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Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

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sexual fantasy

Head Girl – part 1

A spanking story

Jasmine was currently top of the Leaderboard, which made her the school’s official Head Girl.

Being the Head Girl in a prestigious boarding school in the 2040s was a coveted position, and came with several luxurious privileges. A private bedroom, access to the staff gym and spa, a neuralinked recreational holovisor, and those most precious of commodities: peace and quiet.

Having spent so long in shared dorms, Jasmine found the privilege of privacy unimaginably decadent. She could wander around her room wearing as little as she wanted, dance around in her panties at three a.m and make as much noise as she wanted. She could do everything, except what she really, really wanted. What she craved more than anything. Dealing with the persistent throbbing, deep between her legs.

Climaxes were very strictly controlled in this boarding school. It was the belief of the Headmistress that students were much better behaved when kept in denial. Her intention was to substitute the fleeting pleasures received from masturbating with a more fulfilling sense of self-control and obedience, both of which she considered highly favorable attributes in a young lady. That, and it prevented the institution from degenerating into an orgy, which was always a risk wherever a group of entitled young women were gathered. 

The Headmistress did not believe in devices that would physically prohibit her pupils from touching, however. There were no chastity belts in this school, no preventative medications to dull the libido, and no clitoral or labial piercings to block wandering fingers. Obedience had to be a choice. Students here could either obey the rules and rise up in the school’s hierarchy, winning privileges for their good behaviour on their way, or they could disobey and face the consequences, publicly wearing their shame on their lapel badges for all to see. 

To enforce this rule, every student wore a sensor resembling a silver ear stud on their earlobe. It monitored their activity and pulse-rate, so if a girl was to masturbate, for example, or – heaven forbid – be fucked by one of her own classmates, her transgression would be immediately detected. And punished, of course.

The earlobe sensors were small and discreet enough that most soon forgot they were even wearing them. Technically, they were well-being sensors, continually reporting aspects like heart-rate, fitness, blood sugar and hormone levels to SWELL – the school’s centralised Student Wellbeing System. Those in Swell’s care referred to it as Big Sister, everyone was familiar with its admonitions, delivered in its prim authoritative voice.

The data collected by the ear studs provided more than enough information to distinguish between a furtive orgasm and a jog through the school grounds. Everyone knew that Big Sister was watching you. Ready to whisk your privileges away if you faltered, and lead you by the wrist to one of the spanking pods.

Yet that wasn’t to say that no one ever got to climax at this school, it was just that orgasming was a privilege just like every other. One that needed to be earned, that would be granted to those who obeyed the rules and behaved themselves. As one of the 10 highest ranked girls on The Leaderboard, Jasmine was permitted a short visit to the AR pods once every month to use the Fucking Machine. There she’d been able to indulge her own chosen fantasy, and for 30 glorious minutes, come as many times as she wanted, without sanction. 

Jasmine had crafted an elaborate and highly satisfying fantasy for her fucking machine visits. But it had been two weeks since she’d last played it, and that meant another two weeks before she could be filled again.

Fortunately her new role had granted her access to some quite wonderful new distractions…

Jasmine reclined on her big soft bed and made herself comfortable. She slipped on her holovisor, and activated the neuralink, feeling her skin tingle as the device connected to her nervous system. These devices were new, expensive, and quite remarkable. Unlike Virtual Reality glasses, which merely provided ultra-high quality sight and sound, neuralinked visors added the other senses – simulating touches to the skin, as well as smells and tastes. 

The additional senses made holonovels uncannily realistic and compellingly immersive. Food, for instance, was no longer just an incidental detail, a fragment of set dressing to walk past as the tale unfolded. Now you were so deeply embedded in the story you could smell your surroundings. Jasmine could remember the first time she’d experienced it for herself, she had been walking down a quaint old village street and passed a bakery. The aroma of freshly baked bread had been intoxicating. She’d tried one of buns, chewing an imaginary morsel as its spicy fruity flavours washed over her tongue. She’d spent a whole evening in that village, eagerly chasing every sensation as if she’d never eaten before.

Jasmine instructed the visor to take over, and her bedroom suddenly disappeared from view. Now she was looking out through very different eyes. Her holonovel had resumed from her last bookmark, transporting her back, to deep within a coniferous forest. Thick, fragrant pine branches had enveloped her immediately, like a flurry of welcoming arms, as she was pitched once again into the mind-sight of the story’s protagonist. 

The genre was supposed to be fantastical, a saga of swords and sorcery, of long-forgotten runes and arcane powers. Settings in tales like these always felt so foreign, it was a shock to even just look down at the antiquated clothes the characters wore. Here in this dank forbidding forest, she could feel cool clammy mud ooze between the toes of her sandals. She could smell the straw and dung of nearby horses. The world she’d entered felt real, grimy and almost hazardously dirty, a jarring contrast from the sanitised reality she’d just arrived from.

Her holovisor had a rudimentary connection to her nervous system, enough to induce simple sensations as if they were occurring on her skin. Enough for her to physically feel the chill in the air as she followed the trail through the woods, the path spongy under her feet, half-hidden by decades of fallen red pine needles. 

Just imagining the sensation of walking was enough to move her story-situated limbs. She wiggled her hips to dodge the low-hanging branches, looking nervously to each side, where her view vanished with alarming abruptness, smothered into utter blackness amid the dense rows of gnarly trees. 

Entering a story, even a familiar story, was always an initially unsettling experience. She could feel her breath quickening and a pulse racing, as her primal reflexes prepared her body for imminent perils. Her character was unarmed, but had been taught some protective spells by a wise mage a few chapters ago. But in truth, she wasn’t looking forward to having to use them.

