructions.
She’d read it when she got home…

Meanwhile her day passed much faster than she had expected. She’d volunteered to help Miss Summers in a school event, which although tiring on her legs and feet, gave her the chance to apologise for yesterday’s immaturity, and demonstrate her change in behaviour.

She arrived back home alone, knowing he had other commitments on a Tuesday, and she had the house to herself. Tuesday nights were her opportunity to unwind. She dropped her bags and shoes lazily, then removed her blazer; allowing it to join her shoes on the floor, and kept removing layers until only her underwear remained. They lived in a large house, with no neighbours, and there was no risk of nearby eyes peeping through the windows. Her bra fell to the hallway floor. She stopped before the staircase, and savoured pulling down her panties, lazily drawing down, feeling them tickle her skin.

It caught her eye as she entered the living room.
Just there, on that spot she knew all too well.
The cane.
Rattan, golden-brown, half a meter long, thin and springy, varnished and glinting.
Hanging in mid-air at waist height, parallel to the floor, its crook handle hidden, wedged between two bookcases.
In the early evening light it cast a long shadow across the floor, like some kinky sundial.

And folded over the cane was a piece of paper, handwriting faintly showing through. A note, and she was the only possible recipient.  She had a sudden urge to put her clothes back on.

Yet her curiosity demanded that she read it.
Maybe it was an in-joke.
“Hope you didn’t have too painful a day at school, princess. Do enjoy your evening.”
Ha ha!

She sidled up to the cane. Weirdly, inexplicably, standing naked beside it felt tremendously exciting. She could sense its potential, its purpose: to bend, to whack, to discipline.
She began to rub her bottom against it, enjoying the sensation of cold wood on her skin, its subtle curve belying its brutal nature.
Her skin prickled with goosebumps.

She nervously took the paper – impeccably folded, of course – and opened it. She could hear his cut glass accent in her head as she read it.

Young lady,

Did you know I was standing outside your door last night as you played with yourself?
I suspect you did, but you undressed and did it anyway.

You have been a very naughty girl, and you need to be punished. Sadly, I’m away this evening, but since you enjoy ‘doing it yourself’ I’m going to put you in charge of your own discipline.

The senior cane has been set up for you, by now you know how to use it. And since you enjoy undressing so much, you will administer your whacking completely naked.

You know the rules. I expect proof that you’ve undressed and your bottom has been properly whacked.

When you’re ready, you may bend over,

D

The paper fell from her fingers as she spun on her heels, making a beeline for the kitchen, and a space to think. She sipped a hot chocolate, contemplating her sentence, occasionally peeking back at the letter lying on the floor, wishing she’d imagined it all, trying to think of some way out. She could pretend she didn’t see it, fold it back, slip it under the coffee table.
“I didn’t see a note! It must have fallen!”, she could plead, eyes wide and innocent.
She considers the prospects of her lies, realistically: zero, he can read her like a book.

She dandered back towards the cane, as if drawn by a magnetic fascination, and picked up the letter again, re-reading what he’d written. He’d failed to give a number of whacks. She thought of a number, but knew that it wouldn’t satisfy him. She gulped hard, should she ask him? If she did her penitent sinner act, might he let her off with less?

Somewhere, out in the world, a phone buzzed; a message, simply reading. “How many?”

He excused himself from his companions, and scrutinised his phone. He couldn’t quite decide if her message was a pedantic delaying tactic, or an adorable act of obedience. He’d made her punishment deliberately vague. He wanted to test her.

“Your instructions are to be properly whacked. It should be obvious from your photo afterward. Now be a good girl.”

In a room far away, he pressed Send.

Her phone buzzed. She jumped to attention, fingers fumbling. A vague answer; he was testing her. She threw her phone back down on the sofa, irritated. A shaft of golden light flooded through the wide western window, highlighting the cane, making it glow. She eyed the stick warily, as it loomed over her impassively.

She had to concede to herself, she had been very naughty, and her predicament wasn’t negotiable. Either she punished herself now, or it would be a longer and harder caning from him when he got back. Put like that… she sighed resignedly.

She stood up, mesmerised for a moment by gleaming motes of dust as they floated around the cane, illuminated in a golden beam. Somehow the stick looked softer in this light, almost serene. She stepped forward to stand in front of the cane, bending over until she felt it across both her cheeks. Then she widened her stance, spreading her legs as she’d been taught so she exposed her slit, feeling cool air on her lips beneath her.

She took a deep breath, and reached behind. She began to pull the cane back, making it creak in protest, as if it didn’t want to punish her. She thought about telling that to him later, with a small smile.
Then the cane slipped from her fingers.
Thwack.
She yelped, jumping forward, both hands shooting back to soothe her stinging bottom. Lit by a golden beam like a limelight, she performed a little dance in front of the bookshelves.

