Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears



An Exceedingly Short Anthology

Whilst I add the finishing touches to my latest longform story, here’s some much shorter spanking micro-stories you might have missed…

Stay playful

Just in case you missed it, my latest story Treasure Hunt  is now published.

My recent stories Carrot and Stick and Abstract Art have been tales of authority, mischief and discipline, but my latest has a quite different theme: playfulness.

Are you still playful?

Everyone was playful once. From the moment the sun rose until we were ultimately sent to bed, we would all spend days just exploring, playing games and having fun. Until, as life got serious, we became burdened by new responsibilities, and began to think of play as childish, immature and trivial – eclipsed by sex, that fantastic new discovery.

In an earlier post, I wrote about reading fairytales through adult eyes. Perhaps you know the ancient fable of the Firebird? It tells of how those entering the presence of the dread King Kashchei are bewitched – compelled to sing and dance, and if they ever stop… they are turned to stone. The wisdom of the ancients warns us: the same fate awaits those who ever stop playing.

We should strive to keep our playfulness alive. Even though the everyday tempests of adulthood that threaten to extinguish it, we should nurture it like a candle flame.

So if your bedroom is now your playground, or you’ve ever wanted it to be, I think you (and your partner) will enjoy Treasure Hunting

Treasure Hunt

A bedtime story for those who still love to play

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

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

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

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

She lay naked on the bed, legs spread invitingly as his tongue explored and excited her.

She’d won the game when they’d last played it a month ago, and so would have the privilege of searching first tonight. But first, came an exquisitely slow penetration by the wireless vibrator. It was a sleek, curved work of art, a sculpture to satisfy the aesthete’s eyes and please her loins, its bulbous head able to deliver tremulous sensations deep inside, whilst its other end tapered and curved, protruding from her entrance to hug her clit.

The remote controller was a thin wand of brushed aluminium with a touchpad along one side. As his finger slid along its length, the wand glowed in response, as if about to discharge some powerful magic. Which, in a sense, it was.

“This is cold…”, he explained, beginning his superfluous demonstration of the device’s capabilities. A faint, slow vibration rumbled inside her, like the groan of a distant glacier, muffled by eons of ice. Unsatisfyingly cold indeed.

“… and this is warm…”, on this setting the vibration felt like weak winter sunshine, just enough the tingle the skin, yet leave it longing for the glorious radiance of a high summer’s day.

“… and this is hot…”, now strong vibrations pulsed through her, like waves crashing onto a sun-drenched beach. This was a languid heat, a seductive heat, the kind one could bask in for hours, a heat that made the cheeks flush.

And even hotter temperatures awaited: if she could get within several footsteps of her objective.

The first few times they’d played, the treasures being sought were luxurious Belgian praline chocolates. It hadn’t taken long for the chocolates to be devoured and the stakes to escalate. Now the object to be found was a spanking implement – which would be used on the bottom of whoever failed to find it. Or, should it be discovered, on the bottom of whoever had failed to hide it well enough.

As he had lost the game last month, he had the privilege of choosing what to hide from their now sizable collection of paddles, slippers, floggers, rulers, canes, whips and martinets. He considered his intended hiding place, a small, light implement would be best, preferably not too thin. His eyes settled on a white linen ballet slipper. Innocuous elegance, dainty, angelic footwear, but underneath a tan leather sole with a devilish whack.

He waved the slipper in front of her, as if presenting it to an audience before a magic trick. She recognised her old ballet slipper immediately, hello again old friend, she thought, don’t worry, I’ll find you.

“Six minutes to find this slipper, dear. Or you’ll feel it across your bottom…”

To avoid giving away clues to the hiding place, she would be tied to the bed wearing headphones and a blindfold whilst he went away to hide it. Before going, he selected a track from the playlist on her phone, and gave her breast a playful squeeze.
Music filled her ears. She recognised this one. Snow Patrol.
Open Your Eyes.
He was such a tease.

She lay back and waited for him to return, he’d left the vibe on its lowest setting, providing her with short, frustratingly weak trembles after every 4 breaths.
One.. Two.. Three.. Four.. Buzz..

The buzz was too weak to arouse her, it was more of a reminder of what she was missing: a distraction, an annoyance, like a shrill alarm that made one long for the silence that had previously gone unnoticed. She pulled at her cuffs, wishing she could reach down and touch herself. Where was he?

One.. Two.. Three.. Four.. Buzz..

There was time enough to ponder, to second guess. Had he hidden it a long way away? Or was he trying to bluff her? He could have hidden it nearby and now be leaning against the doorway, looking between her legs, admiring the view. Several months ago, as he’d returned via the kitchen, he’d brought back an ice cube, then teased her nipples and arse as she writhed helplessly. After that, she’d made a beeline for the kitchen, only to find he’d hidden her goal in the bathroom instead.

One.. Two.. Three.. Four.. Buzz..