A strong cold wind pushed her forward, as if lingering here wasn’t really part of the plot. There was a rutted path of trodden needles to follow, and after a few minutes walking she found herself standing before a weather-beaten castle. Although the structure was obviously old, its huge granite blocks emanated a sense of quiet pride and power.

She felt compelled to knock on the sturdy, oak door. The rap numbed her knuckles, but achieved no answer. So she knocked again, her patience wavering but her curiosity building. Finally, heart thumping, she impetuously turned the heavy door knob and cautiously stepped into the dim light within. The trigger word of her most powerful protective spell buzzing through her mind like a mantra, ready to be spat through her lips at the slightest sign of danger. But the interior was unexpectedly serene, her nostrils even filling with the scent of cedarwood. There was something oddly familiar about that aroma, although she couldn’t quite place it. 

The entrance hall of the castle was grand, and seemingly untouched by the ravages of age that had eroded the exterior. She looked around at the beautiful artwork on the walls, where shimmering tapestries of colourful flowers hung beside moody oil paintings of armoured knights. She noticed candles but they were unlit, as was the pile of wood and turf in the fireplace. The evidence suggested someone did live here, but might not be present right now.

She eagerly stepped forward, wondering if this chapter of the holonovel would be some kind of mystery treasure hunt. The more sophisticated stories weren’t all narrative, which could make the reader feel like they were moving along rails, just watching a story unfold around them, like a ghost train, or some high-fidelity rollercoaster. The better tales with mini-worlds, which encouraged and rewarded exploration.

What else was unusual? Ooo, was that a trapdoor hidden among the flagstones? 

Jasmine flexed her simulated muscles, straining as she pulled the trapdoor up from the floor, and stared at the winding staircase the trap door had been covering, which spiralled away into a flickering gloom. She could smell the distinctive tarry smoke of burning torches. That was a good sign, she dreaded the prospect of having to walk into the dark shielding a precious candle, as her single lifeline of light.

The very best books change their readers for the better, and Jasmine had certainly felt a greater sense of adventure since she’d begun this holonovel. For the first few chapters, she’d lacked the courage to explore the intimidating ruins and darker passages. Now she felt she was growing with her character, unlocking a boldness that she never knew she possessed.

Nevertheless, going into the unknown was still scary. But, as she was learning, it could also be quite exhilarating. She took a deep breath, and tentatively began walking down the spiral stone staircase. It felt as if she was descending deep into the castle’s secrets. 

When she finally reached the bottom of the stairs, she poked her head around the corner, surveying her surroundings cautiously. What in the world is this place? She wondered to herself. The passageway at the bottom of stairs opened up into what seemed to be a row of monastic cells. Outside the pools of flickering light cast by the torches on the walls, it was grimly dark. She could feel her heart beating out of her chest as she edged nervously down the hallway, passing the grimy cell doorways set into one wall. 

Something made her come to a halt in front of one particular cell. She ran her fingers over the old musty woodwork, emitting a shriek of shock when she saw what was painted crudely over one doorway. It was her own name. These weren’t monastic cells, she realised, they were dungeon cells! That was it! She’d had quite enough of this creepy place, and quickly spun on her heels to leave. 

Except… now her pathway was blocked. There was a man in a dark cloak blocking her pathway, close enough that she could sniff the musky scent of cedarwood. The man looked so familiar, the spitting image of her English teacher, who’d been a subject of her lusty – but mostly frustratedly unconsummated – daydreams for months. And now, it was just the two of them, in this dark inescapable dungeon. The possibilities were both terrifying and hugely exciting.

The stranger, who looked just like her English teacher, advanced – forcing her to step backwards into the cell that bore her name. He even smelt like him, now she recognised that musky cedarwood scent he wore. His piercing blue eyes stood out in the dim light of the dungeon, and as he looked her over, they danced with appreciation. In her panic, Jasmine was too distracted to notice the nail that jutted out of the doorframe, which caught on her loose robes as she gingerly retreated. Not until it was too late, until it began to tug as she struggled to preserve her distance between them.

That was when she started to hear a ripping noise, which made her jerk backwards with even greater force, which only served to tear the fabric of her robes completely. Suddenly she could feel a cold chill wafting around her knees, and looked down with shock to see she was now completely exposed beneath the waist. The Stranger Who Couldn’t Possibly Be Her English Teacher (but who looked just like him) gazed approvingly at her bare mound, and the little groove that disappeared between her legs.

Jasmine was stunned – this holonovel shouldn’t have been anywhere near as racy as this. She couldn’t remember any mention of sexual content in its rating, otherwise she wouldn’t have dared to have started it – not whilst being subject to The No-Touching Rule.

In the real world, as she laid on her own bed, her hands had fled instinctively to her crotch, irrationally attempting to protect her modesty from a pair of imaginary eyes. It was warm between her legs, and her fingers lingered, coyly shielding herself from the intruder she actually rather hoped was going to overpower and ravish her.

Her shielding fingers began to move, until she was absent-mindedly stroking herself. Her remaining self-control seeped away as the holonovel continued the story, as her mysterious captor advanced, seizing her wrist and bending her over the crude wooden bench that was the cell’s only furniture. She could feel him spreading her legs wide, his strong fingers finding her dripping wet. 

Wait. 

She knew she had to stop. 

She had to stop before… 

WARNING, a voice said in her ear, ILLICIT SEXUAL ACTIVITY DETECTED

It wasn’t her own voice, or any character from her holonovel. It was from her biomonitor, the silver ear-stud that kept watch on her bodily functions, the one that policed her pleasure, every hour of every day. 

She knew that warning message might already mean a demerit or two, but nothing catastrophic to her school ranking – IF she stopped right now. So she carefully slowed the rhythm of her fingers, until only the faintest touches were brushing the hood of her clitoris. Then she stopped. Only for a yearning ache to fill the space where her fingertips had just vacated. 