She composed herself, berating herself for her childish over-reaction, and retook her position in front of the cane. She felt its cool smooth surface against her sore, newly acquired stripe; they matched perfectly, so she shifted her position to ensure the cane struck a different spot. Her fingers pulled the cane back again, trembling, then let go.
Thwack.
She yelped again, stumbling forward onto her knees, her hands cradling her smarting cheeks.

Curious to see what effect the cane was having, she walked to the mirror in the hallway. Two pink lines now, floating on her skin, as if painted on.
Painted, oh…?
A flash of inspiration struck as suddenly as the cane’s whack.
She smiled slyly, and began to scheme.

She returned to the golden spotlight with a spring in her step, and gave herself another whack, feeling her bum warm. She swapped sides, so the whacks would fall on her other bottom cheek, and grimaced as she endured three more stinging stripes.

She returned to the mirror, now she could see 6 lines now amid her blush of pink. That’s enough to get started with, she announced, to nobody in particular, and went to fetch her camera.

That is the sound of a camera shutter. Fake, of course, as her camera is digital.
She takes a picture of her bottom, the pink patch, the 6 lines.
She moves to the bathroom, a damp cotton pad smudges her mascara.
She poses, pouting, a blush of guilt and shame, and lachrymose eyes.  
She was a young actress, an excellent one.
Then a full frontal shot, to demonstrate her nakedness.
The self timer beeps quicken, before the sound of the camera shutter.

She was proud to be a bit of a geek, and her Photoshop proficiency was more than able to convincingly alter the image of her barely pink bottom until both her globes were cherry red. Then she cloned her six stripes, warping them around the contours of her globes until her bottom was criss-crossed with weals.

She attached all the images to her message, excited by her ingenuity.
“I’m so sorry for staying up past curfew, and humiliating myself with you at the door. I gave myself thirty whacks.”
She sensed this was a bit of a stretch, but cockily typed it away.
“You can see I’ve really learnt my lesson, I’ll be sleeping on my tummy tonight. Sorry xxx”
She clicked send, and with a smirk, deleted the evidence of her manipulations.


A chirp from his phone announced the arrival of her images. He excused himself from a serious, but rather dull conversation, and walked away to a private balcony. Below him the cityscape twinkled and glimmered.

He flicked through her photos.
He was happy to see she had followed her instructions to punish herself naked.
The smudged mascara was an interesting touch, she’d never sent that before.
Her bottom was very red, much redder than he’d have expected from a self-administered whacking. And her claim to have punished herself thirty times was unprecedented, he couldn’t remember her ever having that many strokes before.

There was also something very strange about her slit. It wasn’t wet, it wasn’t swollen. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d had her bottom smacked hard and hadn’t been aroused.
Doubt began to flicker in his mind, as he began to question what he could see.
Why were her nipples not hard? Why was her nose not wet with sniffing?
And those eyes, not glistening in the light, were those really the eyes of someone who’d been crying?

He pondered the evidence again in the taxi ride home…

—-

Deceit, she discovered, could be a powerful aphrodisiac.

A throbbing developed between her legs almost as soon as she’d sent the faked images. After dinner, she returned to the living room. Just looking at the cane hanging there – so threateningly – really turned her on. Olympic coverage was on TV, she tried watching it, but her eyes kept being drawn back to the ominous stick; her throbbing becoming more difficult to ignore with every glance. She turned the TV off.

Still naked, she positioned the large leather ottoman just in front of the cane, and bent over it. If she pushed out her bottom, she could feel the cane’s cool wood kiss her buttocks. A bit higher, and she could push back against it, and feel the cane bend.

Her fingers worked between her legs as she fantasised about having her deception uncovered, and the merciless whacking she’d receive. As orgasm got closer, she’d push her bottom further, bending the cane back, feeling its tension, its stored power, against her existing stripes.
The leather of the ottoman was soon sticky with her juices.

Suddenly, the ottoman was him, and she was sitting on his cock, the cane pressing against her bum. She imagined him bending the cane back, telling her what a naughty girl she’d been. She imagined the cane whipping back savagely, making her dive forward, making her impale herself upon his stiffness, as deep as she’d ever taken him.
She came noisily, bucking as the cane flexed against her arse.

She lay over the ottoman in a delicious daze, until she noticed the mantelpiece clock. It was definitely past curfew, he could be back at any moment, and there was still a sticky ottoman to clean, and her clothes to gather up. Her tracks covered, she sent herself to bed.

—-

He arrived back to find everything as it should be.