At last, she felt movement as her cuffs were unfastened. The song’s long instrumental finale faded as he took off her headphones and blindfold, leaving her squinting as she clambered clumsily off the bed. Time to get dressed. This game had a simple costume, she pulled up her black satin thong, its taut gusset helping to keep the curved tip of the vibe pressed snugly against her pearl. And she was ready to play.

Just one more thing: in his hands was a clip-on mechanical cooking timer, of the kind chefs would attach to their aprons when wandering around chaotic kitchens. He gave it a twist, making its bell clank and clock mechanism rattle.

“Six minutes…” he announced, reaching behind her to clip the timer to the back of her thong. He slapped her bottom with a flourish, “… starts now!”

She yelped in response, before setting off on a perfunctory search of the bedroom. The faint, pathetic vibrations inside her didn’t change, so she darted into the en suite bathroom, but could still barely feel the rumbling. She returned to the bedroom to see him smirking.
Oh. Just wait until it’s your turn, she thought, smiling back serenely.

Rules were rules.
If she couldn’t find it by the time the bell rang, she’d be spanked with it.
But if she did discover it in time, she would get to spank him.
And what’s more, she’d earn the right to hide the next item, and guide him around the house as a remote controlled butt plug buzzed inside him.
It was best two out of three, the game ended when one of them lost for a second time.
The loser would then pay the ultimate forfeit at the winner’s command.

The forfeits.

* * * * *

She could still remember the night when their general bedroom tomfoolery had turned into a game with forfeits. He’d always been a dreadful tease, and she wasn’t the kind of lady who’d take teasing without trying to pay it back. Eventually their mutual teasing and increasingly flamboyant retaliations had evolved into a game. And the catalyst had been the purchase of the remote controlled vibrators.

She’d lost the first night they’d played the remote vibe-guided Treasure Hunt. Consequently he’d tied her up, so she lay splayed on the bed clad only in her favourite lace panties.

“These are coming off…”, he pledged.
She looked up lasciviously.

Moments later, she squealed in protest as she saw the scissors in his hands. Starting on the soles of her feet, he’d slowly run the blunt side of the scissors up her right leg, the chill sensation of the steel rising inevitably and unstoppably towards the heat of her crotch. She’d struggled and begged as the scissors reached her gusset, one blade edging carefully up her slit. Her damp lips had clung to the smooth back of cold steel blade, as if imploring it not to cut.

She’d felt him pull her panties tight – and the scissor blade slip from her lips’ weak embrace, and a protracted snipping sound as he cut her gusset in two. She’d cursed him with mock fury as he slowly traced the blade up her mound to her waist, and snipped there too. He’d pulled her ruined panties from her with a flourish, like a magician revealing a magic trick, leaving her utterly exposed – and giving him a new, short lacey whip to play with.

He began flogging her breasts with his improvised lash; the lacey material had little weight, but the elastic in the waistband imparted enough of a tingle as it hit to leave her squirming. And what the whip lacked in weight, he could make up with speed, he flogged her rapidly, each flick like a single failing hailstone, that together soon became an throbbing sting.

Once he’d dappled her breasts pink, he moved down to her thighs, alternately flogging her vigorously and sensually, all the while telling her that this was just for practice, that he would soon be flogging her pussy next.

Some time later, after some pleasurable dances on the ends of his tongue and fingertips, she had – to her own considerable surprise – experienced a delicious moaning climax as he’d flogged her clit with her own panties. They had always been her favourite panties.

Ever since, forfeits had been escalating in their sophistication and extravagance, like some erotic arms race, each trying to outdo the other. Like that particularly outrageous escapade a few months ago.

She had lost, and had found herself sitting naked, on her sore striped bottom, in front of the dressing table mirror. Having spent most of the last hour being teased by the vibe, which had included a short caning after losing the first game, she was soaking wet.

“I have a surprise for you tonight, darling…” he’d said cheerily. No doubt, she’d thought.

“We’re going to go out!” he announced enthusiastically, “But first…”

He stood behind her, reaching down to take her right hand off her lap, repositioning it between her legs, and encouraging her to start rubbing. As it happened, little encouragement was required, and her fingers were soon probing inside her, emerging painted white with her slippery cream.

“I think it’s time you applied your makeup…” he observed.

“Taste yourself. Rub those fingers on your lips… Yes. Like you’re putting lip gloss on your pretty little mouth.”

She raised her fingers to her mouth, using her fingers like a lipstick, wiping her own cream in long smears along her lips. Her taste was innocuous, slightly tangy and salty, but it felt outrageously naughty, going out – with her own cum on her lips! She imagined sitting down in a posh restaurant, wondering if her fellow diners would be close enough to recognise the sticky sheen around her mouth. She thrilled at the thought of being told to go to the ladies to apply another layer…

“Good girl. But I think you need more…”  he instructed, “Fingers back down, deep inside, that’s it, let’s have all that lovely cream on those pretty lips.“

Soon, her lips felt sticky and shiny to her tongue.