Desperate to distract herself, she continued stroking the sensitive triangle of her shaved mound, earnestly trying to make her subsequent strokes as light as a feather’s touch, in the hope that if they were light enough, she’d be able to withdraw her fingers and no longer notice their absence.

But the novel that continued to play in front of her eyes was not cooperating. She felt a sudden fiery pain in her scalp as her fictional captor grabbed her hair in his fist, using his other strong hand to cup her slit, his thumb pressing against her bottom hole. 

He growled a single sentence into her ear, he didn’t need to say any more.

“What a very naughty girl you are.” 

She was shocked by a hot smarting sting as he delivered several hard slaps with his open palm across her bare buttocks. She squirmed on her bed, impulsively trying to rub away the soreness she was suddenly feeling. She had no idea a neuralink device could induce such sensations, it felt indistinguishable from a real-world spanking.

The sheer detail of what she was experiencing, Jasmine had to admit, made the fantasy she’d programmed for her visits to the fucking machine seem laughably crude and unimaginative in comparison. 

In the fantasy she’d created, she had (of course) surreptitiously used the face of her English teacher, hackily combining it with the open source body model of a famous VR porn star. In her creation, her fantasy figure had simply walked into her room, they didn’t say much, and they were both already naked, But in her defence, her fantasy was limited to half an hour in length, and Jasmine didn’t want to waste precious time undressing. He began to get hard when he saw her, and she made him stiff by kneeling and taking him in her mouth. 

It was funny, Jasmine often thought, but when you were in an immersive simulation like that, it really did feel like the firm swollen object in your mouth was a lover’s cock. Even though it was actually one of the fucking machine’s anatomically perfect indistinguishable-from-skin prosthetics. 

Fucking machines, like all other artificial intelligences, learned by example. The most sophisticated models had been trained by ‘watching’ pretty much every pornographic performance that had ever been filmed. That allowed them to mimic every conceivable aspect of human sexual behaviour. They knew how to lick, and stroke, and fondle. How to intrude, how to slap, how to tug and pinch and pull. 

They knew how to fuck, perfectly. Every variation, slow and fast, shallow and deep. They knew the ideal tempos for hair-tugging thrustings and low slow screws. They could perform angry fuckings, romantic fuckings, passionate fuckings and sensual fuckings. 

Their capability for extrapolation meant that creating a scene was as simple as writing a few sentences. To build her own fantasy, Jasmine had merely stated: 

“He enters the room, and admires me. I suck his cock, as he caresses me. He cups my vulva, stroking me until I am soaked. He lays me on the bed, and fucks me vigorously for about 5 minutes until I come. He caresses me as I recover, complimenting my body, telling me I am irresistible. Then he grabs my wrists as if overpowering me, and fucks me in several positions until we are both exhausted.”

From those instructions, the machine was able to improvise an entire scene, the dialogue and events a little different every time. It would observe what she enjoyed, what aroused her, what made her heart race and her breath quicken, and then it would subtly tweak its performance, so her very next visit would be even more memorable. Ever closer to the sexual ideal that, try as she might, she’d never quite be able to put into words.

That was what this holonovel scene reminded her of – those times in the fucking machine when he overpowered her, when he pushed open her legs and his big thick cock slid deep into her eager cunt.

And with that recollection, she tumbled, her hand reflexively cupping her crotch, her middle fingers pushing deep into her slit, desperate to recreate the missing sensation her imagination had remembered. 

In her ear, she thought she heard a voice telling her to stop. But why would he say that to her? Surely he was the one violating her? It didn’t make any sense, but if truth be told her mind wasn’t really working any more. 

She felt herself stretch, just as she did when he took her each month. She pushed deeper and deeper, pumping in and out urgently until she reached a state of orgasmic bliss. She could feel herself shaking as the rush flooded through her whole body. 

It took a while for Jasmine to finally regain control of her senses. Her trembling hands moved to her sweat-drenched face to take off the holovisor, allowing her to see her bedroom again. She woozily looked across at her school badge, still resting on her bedside table. It had displayed a two-digit number, but now only a single flashing red digit remained. It indicated the number of days since her last orgasm; and now it was a large, accusing zero. 

She stared at the number with a sinking feeling of embarrassment and bewilderment. What exactly had just happened? How on earth did she end up getting so aroused by a vanilla swords and sorcery holonovel?

There was also a audio message from Swell, one of its characteristically deadpan admonishments:

Attention, Jasmine. You have broken the School’s No Masturbation policy. In accordance with School disciplinary directives, you have been scheduled an appointment for your punishment at 1400, in spanking pod Vermillion. Tardiness is not acceptable.

Her tummy lurched, what had she done? 

And more importantly, what damage had she done to her precious ranking?

* * * 

Everyone in the school checked The Leaderboard compulsively. It was the first thing they checked on their glasses when they woke, and often the last thing before they took it off for the night. Following the fortunes of their classmates was itself a thrill. In the absence of being able to masturbate, there were few pleasures as enjoyable as being notified that a classmate had taken a tumble, dropping them down the Leaderboard, making their own position in the hierarchy, and more crucially – the privileges it brought, that little bit more secure. 

Likewise, each rise in the Leaderboard was felt with a twinge of jealous trepidation, as it brought a competitor just that little bit closer to usurping their precious position. 

The founding principle of this school had been one of intense competitiveness. That life itself was a zero-sum game, a simple contest where there were Winners and there were Losers. The students who were enrolled here tended to have ruthlessly ambitious parents, eager to ensure their offspring reflected their own sense of urgency and purpose.

Schools such as these had flourished since the examinations system had been deregulated, and decentralised. Graduation grades were no longer calibrated by central exam boards, now each student left their school with a single number, their rank. 