The cane wedged between the bookcases in the study.
The note casually discarded on the coffee table.
There was a smudged, crumpled tissue near the stairs. As if a young lady had fled the scene of her discipline, crying, wiping away her tears, and it just happened to fall from her trembling fingers as she ran up to her room.

Everything in its right place.
And that in itself, was very unusual indeed…

She heard him enter the house.
She laid still. Her eyes clenched shut.
She heard his footsteps on the stairs.
Getting louder. And louder.
It was late, she hoped he’d be going straight to bed.
His room was past hers, she willed him to just keep walking.
He was just outside her door now.
She held her breath, waiting for the next footstep, that would take him to bed, and take her out of trouble.

Suddenly her room flooded with light. She kept her eyes clenched shut, defending herself from the sudden glare.
She felt him approach, his footsteps muffled to a faint thud by her bedroom carpet.

She tried to maintain the docile, steady breathing of someone fast asleep. She’d gone to bed confidently, she’d planned everything so meticulously, there was no way she could be caught. But perhaps he was just coming to kiss her goodnight. That was it, definitely. She let her body relax, her eyes more comfortably shut.

She felt herself tip slightly as his weight depressed the foot the bed.
She felt his fingers run through her hair.

“Hi princess. I’m sorry you had to have your bottom caned so hard tonight.”
A pause, inviting a reply. Nothing.
“You do know it’s because I care. I hope your bum isn’t too sore…”

Behind her lids, her eyes were motionless, her breathing shallow, yes, this was feigned sleep. He’d get her attention.

“…so I had better give you a bottom inspection.”

Her eyes threatened to shoot open; but as an actress, she did her best to ignore the rise in her pulse, and made her eyes flutter open. She propped herself up on one elbow.
“Y…you’re back…” she said as drowsily as she could manage.

It was funny how it was the words “bottom inspection” that had opened her eyes, and not any of the dozens of words that had preceded it.

“A good, thorough bottom inspection.” he continued.
“First, I’m going to check your cheeks for marks.”
“Then, I’m going to inspect your bottom hole for cleanliness.”
“Then, I’ll check you’re properly shaved.”
“And then, I’m going to inspect your front bottom.”
“I’d better check you haven’t been playing with yourself in bed again.”

He didn’t wait for her to signal her agreement.
She felt cool air on her shoulders as her bed cover began to slip downwards…

“N-no! I… I’m tired.. I.. tomorrow..” she protested.

“That’s ok. You just lie on your tummy and doze, whilst I take a look at your bottom…”

The bedcovers had descended to her navel now…
In moments, she’d be revealed…

She knew there was no point now. She flipped onto her tummy, hoping the six marks would somehow satisfy him. But her stripes had faded, her bottom was tellingly white.

“Well, well, well…”

No evidence of a whacking, and no pyjama bottoms either.
But in all honesty, he wasn’t hugely surprised.

Her subsequent bottom inspection was meticulous, and revealing.
She did have a few small marks on each cheek, the characteristic L shapes made by the edge of a wooden ruler, relics of yesterday’s after-school correction. And six fading pink lines from her half-baked attempt to deceive him tonight. The images she’d sent were clearly a fiction, a bottom that red would take several days to fade to white.

His voice was stern. She gulped down her shame, a thick lump in her throat. She spoke into the pillow. “I’m… I’m sorry” she shivered, her voice wavering. She was fully aware he hadn’t fallen for her trick.

He reached for a tissue from her bedside table, and held her bottom open, slowly wiping around her bottom hole in excruciatingly slow circles. He scrutinised the tissue closely: her bottom was dirty. As any Victorian governess would tell you, (were any left still alive), a dirty bottom signaled either poor toilet habits, or that the young lady in question indulged in illicit nocturnal fiddling.

He had once stumbled across a olde Victorian curio, a governess’s journal, in which its author had described, in explicit and knowing detail, the masturbatory habits of teenage girls. It was common knowledge that when a girl climaxed, her juices would seep and dribble downwards. But it was less well known that after coming, the flustered young lady would be in a hurry to clean herself, wiping her vulva but avoiding her anus, fearful of leaving a smelly smear on her handkerchief. Thus many a girl would unwittingly leave behind evidence of her illicit nighttime activities in her laundry basket, in the form of a very faint, distinctive smelling, sticky mark at the back of her nightie.

The author of the journal went on to record that her young charges would find themselves bending over to be caned the next day for some trifling misdemeanour, the governess keeping the true reason for their punishment – and how she discovered it – to herself. Naturally, he’d bought the journal – and its faded red, untitled, felt spine now dwelled inconspicuously in one of the living room bookshelves. Just above where he wedged the cane, in fact. So if a book did contain the spirit of its author, the governess would preside over canings once more; he felt sure she would appreciate it.