Then he’d blindfolded her, and told her to stand with arms aloft as he helped her put on the gown he’d selected. She’d queried her absence of underwear, only for him to say it wasn’t necessary, and indeed the garment he pulled over her head was warm and heavy. It felt woollen, perhaps a felt or soft serge, wide wrist length sleeves and a long, ankle length hem. Some sort of hat or headdress followed. He kept her blindfolded as he’d dressed himself, keeping her guessing just a little bit longer.

Suddenly light flooded into her eyes. She blinked and gazed into her dressing mirror.
A nun and priest gazed back.
The priest was grinning, eyes sparkling, as if trying not to laugh.
The nun gaped back at her, looking vaguely horrified, as if she’d just woken from a deliciously erotic dream of hard cocks and hot tubs to find herself in a convent.

Looking resplendent in his priest’s collar and stylish thin-lapelled jacket, he’d driven them to an elegant city centre hotel. Her forfeit was to walk up to the reception desk with him, and – in character – ask for a room for the night.
A room for both of them.
A room with a double bed.

The middle-aged receptionist had looked mortified. She had never been so embarrassed, and her blushes only deepened in hue as he stood at her shoulder, ostentatiously squeezing her recently caned bottom. He batted away the receptionist’s questions with a quizzical “No comprendo”, whilst she gamely explained that Father Jiménez didn’t speak any English.

She was within touching distance of the receptionist, just across the thin oak front desk. Certainly close enough to see in detail the shiny, cloudy crustiness on her lips. She’d noticed that the receptionist had noticed it, as her eyes kept breaking eye contact to steal another glance at her mouth. But it was something too far outside the receptionist’s reality for her to comprehend. That really turned her on: doing something taboo, knowing that she was being very, very naughty indeed, and that only the two of them were in on the secret.

And that night, in that luxurious double bed, after she had made a full and frank confession of her sins, had been outrageously good. Damn him.

No-one else knew of their games. It was sobering to think that once, everyone had been playful. From the moment the sun rose until we were ultimately sent to bed, we would all spend days just exploring, playing games and having fun. Then as life got serious; and we became burdened by new responsibilities, we began to think of play as childish, immature and trivial, until it became almost completely eclipsed by that fantastic new discovery: the opposite sex, and the yearning to play was overwhelmed by the desire for pleasure.

He and she were young professionals now, well-qualified with great careers, but still they had endeavoured to stay young-at-heart, striving to keep their instinct to play alive. Nurturing it like a candle flame against the everyday tempests of adulthood that threatened to extinguish it. They were a two person gang that no one else was allowed to join, just them against the world. And their playfulness had found sanctuary in their Game.

The ancient fable of the Firebird has many variations; one tells of how those who enter the presence of the dread King Kashchei are bewitched – compelled to sing and dance, and if they ever stop… they are turned to stone. The wisdom of the ancients warns us: the same fate awaits those who ever stop playing.
And so on they danced, and played.

* * * * *

Tonight, she dashed down the hallway, swerving into each room, willing the buzzing between her legs to grow stronger, wishing for that thrilling clue that would hint she was getting closer.

He was following behind her, saying nothing, clutching the silvery-grey remote control wand, like she was tethered by an invisible leash. From time to time, she’d look back at him, searching his face for clues, only to see his mocking “You’ll never find it!” grin. It was irritatingly endearing. She so wanted to find that slipper, and put him across her knee instead. To whack him like a naughty boy and slide that plug between his hot red cheeks. Meanwhile, a steady tick-tick-tick counted away each valuable second of her allotted time. In her tummy, urgency made butterflies stir.

The vibrations seemed slightly stronger and longer now. She was getting warmer, figuratively as well as physically. Gripping the banister, she galloped down the stairs two at a time, and was delighted to feel the vibrations amplify. They made her legs wibble. Getting closer.

She began to hurtle from room to room, like some manic estate agent, pausing only to feel if there was only change in the humming between her legs. That siren’s song, so easy to stop and let it wash over you, its sweet sensations warping one’s perception of time. Until the wretched bell jolted you back to reality.

She explored her familiar home at pace, trying to ignore the ornaments, pictures and decorations that made it cosy, and see potential hiding places instead. It was a strange feeling to see her own home through the eyes of a treasure hunter, scrutinising every corner of each room, her mind repeating: a slipper, a slipper, where would he hide a slipper, where would I hide a slipper… as she tried to avoid thinking too much about the throbby pleasure the vibe was kindling.

All the while having to remind herself that however deliciously ouchy the ballet slipper would feel applied to her bottom. It would be feel even more delicious if she could apply it to HIS bottom. And it would be an absolute delight to see him running around the house with a hard-on, his butt plug peeping out between his pert pink cheeks…

Her daydreaming was slowing her down, she chided herself for her lack of focus.

She dashed into the Study… but there was no encouragement from the vibe.
Into the Dining Room… again, no change.
She was becoming increasingly aware of the timer ticking away behind her now. Its silly tinny little rattle as it clunked her seconds away.
The Kitchen… Nrrrgh. Frustratingly the trail was cold here too.