How each school determined this rank was completely up to each institution. Some remained academically focused, with coursework and exams that were evaluated by the teaching staff. Some schools ranked their students by athletic achievements, musical performance or artistic creativity. Other schools valued altruism, awarding their rankings based on how well students behaved towards each other. There a top student would be one that helped their peers not just to learn academically, but to overcome the challenges of adolescence.

But this school was the very antithesis of altruism. Its graduates would go on to run companies, large public bodies, even governments. Here they were taught the art of leadership, the need to master themselves before they could begin to lead others. So this school chose to rank its students by their mental resilience, and their ability to delay their own gratification in the pursuit of long-term goals. 

Those at the top of the Leaderboard were those who were the most rigorously self-disciplined. They were the elite, the prefects of today and the leaders of tomorrow. The few at the top of the pyramid had enviable privileges, they were the only ones permitted to visit the fucking machine. Those further down would have to be content with spending their earned entertainment allowance on VR films, or they could save up to borrow a neuralinked visor to enjoy an immersive holonovel.

Beneath the elite few were dozens with high aspirations, perhaps just a few right moves away from unlocking some of the coveted privileges. This cadre of students was also the most precarious, looking down anxiously at those just below, insecure in their position, feeling like imposters ripe for a fall. 

The base of the pyramid consisted of those who’d exhibited low self-control. Ironically, with little left to lose, these students were much happier than those above them, which in turn, permitted a reckless kind of adventurousness that could often lead to rapid raises, as long as they kept to the rules next time, of course. The penalty for masturbation was still a smacked bottom, no matter where you were on the Leaderboard. Many grew to quite like it. The school’s spanking pods were rarely idle.

Which is why Jasmine’s heart sank when she hurriedly checked the latest Leaderboard. Her name was no longer listed first, the consequences of her lack of self-control would be more than just a sore bottom. She had just forfeited her position as Head Girl. Tomorrow she would not just have to move back to the shared dorms, she would also be getting a good hard spanking, and someone new would assume her place.

.

* * 2 * *

.

The next day, Jasmine found herself relating the cringingly embarrassing story of how she lost her Head Girl’s badge to her friends, as they hovered amongst the verdant steamy canopy of tropical rainforest. 

The girls were wearing virtual reality glasses, less sophisticated devices than the Holovisor that had led to Jasmine’s downfall last night. VR glasses only presented sights and sounds to their wearers, without the fancy neuralink that stimulated the other senses. But the ultra-high resolution display still had enough veracity to make each girl feel like she really was high in the treetops, in a remote corner of the Brazilian Amazon. 

Their stereoscopic view was being transmitted from a ducted-fan drone, its blades covered by a sleek cowl to avoid shredding the very wildlife they were here to study. The drone was operated by the outreach department of an ecological foundation that made rainforest field trips possible without leaving the classroom. These things were important, there wasn’t much of it left.

From each pupil’s viewpoint, their classmates were floating in mid-air around them, in this steamy sea of lush vegetation. They were supposed to be performing a field survey, finding and counting whatever frogs, bugs, birds and lizards came into view of the hovering drone. Seeing other members of the group gave you something static to focus on, and helped avoid motion-sickness. It also made it much easier to point at things when you could see your classmates’ fingers.

Given they weren’t actually 60 metres above the rainforest, in 100% humidity, each student was rather incongruously dressed in their everyday uniform. Each girl had a small display badge on her lapel, some had high numbers, some much lower, and a few – like Jasmine – had the number 0. The number of days since their last orgasm. 

Agatha was intrigued to hear the details of Jasmine’s misadventure. It sounded almost comically inept, getting carried away in a Swords & Sorcery holonovel. Such an immature lack of control. But she’d always harboured doubts about Jasmine’s suitability to be Head Girl, she was genial yes, but she was much too impulsive, too undisciplined. 

Maybe she’d update her own fucking machine simulation, Agatha thought. She liked to watch girls being spanked, and it would be so very easy to insert Jasmine’s image into her next simulated discipline session. She smiled at the thought. Oh, that would be wonderful. 

Usually her simulation featured the avatars of girls who’d somehow offended or antagonised her during the previous month. Agatha would sit on her specially programmed double-dildo chair, and put the simulated classmates over her knee one by one. It was extraordinary how the prosthetic buttocks that the machine placed on her lap to spank felt so life-like, how they jiggled and blushed as she smacked them with her ruler or slipper. Whilst beneath her lap, two ribbed dildos pumped through the seat of her chair, like slow factory pistons, alternately thrusting deep within both her holes.

“When do you get spanked?” asked Agatha, matter of factly, as she directed their drone to peer into the leaves of a nearby epiphyte. 

Half a world away, several brightly coloured birds squawked and flapped off to a neighbouring tree, and a small emerald green snake slithered away from the downdraft of the drone’s rotors.

Jasmine felt herself cringe in embarrassment at her friend’s candid question, wishing she too could slither into the canopy and hide as easily.

“2 o’clock.”

“What a shame. You’ll be sitting on a sore bottom for the afternoon lessons. I wonder which setting you’ll get…” 

Jasmine winced again. Agatha could be rather blunt at times, she was one of those people who was super-organised, who lived by her diary, and always had one eye on life’s practicalities. Jasmine’s blunder had demoted her to fifth place in the school standings, and Agatha had risen one place to second. Now just one step away from the Crown, should the new head girl falter – tragic though that would be – but Agatha was a practical girl, and one had to plan for such eventualities.

Agatha glanced towards Mandy, another member of their class who’d immediately benefited from Jasmine’s unfortunate accident. She regarded Mandy as a bit of a dork, who was, as usual, currently in a world of her own, tapping busily on her touchpad, obsessively cataloguing every little plant and bug she could find. Agatha was surprised Mandy was so high up the Leaderboard, she was certainly clever, but in that nerdy, bookish kind of way, surely not really leadership material at all. 