But back to the task at hand; he tsked, he would have to clean her properly. Taking a wetwipe from the bedside table, he held her bottom open again, and started to slowly wipe around her hole, round and round, up and down, letting the solvent in the tissue cool and tingle her most sensitive cleft. Getting her bottom wiped was embarrassing, like a child who didn’t know how to clean themselves. She buried her face in the pillow, the shame making tears swell.

He rolled her onto her back, and began to scrutinise between her legs. Her mound was smooth and hairless, as was the region below her lips. She hadn’t started shaving that long ago, but now enjoyed her morning ritual, her little act of obedience made even more rewarding afterwards by the delightful sensations of slowly pulling up tight panties over her bare, freshly shaven skin.

To know something intimately is a special level of familiarity. He knew every part of her sex intimately, every bump, every fold, from the smooth curve of her mound to the gothic arch that hid her clit. From the tiny hole from which she peed, to the tight puckered hole that loved to be filled. He had explored her world with his tongue, lips and fingertips, learning her language, and discovering her secrets.

But her current condition was easily interpreted. His finger slipped easily down her moist lips, sliding easily into her vagina without resistance. He slid in and out three times, as if to demonstrate he knew exactly what she had been doing, before bringing his wet finger up underneath her nose, so she could smell her own arousal.

“What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?”

“I’m.. r..really s..sorry” she stammered, tears already sliding down her face; no longer acting.

In a way, he admired her deceptiveness, the imagination of it, its meticulousness. But dishonesty could not be tolerated. Nor could he ignore the fact that she should have gone to bed with a sore bottom, contrite and promising herself she’d behave better. Instead she’d gone to bed congratulating her own ingenuity, to ride her own fingers. He wagered that in the empty house, she’d almost have been shouting as she came.

Well, now she had to learn that naughtiness had its consequences.

“It’s time to come clean. I want you to admit all the naughty things you’ve done, starting with last night’s bedtime fiddling.”

“Then you’ll tell me what happens to naughty girls, and ask for it. Politely.”

Her voice broke into that of a child. Loud wailing, no longer caring about her pride, her face hot and tears fresh.
“No! Not now please.. I’m sorry!” she dragged her words on as she spoke, knowing the consequence of upsetting him.
“Not before beeeeeed!” she whined, taking his arm, pulling him close, sobbing into his sleeve. She knew she looked ridiculous, vest crinkled, naked below the waist, clinging onto him, begging for an extended time with a bottom she could sit on.

Were those genuine tears, or another part of her elaborate act?
It was difficult to tell from damp eyes and anguished pleas. Genuine sorrow started with a confession, and usually ended with someone rubbing a sore bottom, but you had to start somewhere.

“One last chance, young lady. Own up to your misdemeanours, or you’ll be getting long, hard bedtime spankings every night for the rest of the week…”

She sobbed harder; hearing it made it so much more true. She forced herself to stop, prompting small hiccups. She sat up, facing him shamefully.
“I… I got a spanking at school yesterday.. and.. I touched myself after curfew.. and… today…” she bit her lip. “…I faked my punishment and… touched myself… and then came to bed without showering to hide the fact that I’d stayed up so late.”
There was a moment of silence, and the question came up, she never knew why she asked, but it slipped out.
“Are you mad at me?”

He looked down at her wet, quivering face.
She was young. Silly. Rebellious. Sassy. Naughty.

But he had no intention of blunting her edge; meek, well-behaved young women rarely troubled the history books. Her marvellous mind could achieve amazing things, if she could temper her impetuousness. If he could temper her impetuousness.

So, although he was disappointed in her – he was not angry with her.
How could he be, really?

Her confession had saved her from having to endure serious punishment tonight, but nevertheless, the wayward child needed to be corrected.

“No, princess, I’m not mad. But you know you’ve been naughty, and naughty girls always go to bed with sore bottoms.”

“Now, ask for your bedtime spanking, like a good girl.”

She felt a wave of relief, knowing that she hadn’t angered him. Although, she had been taught what happens to naughty girls, and although the request was embarrassing, she knew what she had to do.
She wiped the tears away from her eyes with her wrists. Eyes puffy, she made eye contact.
“I was very bad today”, she started, “I.. will you please correct me.. I deserve a good spanking.”

Normally, bedtime spankings were administered naked. Then he’d sit on the bed, and put her across his knee, and spank her with his hand – or slipper if she’d been really naughty. He would stay to watch her corner time, to ensure there was no rubbing – and then see that she pulled her pyjamas up over her hot, pink cheeks.