The timer fixed behind her continued to tick away the seconds, it was unnerving, like being pursued by an alarm-clock, or fleeing from a time-bomb that could go off at any moment.

“Better hurry…” he suggested unhelpfully. From his vantage point behind her, only he could see how much time remained.

Then as she ran down the hallway, she suddenly felt the buzzing intensify, causing a trembling in her thighs that made her stride teeter.

She made a beeline for the utility room at the end of the hall, ignoring the doors to the side, as the buzzing between her legs escalated in intensity. She opened the door, to be rewarded by a strong prolonged buzz that almost caused her knees to buckle. She was red hot now, so close to finding her objective, so close to coming.

The vibrations were continuous now, pulsating, throbbing, quivering. Her eyes darted around the cupboards, drawers and haphazardly packed boxes – this chaotic room was where homeless items were sent to be forgotten about, she dearly wished it was tidier. Her wilful messiness was going to earn her a spanking, she realised, like some recalcitrant child.

She began to frantically scramble between the teetering stacks of boxes, throwing open cupboards as the buzzing within rose to a crescendo. She tried desperately to retain her composure, to resist the temptation to sink to her knees and let the delicious wave wash over her. Behind her, she could hear him chuckling at her slapstick search.

Suddenly the bell rang with a weak, almost apologetic clanging.
And with it, the vibrations abruptly stopped.
She squealed in frustration, at being so close, of being foiled by her own untidiness.

She looked back to see him still laughing, his shoulders shaking, he’d clearly found her performance terrifically entertaining. He approached, as if for a consolatory hug – she opened her arms to embrace him, only to see him reach up at the last moment and retrieve the ballet slipper from the lampshade above her head. She pouted in protest, in the only way that seemed appropriate, by sticking her tongue out.

She had lost – and so there would be consequences.

His eyes surveyed the detritus of the utility room, now even more higgledy-piggledy after her frantic searching. And it suddenly struck him that here was a great opportunity for some impromptu role-playing.

“What have I told you about keeping your room tidy, young lady?”

“Ummm, er…”, was all she could manage, as she stared at the elegant white slipper, which he was now tapping threateningly into his palm.

“Messy girls get smacked bottoms”, he announced firmly.

His finger pointed down the hallway, towards the stairs.

“Go to your room, young lady!”

Head bowed, she turned and skulked off towards the stairs.

As a girl, she’d never been spanked by her parents, instead when she misbehaved, she would be sent to her room. Then, one memorable afternoon, her best friend had revealed that occasionally when she was sent to her room, it was to await a spanking. Ever since, she’d secretly fantasised about what that would be like, imagining that she’d have to undress, and wait bent over a pile of pillows on her bed, listening to footsteps slowly ascending the stairs, waiting for the door to creak open…

So even now, just being sent to her room was enough to stir butterflies in her tummy and make her crotch tingle. She sat on the bed, almost naked in her thong, the vibe inert inside her, and waited, replaying her favourite childhood fantasy in her mind’s eye as the dull thump of his footsteps on the stairs got louder. The door opened, as if in slow-motion.

His prior playfulness had been replaced by a stern expression.
“I think you’ll need a change of costume”, he mused, motioning her to stand, “Take that off.”

She stood and slipped off the black satin thong, now quite damp from her exertions. The curved tip of the vibe peeped out from between her legs, concealing her lips as if trying to protect her modesty.

“Now put on your little girl nightie and panties.”

She went over to the dressing-up closet, rummaging inside until she’d found the appropriate garments. There was a skimpy pair of white panties, festooned with infantile cartoons of teddy bears holding balloons, and being child-sized, they clung tightly to her adult figure, leaving her pubis and most of her buttocks uncovered. Her nightie was white-pink with small embroidered purple hearts, ruffles around the collar and arms and its knee-length hem contributing towards its very juvenile appearance.

She looked every inch a naughty young girl.

“Now, young lady. What did I tell you about keeping your room tidy?” he asked rhetorically.

“I… I… I’m sorry, Daddy!” she improvised.

“I warned you what would happen…”

She chewed her lower lip in trepidation.

“Now I think it’s time Mr Slipper paid a visit to Bottyland!”, he teased.

“Noooo!” she whined, flushing with embarrassment. Her childishness earning a frown back in response.

“You know what happens to naughty girls…”

All too well.

“Go and stand by the spanking chair.”

* * * * *

The chair stood alone in the middle of the living room, like a recently arrived guest awaiting the return of its host. They’d bought it from an antique shop, she’d seen it first, and whispered how it looked like it belonged in a schoolmistress’ study. Then she’d noticed scuff marks halfway up the right side of just one of its front legs, just about where a naughty girl’s left shoe might flail and kick as she performed the dance of shame on her disciplinarian’s lap. After that, they hadn’t hesitated to buy it.