Yet maybe Mandy had risen so highly because she loved data far more than stroking between her own legs. Admittedly, getting assignments done on time and ignoring distractions could get you a long way in this school. Perhaps Agatha had more in common with Mandy than she’d thought.

Agatha looked down at the tree branch, covered in tangled braids of thick vines and moist stringy moss. She noticed a waxy leaf trembling, just before a large iridescent bulbous spider scuttled out, ambushing a hapless passing cricket. She smiled grimly. This was her kind of place, competitive, ruthless, and precariously exciting. It was a jungle out there.

* * *

All the Spanking Pods were named after colours, subtle shades of pink and red, for obvious reasons. The Pod called Vermillion was located at the end of a short drab corridor, just off the busy thoroughfare that joined the school’s eastern wing to the central hall. As protocol demanded, Jasmine stood facing the matte white sliding door, awaiting her turn, listening to the footsteps of passing students pattering behind her back. 

Though passers-by wouldn’t be able to see her blushing face, the display screen above the doorway shattered any chance of preserving her anonymity. Large glowing letters announced her name, and her misdemeanour to anyone who happened to peer down this passageway of shame. To be spanked for masturbating. Jasmine’s cheeks burned hot as the words floated accusingly in front of her eyes. She was sure that she could hear sniggering behind her too, she could hear the pace of approaching footsteps slow, as pairs of curious eyes peered down the corridor, lingering on her back, tittering when they noticed her old-fashioned clothes.

When she’d arrived at the pod, one of the lockers that flanked the little corridor had opened, revealing the uniform that she was required to change into. The prevailing wisdom here was, to be truly effective, spankings also needed to be truly memorable. The VR glasses the spankee would be wearing for her punishment were capable of displaying any scene, and wearing the right costume had the potential to make it truly immersive, would not just look and sound authentic, it would feel indistinguishable from reality too.

The locker had contained an Edwardian school uniform, carefully sized to match Jasmine’s proportions. On one hanger was a long-sleeved white linen shirt. Its defining feature was its preposterously high banded collar, starched so stiff that when Jasmine finally did up all the buttons, she could no longer look down to see the floor beneath her feet. 

The underwear supplied was equally ridiculous, a pair of white satin bloomers, which resembled a pair of silky knee-length shorts. It was pointlessly embellished with several layers of lacy ruffles, both around the waist and where it ended just above the knees. Heightening Jasmine’s embarrassment was she had to get changed in the corridor itself, stripping out of her contemporary uniform and stepping out of her own panties as passing girls giggled at her nakedness.

Her black leather shoes felt absurdly clumpy, with thick heels that stretched her calves and made her feel as if she was teetering on top of a small box. There were long white socks too, which felt like they extended all the way to her knees.

The skirt that completed her new outfit was a long pleated navy garment, which reached all the way down to her ankles. The fabric was heavy, and the hem was tapered, so it hung lifelessly just above her feet. No chance of billowing, no risk of scandalously revealing the bare skin of her lower legs. 

These were, Jasmine realised, clothes of subjugation, fabric shaped and sewn to restrict her liberty. It was a denial of her freedom to move, to look around freely, even to breathe freely. These were clothes that restricted her body language, a muzzle on her own self-expression, as effective as any gag. 

Jasmine shivered as she stared at her reflection in the locker’s mirror. Aside from her curved translucent VR glasses, she looked like she’d just stepped out of a time machine. It wasn’t difficult to imagine herself in a vintage classroom, amid rows of primly dressed, obedient automatons. Chins up, backs straight. With a cane hanging intimidatingly on a hook beside the blackboard. And perhaps a heavy wooden ruler displayed prominently on her teachers’ desk too.

She’d closed the locker, and walked with mincing mini-steps to stand on the waiting line a couple of metres in front of the Pod’s sliding door. The digital clock beside her name counted down the seconds before the door would open, and it would be her turn. 

She wondered if anyone was in the pod right now. These rooms were quite sound-proof, and she knew from experience she wouldn’t be able to hear the whacks and cries and moans, even if a spanking was taking place just metres beyond her nose. But that just made her imagination even more eager to fill in the blanks. Perhaps there was a girl in a uniform just like hers, bending over right now, touching her toes, grimacing as the headmistress applied a heavy leather strap to her poor bare cheeks.

Except, it wouldn’t really be the school’s Headmistress. That would be much too uncouth, she was far too busy to waste her time smacking the bottoms of silly young ladies who couldn’t keep their fingers from between their legs. 

You might think the Headmistress was in the spanking pod with you, but that would be an illusion projected by your VR glasses. You might think she was putting you over her knee or bending you over her desk, but that too was an illusion. That would be a movable beam of adaptive material, which could simulate every surface from a firm stocking-clad thigh to a hard oakwood table. 

Virtual Reality – or VR – glasses alone only provided high-fidelity visuals and sound. But the spanking pods paired the projections with robotically controlled real physical objects, blending what was seen and felt seamlessly to create an augmented reality – or AR – environment. 

Inside the pod, the spanking implement would be wielded by a mechanism resembling a robotic arm. Those being spanked would never actually see the spanking machine, only what the simulation had projected on top of it, such was the magic of augmented reality.

There was nothing virtual about the spanking implements used either. Each pod had a full repertoire to choose from, from paddles to slippers, from thin whippy crops to thick leather belts. The robotic arm was dextrous enough to apply the chosen implement immaculately, so every stroke landed with perfect precision, falling just where it would be felt most effectively.  

The illusionary magic of AR could transport its visitor anywhere in history, providing endless possibilities of entertainment, education – and discipline. It meant rather than occurring in a drab empty room, spankings could be set during any era, from the very dawn of civilization to the glorious present. A miscreant might find themselves being whipped under the dazzling sun in an ancient Greek agora, or in the dank mossy cell in a medieval turret. She might find herself walking through the door, and into a lavish French ecole in the Ancien Regime, or into a claustrophobically strict boarding school in Victorian England.