Her illicit fiddlings had meant she’d already dispensed with her pyjama bottoms, so once he’d pulled her vest top over her head, she was appropriately naked. But now, instead of sitting down, he took her hand, and led her out of her room and down the stairs. A short distance down the hallway, they stepped into the living room, whereupon the light-sensor detected them and illuminated the room.

The first thing she noticed was the cane.
Still wedged into the bookcase, at waist height. Her height.
Waiting for her.

Realising the nature of her imminent punishment, she dragged her feet as he led her by the hand towards the stick. She considered protesting, a bedtime spanking was delivered over his knee, it always had been. A bedtime caning was unheard of, but she had been very naughty.

Nevertheless, she took up her place in front of it, turning round to make eye contact as she lowered herself, opening her legs shamefully wide, positioning herself so he could see her wiped bottom cleft and puffy wet lips. The cane’s cool surface kissed her bottom cheeks.

“Now, young lady. We’re here again because you disobeyed my instructions – but I’m going to ensure you follow them correctly this time. You are going to show me how sorry you are for deceiving me, and give yourself your own bedtime spanking.”

She heard a faint squeak, as he sat down behind her in one of the comfy leather armchairs.

“Remember, I expect you to be properly whacked. You may begin…”

She reached back, pulling the cane, the wood gave a creak of complaint. She inhaled deeply, then let go, shooting up onto her tiptoes as the cane whipped back.
“O..one sir.. Oooo. I’m sorry sir”

From behind her, he admired the view. He knew she enjoyed exposing herself, and exposure required someone to watch. It was a duty he was happy to fulfil. His view was now embellished by thin pink line on one of her buttocks.

“Good girl, carry on…”

Her bottom was still stinging as she reached to bend the cane back for a second time. She yelped pitifully, and continued her counting.

The varnish on the bookcase had a worn away in one particular spot, because this was where the cane was always positioned, at a height devilishly determined to be just above the tops of her thighs. Hence during a caning, she would try to bend her knees and push out her bottom, so the cane would strike higher up, on the round globes of her bottom. He’d indulge her for a few strokes, allowing her to turn previously white regions pink, before instructing her to straight up and resume whacking her most tender areas.

After twelve strokes he instructed her to turn around, so the force of the cane fell on her other cheek. Now she faced him; so he could see her grimace with each stroke. He watched her breasts quiver for a few strokes, then moved behind her, to better monitor her whacking.

A creak. A swish. A thwack. A yell. A moan.
Another stripe. Another look back at him, imploringly.
He looks back sternly: carry on.
And so she pulls the cane back one more time, dearly hoping this will be the last.

“T…tw…twenty f…four, sir!” she panted.

“Good girl!” he commended.
He stepped forward to survey her bottom’s red patchwork, quickly satisfying herself that she had indeed been properly punished. Then his fingers explored her cleft, finding a puffy, slippery groove, her clit hot and swollen. She purred with relief as she felt his fingers in her slit, this was his way of saying her punishment was over, and she had made him proud. He didn’t want to become too predictable though, so he pulled the cane back one last time, letting it smack back across her cheeks, surprising her. She yelled out loud in indignation.

Without explaining himself, he took her by the hand and led her, a gesture that spoke to her deepest needs.
Come with me: I’ll guide you.
Come with me: I’ll take care of you.
Come with me: I’ll take you places you long to go.

He tugged her towards the stairs.
Minutes ago, he’d felt her drag her feet as she knew every footstep was taking her closer to a painful punishment. Now, he felt a spring in her step, and she followed eagerly. Or was it obediently?

He looked back at her. From the front, there was little sign that she had just endured a painful whacking. She was smiling. Her sins had been cleansed, he had forgiven her.
They exchanged an almost conspiratorial smile.

He swerved into her bedroom, her one step behind.

They came to a stop in the middle of her room, just before her bed. Now he wanted to test if the spring in her step was obedience, or just horny eagerness. He turned to face her.
“Now, what do naughty girls have to do after they’ve had a spanking?”

She stopped, and the smile had faded, she had already apologized and thanked the man for her spanking… Unless this was a joke to remind her of the night before.. touch yourself? Was that an appropriate answer?

Maybe, he wanted her to thank him properly, on all fours. She was spending too long to answer.
“They…get… inspected?” She mumbled, cautious with her wording.

He turned her around slightly, and smacked her bottom. She winced.
Then he took each of her hands and placed them on the top of her head. That’s enough of a clue, he thought.

Her bottom had jumped with sting from the force of his hand. She looked down at his crotch, and up to him. Without speaking, she knelt on the floor, trying not to rest her tender buttocks on her calves for her own sake. She stared at his crotch expectantly, waiting for him to unzip, or take down his trousers. She looked up at him as if to ask ‘am I right?’