It looked like a chair with a history, its reddish-brown cherrywood harking back to a bygone age, its thick sturdy legs lending it an ominous presence. Despite its bulk, its colour and subtle curves gave the impression of a feminine chair, one once owned by a strict headmistress or a domineering dowager aunt. This foreboding piece of furniture would have been her throne, where she would sit regally, looking down on the delinquents below, slapping a matching cherrywood paddle into her palm as she waited for them to bare their bottoms.

Such were the treasures hidden amongst the bric-a-brac of antiquity, finding them, seeing them hidden in plain-sight was one of many games they loved to play. For those who clung on to their playful nature, everything could become a game again.

She stood beside the chair, waiting for him to return. It was a large chair, intimidating to stand beside, its seat around the level of her waist, and its tall straight back taller than her head. It made her feel small and vulnerable, but excited her too, it made her fantasise, how many naughty girls had been bent across that burgundy leather seat to have their bottoms warmed?

Her little girl outfit made her feel even smaller. It was funny how such simple pieces of fabric could have such an effect on the mind. An expensive designer gown could boost her confidence, making her feel like a movie star for an evening; whilst this silly cotton nightie made her feel like she really was a naughty little girl. Her hands were clasped behind her back, fidgeting nervously, as if she was channeling the spirit of her younger self.

Meanwhile the vibrator was buzzing weakly, like some distant snare drum roll. It intensified as she heard his footsteps approach from behind, this was a showman’s entrance, with a fanfare that was felt rather than heard. He was such a tease.

The vibrations faded away as he joined her. He had the vibe controller in one hand, the dainty ballet slipper in the other, and immediately took his place on the big wooden chair. Sometimes the spankee was bent over the chair, or was made to kneel on it, but he intended this to be a classic over-the-knee slippering, of the kind that naughty girls got, the kind that made bottoms pink and voices shriek.

Without saying a word, he patted his lap with the slipper, inviting her to take her place. She clambered over his lap, feeling herself pitch forward as her toes left the ground, leaving her feet dangling in the air, her left foot rubbing against the chair leg, like so many gone before.

She wiggled forward, allowing the protruding curve of the vibe to lie more comfortably between his thighs, hitching the hem of her nightie up above her knee in the process. The very next sensation was the leather sole of the slipper pressing into her bottom.

“What happens to naughty girls who don’t tidy their rooms?”

She winced in reply, letting out a little sigh that earned her an admonishing whack. He repeated his question, in a tone that made clear she was expected to answer.

“They… er, get… their bums spanked”, she admitted reluctantly to the living room floor, grasping the rung between the chair legs.

A flurry of whacks began to land on her nightie, prompting a squeak of protest and flailing legs. Initially, he spanked slowly and deliberately, aiming each slap so every part of her globes and the tops of her thighs was warmed. Then his tempo increased, reaching a crescendo of whacks, squeals and squirming, as the fingers of his other hand slid up the remote control, delivering a surge of intense vibrations deep inside her. This had the miraculous effect of suddenly turning her cries of discomfort into moans, and calming her kicking feet.

Much to her dismay, the intense sensations only lasted for seconds, before he turned the vibrator down again, and the painful whacking resumed, and she’d resume her struggles as her bottom burned. Then just as she felt she could bear no more, he’d activate the vibe again, and the delicious surging pulses would make her forget all about her soreness.

All too soon, the wonderful throbbing vanished, and the cruel whacking resumed. Then she felt his fingers on her thighs, lifting the hem of her nightie, exposing her hot pink cheeks, half-hidden inside her tight childish panties. He tugged the waistband of her underwear up, pulling her panties into her cleft, fully uncovering each rosy cheek. A quick buzz from the vibe to unclench her buttocks and the slippering resumed.

Being spanked bare was a different sensation to being spanked through her nightie, she could now feel the imprint of the ballet slipper sole with each stinging slap, a hot spot just centimeters wide that roamed across her backside like a fiery searchlight. With every whack, her protests weakened and her willfulness softened. She’d begun the game as her usual hyper-competitive self, the personality she wore to work every day. Each spank eroded her pretence, slowly exposing the little girl deep underneath, the one who had once played all day, who never worried, who had sunbeams in her hair. How strange that when her bottom hurt, her mind should be so at peace.

He sensed her yielding, and began to punctuate each flurry of spanks with increasingly long and intense throbs with the vibe. Her body language had changed now, from tense and apprehensive to calm and yearning. Now each whack was welcomed with a moan, as another hot coal to add to fire burning between her legs. He nudged her close to her flashpoint.
Then stopped.

He was such a tease.

* * * * *

They say once you’re lucky, twice you’re good; so the Treasure Hunt was always played best-two-out-of-three. It was tradition.

As he’d won the last round, he would hide the next implement, and she would have a second chance. If she found it, she’d get to spank him with it, and he’d be the searcher in the deciding game. If she didn’t, she’d have lost outright, and she’d be the one paying the forfeit tonight.