The VR glasses could recreate any image in three vivid dimensions, interpolating any missing details from any sketch or painting. The Headmistress liked to write the scripts herself, the sequence of actions that would be performed for each spanking. Her collection of meticulously accurate disciplinary scenarios now spanned six millennia of human history, it seemed the spanking of bottoms was a sanction as old as civilization itself. 

The Headmistress had personally selected the scene that Jasmine would soon be experiencing, customising it to provide appropriate correction for her most disappointing misbehaviour. It was rare that a former Head Girl was ever sent to the spanking pods, and she would be receiving a sore bottom commensurate with her disgrace. The Headmistress would, naturally, be watching a recording of what happened later, just to make sure the discipline had been properly doled out. 

Jasmine squirmed, her arms folded behind her back, feeling the cool satin of her new old-fashioned bloomers brush and tickle the sensitive skin of her bare mound. As the clock ticked over to 13:59:56, she held her breath, and suddenly realised she could feel a damp patch, right between her lips.

The door slid open, silently and ominously.

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To be continued…

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@spankingtheatre 2020

Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.

With heartfelt thanks to a partner in crime.

I dream about being tied up in a cellar, being bought and sold, being used and abused in the most intimate ways… but I’m really scared to discuss this fantasy with a partner… do you have any advice?

I’m assuming that your anxiety stems from feelings of shame and embarrassment, rather than concerns for your own personal safety. If you fear that a partner might not respect your boundaries, any kind of kinky play is risky. But assuming you feel safe with your partner, then I can assure you that the fantasies you’ve described are nothing out of the ordinary.

Everyone thinks their own fantasies are the weirdest, but that’s because they’ve imagined them in such intense detail for so long. Perhaps it’s because we never really get to look inside the heads of others, and see what really lurks inside their equally filthy imaginations.

In reality, the desire to cede control to a lover, to be enslaved, kidnapped or imprisoned for an evening is a common one. What stops most people acting it out is their fear of how they’ll be perceived. And it’s not just submissives who feel this anxiety, some who’d love to dominate their partners are wary of throwing away the mask of niceness they’ve worn, perhaps ever since they first met. 

Imagine if your partner secretly fantasises about treating you as a sex slave, or tying you up in the basement, naked and blindfolded, with all three holes filled. How would you ever know?

“Tell me your most perverted fantasy”, you might challenge him.

And he’d tell you something just kinky enough to demonstrate he did have an erotic imagination, but bland enough that he wouldn’t risk being perceived as some kind of sexual monster.

“Er… I’d like to fuck you in the bottom”, he’d venture.

The opportunity to really remove your masks passes. And secretly you’re both rather disappointed.

Sometimes, in sensitive negotiations you need a proxy. A go-between.

Like stories.

Instead of asking your partner to bare their erotic soul to you, send them a story. Add a simple comment: “I loved this!”

You want to provoke him into asking the magic question: “Which bit?”

And then you tell him. Not your fantasy. Not what you want him to do to you. But the part of the story where you wish it had been you. Perhaps it’s the part where a slave is intimately inspected in the public marketplace before being bought and taken back to her new owner’s farm in chains.

Let your partner connect the dots. Let him find the parts that excite him too. There’s no need to justify or explain your fantasy in explicit detail, it can remain implicit. The story is just a starting point, a common frame of reference. Something you can improvise from.

“Hmmm. Maybe we should buy some cuffs…”

“Oh please Sir! Not the basement!”

Characters in erotic stories are like costumes for you to slip into. Ready-written screenplays that you can just act out, with an element of plausible deniability if needed, allowing you both to continue to pretend you’re nice and not at all perverted – if that’s what you need to. 

You were both just playing a part. And the story told you to do it.

Sexual Perspectives

Anatomy, gender, dominance and sexuality are completely orthogonal things – one does not imply anything about the other, unless you want it to.

Everyone gets to decide how these sexual concepts are related, this this their sexual preference. The open-minded will be comfortable with a diverse range of connections between these concepts. Those who are sexually conservative have a very narrow view of what’s permissible. What a pity.

My previous post generated some interesting messages, so I thought I’d expand on the concept. It’s clear that when it comes to sex, many get very anxious indeed about what’s ‘right’ and ‘normal’. Which is why some folks’ sex lives are driven by a need for validation, a need for conformity, rather than what actually turns them on.

Because if your notions of sexuality are rigid, any experimentation might be considered perverse or shameful, unfeminine or emasculating.

To me though, different sexual preferences and identities are just costumes. This is why I’m able to compose erotic fiction and most never attempt it. It’s what enables me to flit into the minds of the characters I create so easily. And why many who read my stories are still convinced I’m actually a woman.

Remember, there’s no ideal. No universal sexual preference. If you’re pansexual,and  happy to try anything with anyone, that’s lovely, and I wish you a lovely time. Personally, I’m not. I do have my own preferences, just as others have theirs. 

Perversion isn’t a sexual preference beyond your own preferences. Perversion is overstepping the consensual boundaries of others.

Consider an example of what a simple change of perspective might bring.

What if a woman was to use her phallic dildo ‘the wrong way around’ – with the base between her legs, so it juts out proudly, just as if she had an erection?

Perhaps the base will permit the phallus to be slipped inside her slit, or she’ll keep it in place by squeezing her thighs together. Now she can stroke her new penis just like men do, transferring her juices to its shaft, making it slick and slippery. How many women ever play with their dildos like that? As a way of changing their sexual identity, rather than just a means of physical stimulation.

What might happen, as she grinds herself against the shaft, or feels its base push deeper inside her, if all kinds of transgressive fantasies begin to fill her mind?