But no, that was not what naughty girls did after being spanked.
He beckoned her up to her feet, turned her around again, and smacked her bottom, once then twice. Perhaps these sensations would prompt her memory. Then he took each of her hands, and placed them on the top of her head again.

The smacks were firm, and the sting almost made her legs buckle. She removed a hand from the top of her head to rub when she caught his eye. Her arm stopped, and she brought it back up with a frown. She pouted at him.
“I’m not a child anymore…”

He smiled at the incongruence, at those bratty little pouts she did. He would continue to treat her as a child, until she learned to behave herself.

“Naughty little girls must do their corner time after a spanking” he explained patiently.
“So they can reflect on why they got a sore bottom, and show they’ll be more obedient in the future.”

He looked at the corner pointedly, and waited to see if she understood.

She huffed, following the direction of his finger, until her nose was in the corner of the room. He let her stand with hands on her head for a minute, listening to her occasional huff and sigh. He would have to educate her in the merits of obedience.
After all, if she was good, her experiences could be very, very good indeed.

Because after the stick, comes the carrot.

“Hold your bottom cheeks apart now, princess. Show me everything.”

She analysed his tone, completely serious. She frowned, leaning over slightly.
“You know.. calling me princess doesn’t make this experience any sweeter.”
Her reply was joking, but with a sense of bitterness and shame. She hissed with discomfort as she forced her cheeks open, then gave a small murmur as the air swept across her puckered, upturned entrance.

He watched as his princess, proud and precious, exposed herself utterly.

He fetched the small pump-bottle of lubricant from her dressing table drawer, and something else. There was a characteristic squelch as he squirted the silky slick gel onto his fingers, and let the heat of his hands warm it.

She felt his fingers at the small of her back, as they began to slowly slide down her splayed-open bottom cleft.

They lingered at her bottom-hole.
Circling.
Probing.
Stimulating.
Testing her tightness…

She flinched, squirmed and grunted in a rather unfeminine fashion – but she didn’t move. She heard the embarrassing slicking of the wet lubricant against her hole, like someone licking and smacking their lips together. Her eyes shut, legs sliding open, and again, he was in full control.

His fingertip pressed so gently on her bottom hole, she couldn’t be sure it was still there at all, or whether the faint sensation was a lingering echo of his prior probings.
He pushed almost imperceptibly further.
She felt him now. She felt her hole opening, welcoming, betraying her.
She felt his slick fingertip slide inside her now, her hole gripping it, as if begging it not to leave, to linger here, to impart the pleasure the other, more glamorous passage regularly received.
She pulled her sore bottom cheeks further apart, arching her back, hoping to amplify these new and delicious sensations.

“Naughty girl…” he observed.
But she just pushed against his fingertip, harder.

She didn’t know what to do, she knew what she should do, stay in position, and be quiet. But she couldn’t.
“D…don’t tease me” she whimpered.

He did hear her plea, but chose to ignore it. At this very moment he could plunge his fingers deep within her, and she would come within minutes. But it would be a climax little different to the ones she regularly experienced on her own fingertips.

Or, he could tease. Let her pleasure build, swell, escalate until her whole body tingled and she begged for release. As if to illustrate, he let his finger slide slowly forward into her bottom.
She mewed as her hole stretched to accept his first knuckle.
She cried out as her hole encountered his second knuckle.
And she moaned deliriously as she finally felt his finger’s full length inside her.

Meanwhile, his idle hand found work for itself, reaching underneath her to explore the effect of his anal probing on her wet slippy lips.
She purred, leaning back into his hand.
“Ooo…sir”

He withdrew his finger, making her moan each time a knuckle pulled open her hole, which remained slightly open, as if expecting the imminent return of its departed companion.

A squelch as he applied more lube, this time to the other item he’d retrieved from her drawer.

She had been given the stick, now it was time for her to be given the carrot.

It consisted of eight orange balls, of increasing size, one on top of the other, with the smallest diameter ball was at the top, and the very largest ball at the bottom.
It was an anal toy. They jokingly called it The Carrot.

He applied more lube to her bottom hole, massaging her pussy to keep her from tensing, and began to slip the carrot inside her…

The first ball entered her easily. He began to push it with a steady pressure, and the slightly larger second ball slipped into her hole. She pushed backwards, eager to accept the third ball, feeling it stretch her bottom hole open as it entered her.