And so she stood in the corner of the living room, blindfolded, as he went off to the hide the chosen item: a wooden wok spatula. She had taken off her nightie, its long hem deemed too hazardous for running, so her mobile phone was tucked into the waistband of her silly teddy bear panties. Through her earphones she listened to the jaunty music he’d chosen for her this time; she recognised this one, Mumford & Sons: I Will Wait.
She winced at his joke, very droll, very him.

Her hands had drifted behind her, to rub – to massage – her sore pink cheeks. He had given her a delicious spanking, it was more than just hot throbby sensations, it was if he’d flicked a secret switch deep within her, whipped away one of her masks, made her feel like a completely different person, a naughty young minx that needed to be spanked.

She quivered as the vibe unexpectedly burst into life with a sudden intense buzz, which could only mean: Honey, I’m back! In moments he’d taken off her blindfold and earphones, restoring her senses, replacing the phone in her waistband with the clackety timer. There was a ratchety clank as he set the requisite six minutes and…

“Go!” he shouted, slapping her arse by way of encouragement.

She stumbled out of her corner, her legs still wobbly from inaction, her eyes still dazed by the living room lights. The vibrations were faint, almost imperceptible, telling her she’d have to try a different room. Into the hallway, then the kitchen, but finding no clues.  

Just like in every game, there was a methodical way to play, and a riskier, more adventurous one. This time she decided to gamble, to cut short her room by room search and head straight for the stairs. A cascade of short buzzes rippled through her as she stepped on the first stair, almost causing her to stumble. She was getting warmer.

She bounded up the stairs two at a time, the buzzing seeming to amplify with every leap. The guest bedrooms were nearest the stairs, she darted into each, only to find the trail wasn’t any warmer, so dashed down the hallway to the master bedroom.

As she approached the bed a long intense sequence of vibrations abruptly brought her to her knees. She was so close now, so close to finding the treasure, but so close to coming too. He’d taken her to the edge 3 times now, and each time the throbbing ache was becoming more and more difficult to resist. Part of her just wanted to lie down and surrender to the little device’s siren song. But the rules were clear: if you came, you lost the game, and that would mean she’d have to pay the forfeit.

Jeopardy had always been a massive turn-on, ever since her very first orgasm. She’d been home alone in the swimming pool, just idly treading water, when she happened to drift over one of  the waterjets on the pool floor. Warm water had streamed between her legs, causing a strange pleasurable tingling. Instinctively, she’d put a hand inside her bikini bottoms and started rubbing her front bottom, only to find the peculiar tingles intensifying.

Distracted, her treading water slowed and she gradually began to sink. Until suddenly she was aware of the water lapping just below her nose. In a panic, her feet danced frantically, toes probing for the bottom of the pool, but she’d floated into the deep end. Her predicament triggered a surge of adrenaline, her kicking became frenzied, which did just enough to lift her face out of the water. Meanwhile her hand continued feverishly rubbing the region between her flailing legs. And weirdly, it made the peril of her precarious situation feel extraordinarily good.

Then out of the blue, an intensely pleasurable sensation erupted between her legs, one that seemed to get better and better with each desperate frenzied kick. She danced on the spot, rubbing and writhing as the delicious feeling spread through her body. It was months before she properly understood what had happened – and before she learnt how to replicate it in the dry, safe comfort of her own bed. Where she discovered it was never more exciting than when she was on the verge of getting caught.

She felt that familiar feeling now, that quivery tummy-flipping combination of mild jeopardy and intense pleasure. She was on her knees, crawling towards the bed, one hand on the floor, the other holding the vibe between her legs, as if trying to dampen its vibrations – but as she approached the bed, they only increased. The vibe was throbbing continually now, she wasn’t just getting warmer, she was red hot – within arm’s reach of the hidden treasure.

And that was the devious twist of the treasure hunt, discovering which room the item was hidden wasn’t especially challenging, they didn’t live in a mansion, there weren’t that many rooms to search. But the closer the searcher got, the greater the distracting paroxysms of pleasure became. And if you came, you lost the game, which made the finale of each search a cunning challenge of self-control. The logical mind striving to retain its composure just long enough to find and seize its target, all the while struggling against an animal libido that simply longs to succumb to that most visceral pleasure.

She could feel her animal side winning, her will to win ebbing away, replaced by a hot throbbing ache, an almost irresistible craving for satisfaction. It took control of her inner voice, telling her this was going to feel so, so good – lie back now, just let it happen. How could winning her silly little game provide anywhere near the ecstasy she was about to experience?

Her whole body was trembling now, like snow teetering on the verge of avalanche, perhaps only moments left until she lost control. From her hands and knees she looked under the bed, such a perfect hiding place, the stupid spatula must be hidden here. Almost imploringly, her eyes scanned the floor, the legs of the bed, even the underside of the mattress.
But there was nothing there.

And with that, her resistance crumbled and let the waves overwhelm her. Both hands grabbed the bedside table, as she braced herself for a torrent of pleasure, crying out as every nerve in her body seemed to vibrate in resonance with the device between her legs.