Like, what do men fantasise about? Perhaps she’s imagining herself in the mind of her first boyfriend, as he imagines all the things he wanted to do to her. Such a naughty boy, wanking in bed each night, longing to plunge this big stiff cock into her tight little slit.

Isn’t that interesting. Now, instead of using her dildo to fill herself, she’s magically switched perspectives, so now she’s imagining herself being filled. She can see herself as others might see her, as an object of sexual desire.

Perhaps she might go further, and imagine what it would be like to actually do the fucking. What it would have been like if she’d told him to bend over, and lubricated his bottom hole with her juices. What it would be like to stand behind him, her hardness throbbing between his firm cheeks, before pushing her own phallus into his tight little hole.

Anatomy, gender, dominance and sexuality. Just a minor change of perspective on one, and suddenly, everything can become fluid. And new possibilities suddenly open.

Not everything needs to change, of course, it might only be a subtle shift. A submissive woman with her dildo between her legs can still be spanked like a naughty boy. Perhaps ‘he’ got an erection in class, and now ‘he’ must be inspected and punished just like any other naughty boy, stiff penis and bottom hole examined before and after a good hard whacking. Perhaps the disciplinarian will be merciful afterwards, sliding a finger into ‘his’ spanked bottom, and reaching round to work ‘his’ shaft until ‘he’ comes.

If you own a vulva and a dildo, why not try this experiment for yourself. Pull down your panties, and place the dildo against your mound, like you had an erection. How does that change your sexual expectations? If you lie back, with the dildo held between your thighs, how does that affect what you fantasise about?

There is no wrong way. Only a thousand new possibilities to play, waiting for your mind to venture further.

Some readers might recognise this idea, it’s the theme of my story Grimoire:

Every night I take my precious book from its little metal haven. I lie back on my bed, turning to a random page, and read some centuries-old words under my breath like a magic incantation. Then I close my eyes, and I am transported.

You would never believe the wonders I have seen. My feeble descriptions do them pathetically little justice.

My grimoire is not just the scribbled memories of long-ago spankings, it is a portal into the minds of ancient witnesses. Through it I have shared the thoughts of hundreds of men and women, boys and girls. I have seen every flavour of cruelty and compassion, power and authority, dominance and submission. I have explored every aspect of eroticism and sexuality, from the coy to the explicit, from the mediocre to the sublime.

Through it, I know what it’s like to be a man, how it feels to secretly stiffen as you spank a beautiful arse, how it feels to see her folds winking back between her kicking legs, and the frustration of knowing you can not have her. Through it I have experienced the glorious sensation of reaching between hot spanked cheeks to find her soaking wet, the delight of being absolutely rigid, and the epiphany of slipping inside her slick tight hole.

Through it, I have given and received the tender love of women.

I have loved a man through the eyes of a man.

I have been unsure of my gender and loved regardless.

I have experienced pleasure in outrageously decadent balls, parties and orgies.

I have lost and taken others’ innocence.

I have disciplined out of love and out of anger.

I have spanked to punish and spanked to pleasure.

I have explored the erotic ingenuities of tying up.

I have induced unexpected climaxes in girls and boys with skilful whackings.

I have bared the bottoms of princes and princesses.

I have scolded and seduced in a dozen different tongues.

And I have played all manner of secret games.

If only I could copy my little magic book of spanking, and show humanity its sexuality as others have seen it.

Doesn’t that sound like a idea worth encouraging?

Although I’m a cis woman, I really like being referred to by male pronouns in sexual situations, or even called a good boy. Sometimes, just putting on male clothing gets me really turned on. How normal would you say this is? I don’t quite know what to make of my kink. Love your blog, thank you for answering so many sex-related questions ❤️

It’s perfectly normal.

That’s the wonderful thing about roleplay. You can be whoever you want to be, whenever you want to be. 

Who says the characters you enjoy inhabiting have to be the same gender as your anatomy?

Dressing up is a common fantasy, and cross-dressing is a very popular activity. How cool is it, that clothes, like words, are capable of transporting your consciousness into another character’s mind? As if you were donning an enchanted mask, granting you the power to momentarily experience reality through another’s eyes.

Personally, as a straight cis male, I prefer to play with those who have a vulva. But I find it thrilling to discipline gamine women who dress up as tomboys. It’s a delight to be able to construct a shared fantasy where I scold them as naughty little boys, and address them using male names. When I pull down their shorts or trousers, it doesn’t matter that I see a smooth bare slit when I pull down their underpants.

I’ve also hugely enjoyed playing a headmistress and an Edwardian governess too. I can be just as strict wearing women’s clothes, because to me it’s just a costume, not a sexuality transplant.

It’s actually quite exciting to be called Miss. To discipline a girl with a maternal compassion, or with a schoolmistress’s sternness. To undress and inspect her, because “you’ve seen it all before”. All whilst having an erection beneath one’s skirt, which we all do our best not to acknowledge.

So, there’s nothing wrong with your kink (or mine). Imagine how dull your fantasy life would be if you could only ever be you. Instead we have access to a vast wardrobe of virtual sexual personas. We can be someone new for a night, whenever we choose. It’s close to magic.

Isn’t that profoundly wonderful?

I’m a man who was spanked as a teenager. My sister was allowed to watch, though she rarely did. My fantasies involve teenage boys being spanked but I’m afraid it’s illegal/immoral. Sometimes I feel guilty for the things I imagine. What happens if I write them down?

Great question. This is an area that causes guilt and anxiety for many who want to begin erotic writing.

Almost everyone had their first sexual fantasies before they were sixteen, many even were sexually active. But that doesn’t seem proper to write about.