She arched her back, legs shaking, moaning weakly as she pulled her bottom apart, her spanked skin tight and stinging. He continued to push, slowly and steadily, feeling her pushing back, wanting to be filled. Her bottom hole began to stretch again.
A finger began to dart in and out of her vagina, only just entering her each time.
As she bore down on his hand, the fourth ball entered her entirely.
She gasped.
Suddenly, she felt full, the probing toy no longer an invader, but a missing piece of herself that had found its home.

His hand left her lips, and stepped back to busy himself behind her.

She held her still smarting spanked cheeks apart, savouring the satisfaction of feeling filled, listening to the little clinks and jingles of buttons and buckles as he undressed and the rustle as
clothes fell to the floor.

Then the familiar crinkle of a condom packet being torn open. She listened to it being rolled down his cock, imagining his length, before a final squelch told her he’d slathered it with lube. She pushes her bottom out, spreading herself, inviting him in.

She felt the toy in her bottom being tugged, it felt amazing, her bottom clenched, to keep it from slipping out. But that was his intention, he pulled hard, stretching her hole wide as the fourth ball
came out. It made her whole torso quake.

He kept pulling. Again she resisted, but the third ball was smaller, and soon slipped out too. The two smallest balls came out easily after that, leaving her arse quivering, throbbing, aching to be filled.

She had only moments to wait.
Something hot and stiff began to rub against her bottom hole, coming to rest just inside her.

She could feel the heat of his body across her back, as he whispered into her ear:

“Have you been a naughty girl?”

His question, warm in her ear, sent chills down her spine.
She opened herself more, moaning as she spoke.
“Y..yes sir…”, then suddenly worrying he might leave her unsatisfied as punishment, she quickly added “…but I’ve had such a mean spanking… so I promise to be a good girl.”

Unexpectedly, he placed a small hourglass timer on the corner shelf just in front of her.

“Five minutes corner time, with my cock in your ass, that sounds about right for such a naughty girl.”

“Then I’m going to fuck you, and put you to bed.”

She gasped at his forthrightness.

“Keep your hands on your bottom.” She felt his own hands reach under her to pull apart her lips. “That’s my job.”

“Time starts now…”

He turned over the hourglass.
Sand began to dribble away.
She felt the muscles of his hips tense as he pushed into her bottom, so slowly he was hardly moving at all. When she began to push back, eager to be filled, he stopped entirely, and waited for her to relax again. The sand was half gone by the time he’d slid fully in.

She whined impatiently – wanting – needing movement; aching to be thrust into. The waiting tormented her, she felt like a child wanting treats at a sweetshop. Her toes tensed and her fingers clenched as her mind concentrated on the sensation of how his cock filled her. She wanted to rock, sway, pull back so he was forced to slam into her. But then he might just send her to bed, unsatisfied. She had no choice but to wait… and… wait.

His sensations were exquisite.
Her tight hole gripping the full length of his cock like she never wanted to let him go.
He could feel the little ridges of her weals from her caning, the heat of her spanked bottom glowed against his thighs.
And what felt like her whole weight was impaled upon him.

He moved her hands away from her bottom, placing them on the wall in front of her.
When the sand ran out, she would need to steady herself.

His fingers returned to between her legs, rubbing her juices into the area between pussy and bottom hole, feeling how she twinged as he slowly slid a finger in.. out.. in.. out..

“F-Fuck..” she hissed, she hated being teased yet loved it; her hands curled into small fists.
“I.. I’ve learnt my lesson! Please…”
Her voice was high and whiny, like a demanding child.

The sands were almost gone now.
He hoped she had indeed learnt her lesson, that he was in charge, that he would decide when she received pain or pleasure. He would not allow her to become whimsical, led by desire for immediate gratification.
The best things came to those who…

…waited.

Mere grains now.
Two of his fingertips loitered at the opening of her vagina.
His cock slid backward, the bulge of its head teasing the inside of her ring, pulling, threatening to leave…

As the final grain vanished, he pushed deep within her.

She squawked a little scream, which became a long moan as his fingers slid into her vagina, curling upwards to clasp her sensitive spot and hold her there. At last, he began to slide forwards and backwards inside her bottom.

She leant into his hand, her breathing picking up the pace to match his movements. Her insides seemed to melt, he always had this effect on her.

“Such a naughty girl, having to get a bedtime spanking…”

She accidentally slipped out a moan, it was embarrassing to be turned on by such words. Hearing them made her focus on her stinging backside, she loved it, now, with the prospect of a climax so close.
“Yes…mm.. sir, I need you to keep me in line.”