He played with the vibe as she came, dialing it down, then ramping it up, making her buck, prolonging her delight. And enjoying the look of absolute contentment on her face.
How he loved her.

Some time later, as the glorious feeling faded, her awareness began to return. She was grateful for the steadying presence of the bedside table, every muscle in her body felt weak, wobbling like jelly. It was an effort just to lift up her head, and her vision was still fuzzy, as if in a daze. Through the blur, familiar shapes began to form on the bedside table in front of her: the alarm clock, the frosted glass lamp, her bedtime book, and just inside it, barely peeping out at the top, doing its very best impression of a bookmark… was the spatula.

“Coming like a shameless slut…” he tsked, shaking his head, grinning widely.

“You can stay right where you are, naughty.” he instructed, picking up the spatula and slapping it several times against her proffered bottom. She merely moaned and cooed in reply.

She had lost.
She would pay the forfeit tonight.
But in her deliciously woozy post-orgasmic fug, she didn’t really care.

* * * * *

Her requisite spanking with the spatula hadn’t lasted long, after all, he was keen to move on to the evening’s main event, something he’d been preparing for at least a month: her forfeit.

So she’d found herself in a familiar pose, lying on the bed, tied up and blindfolded with music in her ears. He’d left her in the company of a Radiohead album, allowing her to ponder what he had in store for her whilst good ol’ Thom sang about No Surprises.

Ironically, last month, he’d been lying where she was now.
He had lost the Treasure Hunt; she had won.
And her imagination could be just as devious.

That night, a month ago, rain had been pattering against the bedroom window. The curtains were open, the moon illuminating the clouds above the trees at the bottom of the garden like a framed nocturne.

She’d gloried in tying him naked to the bed, wrists and ankles, relishing the prospect of playing out something that had dominated her fantasies for weeks. Both of them had prepared the forfeit they’d enact should they win the game tonight, planning what they’d do, and purchasing new props as required. As he’d lost, whatever he was planning would have to wait a bit longer.

For tonight, she’d bought a digital pulse oximeter, which she placed on one of his fingertips. She’d also made him swallow a small pill which would keep him rigidly hard for the remainder of the night. Then, a ball gag. He’d said quite enough for one evening.

He had a great view as she slowly stripped in front of him. Then she began with her mouth, licking his smooth sac before slowly drawing her tongue up the length of his cock in lazy meanders, spiralling around his tip before descending back down to his balls. On her next ascent, her fingers joined the fun, massaging his sac and the base of his shaft whilst her tongue wandered. In the corner of her eye she could could the little light of the pulse meter flashing quicker and quicker. It wasn’t long before he was achingly stiff.

She straddled him backwards, leaning over so her bottom almost touched his nose and his vision was filled by the region between her legs. Were it not for the ball gag, he could stretched out his tongue and licked her, instead he could only drool like a hungry hound.

His cock was rock hard now, as if he’d been turned to stone by her enchantment. She shuffled forward, until she felt his tip drag between the wet lips of her slit. She continued to taunt him, wiggling her hips so his knob traced every fold of her pussy, pausing as his tip lingered just below the moist heat of her entrance. Ever so slowly, she relaxed her knees, allowing herself to sink down onto his hardness. Seven deep, delicious breaths later, and she’d finally slid to the bottom of his shaft.

She rode him slowly, savouring both her complete control and that wonderful fulfillment of being filled completely.

Suddenly, there was beeping. A subtle alert – like a wristwatch alarm, coming from the pulse meter on his fingertip. She’d set the alarm to sound if his pulse exceeded 90 beats a minute, her estimate of when he’d be enjoying himself too much.

“Oh dear!”, she said wistfully, “I think I’d better stop for a moment. It wouldn’t be safe to get you so excited.”

Shaking against his restraints, his protests were muffled by the gag, making him easy to ignore. She slipped off him, using the tip of his cock to rub against her clit whilst she waited for the beeping to stop. Once his pulse rate had slowed, the alarm went quiet, which was her cue to sink back down on top of him again, and resume her ride.

Her teasing soon had the alarm beeping again. Too bad. But such pauses provided a glorious opportunity for her eyes to wander over his body, to drink in his little details. She pulled down his blindfold, she’d be the one doing the scrutinising tonight, thank you.

She began at the crown of his head, running her fingers through his tousled mop of dark blond hair. His fringe covered his forehead, now partially covered by the top of his blindfold, which in turn concealed his cool blue eyes. Below, his rounded nose, with those nostrils that flared so cutely whenever he was surprised. On either side, his fleshy cheeks, now carpeted with tiny stubble, and dainty earlobes, into which she loved to whisper.

Her eyes wandered further, past his mouth, his pink lips usually so kissable, but now occupied with a black ball gag, down to the small mound of his chin. Then down to his throat, a favourite area to kiss and nuzzle. Her eyes then lingered on the the muscles of his shoulders, arms and chest, now helpfully pulled taut by his restraints. A runner’s body, slender and lithe, all the better to chase her with.