Ageplay is a perfectly legitimate (and very popular) fantasy, where some consenting adults adopt a mindset that is more juvenile. Erotic stories often use the same approach, exploring reminisces or what-ifs, as adult characters play as being younger, or look back on their own sexual origin stories.

This is fine, as long as you adhere to the golden rule of erotic writing: do not sexualise children. Never describe sexual acts that involve characters who are children.

Of course, spanking fantasies often feature school settings, so I always try to make clear in my stories that the protagonists are young adults, and never minors. This is important to me, because I want my characters to be sexual beings that adult readers can relate to, characters with desires and fantasies of their own. Forcing adult fantasies into juvenile characters feels icky, and to my mind, it’s not just improper, it’s immoral.

There is plenty of scope to write about sexuality without mentioning children. They simply don’t belong in erotic writing. You don’t need them, you can easily tell the story without them, or with older characters.

Writing about sex is a minefield, there’s so many taboos and repressed awkwardnesses. But that shouldn’t deter you. Write as an adult, for other adults, and you’ll stay on the right side of what is proper.

I would like to say after reading your weird fantasy post it resonated with me. A new fantasy of mine is that I would be taken in by an older couple. I would follow rules and be subject to discipline when necessary. It’s a fantasy that I’m still working on to let develop and flourish in my mind but I thought it was a selfish fantasy, wanting to be taken in by a couple rather then one person, but it’s a fantasy, my fantasy and I cannot wait to have lots of fun imagining all possibilities

Most fantasies sound weird when written or uttered.

But as long as no-one is hurt, and consenting adults are involved, you have every right to your fantasy, and whether you decide to realise it or not.

Not every fantasy needs to be acted out, some might just be too uncomfortably awkward, or painful, or even hazardous (particularly if strangers are involved).

So it’s fine for that fantasy to remain in your imagination, to be expressed in whatever why you feel comfortable. For many it’s the scenes they imagine as they masturbate, or the stories or flirtatious messages they write. 

There is an element of selfishness in every fantasy, because it’s so personal to the owner. But the wonderful thing about human sexuality is that it isn’t a zero-sum game, where somebody wins and somebody loses.

Wonderfully, the chances are that there are many others out there in this huge complex world who share the counterpoint of your own fantasy. Lovely people who don’t consider your desire selfish, but who’ve been yearning to finding kindred kinky minds like you all this time…

Your Weird Fantasies

Everyone thinks their own fantasies are the weirdest, because they’ve imagined them in such intense detail for so long.

Perhaps it’s because we never really get to look inside the heads of others, and see what really lurks inside their equally filthy imaginations.

Perhaps it’s because our fantasies are fuelled by such powerful emotions.

Perhaps it’s because our fantasies feel so transgressive, when we’re usually so well-behaved.

Perhaps it’s because our fantasies are echoes from deep inside ourselves, which we only ever glimpse as shadows.

Until there comes a moment, perhaps after you’ve read enough stories, that you realise that maybe your fantasises aren’t actually that weird after all.

That your fantasies bring you immense satisfaction.

That your fantasies are sources of inexpressible joy.

So what is the fantasy from Oubliette from the ask a while ago?

This reply contains spoilers.

So if you haven’t read Oubliette yet, you should do so before proceeding.

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Still here?

Well, the favourite fantasy isn’t licking gooey chocolate sauce from a lady’s bottom hole. Deliciously erotic though that is.

Nor is it having sex with someone you can’t see and who might be a complete stranger.

Nor is it being tied up, and then being released from your restraints to switch and take control.

It’s much more subtle than that.

It is the fantasy of reconnecting with a lost lover.

I’ve always been fascinated by how things might have turned out, should events have unfolded slightly differently. The erotic equivalent of Borges’ Garden of Forking Paths.

This isn’t motivated by feelings of regret, but rather the knowledge that every road not taken is actually an explosion of erotic possibilities.

Just think of everyone you’ve encountered who might have been a lover, if only you’d the courage to say how you really felt, or they didn’t come across so clumsily, or you weren’t in that relationship that never lasted, or a thousand other reasons.

Then you realise your life is just a tiny bubble of experiences, surrounded by a vast number of parallel realities of what could have been.

Think about that for a moment.

Why shouldn’t each one of these missed possibilities become the fuel for your own sexual fantasies? After all, they were inspired by your own unique path through life, you already know the characters so well – perhaps even intimately.

That’s what makes tales of what might have been feel so vividly compelling, and wistfully real.

Oubliette is inspired by my own fantasies, by circumstances that never quite happened, but which still inspire and delight me enormously.

I often wonder where my lost lovers are right now. What adventures they’ve experienced. I wonder if they’ve stumbled across these stories, unaware they actually know the identity of the author.

But more than anything, I hope they’re happy and sexually satisfied, and that they’re tracing the very best route through the myriad forking paths of their own lives…

I have been coming here since early 2013. I no longer have a tumblr account but I still frequent your page for both new and old content. Your stories have heavily influenced many of my fantasies and I imagine also the trajectory of my sex life as it exists now. So I’d like to thank you; for being a close friend for many years and for always being able to bring me to my knees, dripping, or over someone else’s. Sincerely, obediently, desperately yours, T x

How lovely to hear from you! It pleases me enormously that these stories have brought you such satisfaction and personal growth.

I wonder how many readers stumbled across this blog in its early days, many still feeling uncomfortably weird about how spanking made them feel?

I wonder how that feeling was changed by reading stories like Cosmopolitan, Throne of Shame, Abstract Art and Carrot and Stick?

I wonder how the written word aided your explorations and acceptance of your shadow selves?

To such early readers: I’d love to hear of your adventures since. How these stories influenced the trajectories of your own sexual experiences.

If you don’t have an active Tumblr account any longer, do feel free to drop me an email, or say hello via Twitter.

And I wish you all many more years of deep, fulfilling satisfaction.

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