“… I think…” (he thrust in)
“… tomorrow night…” (he slid back)
“… when you get home…” (deeply in, lingering)
“… I’ll strip you…” (quickly out)
“… naked…” (quickly in)
“… and put you over my knee…” (slowly out)
“… for a bare bottom spanking…”

His finished the sentence as he buried himself deep inside her, feeling the warmth of her smacked cheeks spread across his crotch. She gasped as he hit her most sensitive spot. His words, his tone, his clear distinguished voice lingered in her mind. She hoped the threatened spanking was a tease.
He stopped moving inside her, but his fingertips maintained their subtle pressure.

“Ride my cock, young lady.”

She tensed her hole, gripping him, impaling herself upon him. His hips brushed hers, stinging her marks, making her flinch forward.

The fingers inside her fumbled lightly, almost prompting her to quicken her pace. By now she had stretched enough to manage quicker arches, grinding her tender bottom against his hips in a way that made her body shiver.

Riding her was a delicious experience. He enjoyed her inventiveness, her sashaying, her swaying, her variation of tempo, her tightness.

He thrust his fingers deeper into her cunt, feeling the bulge of his own cock as she impaled herself deeply. He began to rub the secret wrinkle at the back of her vagina, the secret spot few lovers knew. She purred and pressed herself against his fingers.

“Naughty girls with spanked bottoms come hard…” he whispered.

Was that a warning or a promise? Her ears perked up, his voice quiet against her moans, was this permission to come? Sensations were becoming hyper-real as she felt her orgasm approaching.

He felt her bottom hole quivering, deliciously massaging him as he pumped in and out.
He felt his balls beginning to tighten, and the head of his cock tingle deep inside her.
He was getting close.
He stopped.

“Naughty girl…! I should stop right now…” he gasped, “… and put you across my knee for a thorough spanking…”

“Noooo!” she moaned, “I’m n…not… done…”

She felt his fingers withdraw from deep inside her, and his cock begin to slide out of her bottom.

“Please… no…”, she begged.

His cock had almost left her, she felt the bulge of its head pulling against the tight ring of her bottom hole, which she was trying desperately hard to clench, anything to keep him inside, and save herself from a trip over his lap.

“Yes. Another good, hard, spanking, for being such a naughty girl…”

She cursed him wordlessly. She was so close. For a moment, she recklessly contemplated pulling her hands off the wall, and burying them between her legs. She might be able to come before he snatched them away. But she knew she’d be punished severely for such wantonness.

She felt his weight shift, as he moved a foot closer to the bed. She felt his cock on the verge of popping out of her, the prelude to being pulled over to the bed and across his knee.  

“Please… please…” she begged.

Desperation rose inside her. Out of nowhere, she felt an urge to throw a tantrum, a foot-stamping tizzy of protest. The thought shocked her, that she might still consider acting so childishly when denied what she wanted.

His cock was still just inside her, beginning to slip past her frantically clenched ring. He’d pulled back enough to expose his target.
He twisted and slapped her bottom hard.
And again.
And again…

“I’m going to spank you as you come…”

These fresh spanks reignited the pain from her stripes, and she hissed in pain, trying desperately not to jolt forward, lest he slipped from inside her and made good his threat to put her over his knee. She lowered her head, bending further over, pushing out her bum so he sank deeper inside. In response, he twisted slightly to his left, so he could continue to slap her right cheek. This was so much better then stopping, she thought, oh, so much better.
Her orgasm was back, stirring, she could feel it deep within her pelvis, something hot, volatile, about to explode.
“I… I’m… going to come…” she squealed, she could feel the rush, inevitable now.

His hands cupped her from underneath.
Fingers from one hand rubbing deep inside.
Fingers from the other rubbing her swollen little pearl.
She bucked into him, grinding greedily.
Gripped tightly by her arse, he could feel himself passing the point of no return too.

“Come! Now! Like a naughty girl!”

As if her body was following orders, all the separate ripples suddenly merged into a crashing wave; her stinging bum, the flicks of her clit, the rough slamming from behind, the fingers massaging deep inside her pussy.

She came energetically, arching her back, grinding onto him to elongate her pleasure. Her strong bottom muscles gripping him so tight that he knew pushing any further would push him over the edge. He plunged beyond eagerly; expending himself in a series of gasps, as she squealed the secret word.

She floated in a pool of warm release, with a blush that matched on both sets of cheeks. Small whispers, almost babbling, punctuated her panting. Only her hands braced against the wall was stopping her from crumpling to her knees.

His skin was tingling, his thinking dazed.
His cock was stiff and throbbing, still buried deep within her.
He felt amazing; and suddenly protective of his silly little treasure.
He reached around and hugged her tight.

When he’d got his breath back he finally told her:
“And that, young lady, is what happens to naughty girls…”


—-


@spankingtheatre 2012

with thanks again to the imagination of un-needed-feelings.tumblr.com

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