She watched his chest rise and fall. By now, he’d recognised her mischievous scheme and was attempting to control his lust, calming his breathing in an attempt to keep his heart from racing. But her wiggling was proving difficult to resist, every time she slipped on top of him, her slow beguiling gyrations gripped him so tight, and he wanted to fuck her so much…

She would repeat her tease several times; mounting him and riding him until the alarm sounded. Then wait for his pulse to drop before resuming, as he struggled mutely against his bonds, desperate to break free and ravish her with his priapism.
But tonight she would teach him a very Buddhist lesson: if you want, you will suffer.

As it happened, he proved a quick learner. Soon she was able to ride him for longer and longer periods before the beeping intervened. In fact, he could now keep control of himself long enough for her to get close to coming herself. Clearly, it was time to spice things up a bit.

He heard a wardrobe open and the rustle of clothes. She treated him to a peek, restoring his vision just long enough to see her dressed in her old school uniform, carrying a small leather journal with a conspicuous brass padlock – which looked like a book of secrets, even from just this brief glimpse. She pretended to ignore him, acting as if she’d just returned home from school, and began improvising a monologue.

“I can’t wait to get out of this stuffy uniform…”, she announced to no-one in particular. With that, she began undressing, unbuttoning her blouse before reaching forward to pull down his blindfold, seeing the lust burning in his big blue eyes just before she covered them. Then he felt her sit on the bed beside him, and could hear the rustle of pages.

“Dear diary…” she said out loud, “… you’ll never believe what happened at school today!”

“A group of us were exchanging notes under our tables at the back of English class. It was all very exciting, soon we were swapping all manner of secrets. Then Cathy Kimball got caught! And mean Mr Trevors summoned her to the front, and read out what Cathy had written, to the whole class!”

“It was something like: ‘OMG. Benji spanked me last night, and I LOVED IT!!!’ Benji is Cathy’s boyfriend.” she helpfully explained, “He’s hot.”

He felt her fondle his cock briefly before she resumed her recollections. She spoke quickly, in the breathless rapid-fire manner used by schoolgirls the world over to transfer the maximum amount of gossip in the minimum amount of time.

“Oh diary, when Mr Trevors read out Cathy’s note, the whole class squealed with laughter. Cathy was mortified, I think I just gasped.”

“Then Mr Trevors told Cathy to stay behind after class! For the rest of the lesson I couldn’t concentrate. I just kept thinking about what lay in store for poor Cathy when the bell rang. I kept imagining he’d tell her that since she liked being spanked so much, he was going to smack her bottom right now! I could see him pulling poor Cathy over his knee, lifting her skirt, and tugging down her panties!”

“Rawrrr!!! Even just picturing it now makes me so wet!”, she exclaimed – then paused, “Oooo… now where is it?”

He felt her hand grasp the shaft of his cock.

“Oh! Here it is…”, she announced excitedly, “my favourite dildo!”  

He felt her kneel over him, gripping the base of his shaft as if his cock was some kind of sex toy. She was as wet as her story described, but this time her penetration wasn’t as deep, as she kept her hand clasped around the base of his cock, just as she’d hold a dildo. She slid up and down deliberately, using her hand to subtly guide his hardness into rubbing her most needy areas.

“Oh… Oh… oh diary. I can’t get it out of my head. I spent the rest of the lesson daydreaming, imagining him spanking Cathy right in front of me! I closed my eyes and I could see everything, his scolding and her squirming. Her pretty bum turning pink with each smack of his big firm hand. It made me so wet! I hitched back my skirt so I could feel the cool wood of my seat against my hot little lips. Before long I’d made a shameful puddle on my classroom chair.”

Her ride was developing a rhythm now, making her gasp at the end of each sentence.

“Oh diary, I was such a naughty girl…”
“… I was passing notes too… ooo…”
“… I deserve to be the next one put over his knee…”
“… ooo… I deserve a good hard spanking on my bare bottom!”

And for effect, as she made her confession, she plunged onto him, as deep as she could go.

As a teenage boy, he’d often wondered what his schoolgirl classmates fantasised about when they masturbated. He knew underneath their demure, innocent guises were minds just as dirty as his own – and had a girl ever let slip that she fiddled herself whilst longing to be spanked, it would have blown his tiny mind.

Her act was having the desired effect, she’d flustered him, she’d stirred his libido. His breathing was quickening. He wanted her, he wanted to growl like a wild animal, he wanted to burst out of his cage and take her, to fuck her, to ravish her.

She giggled girlishly as the alarm sounded once more, slipping off her ‘dildo’ as he shook the bed with muffled frustration. Blindfolded, he couldn’t see her smile. You’d better get used to this, she thought, as the night is still young and I’ve so many more tales to tell, tales of what turned me on when I was in my bedroom, all alone, long ago.

Next, she thought, I’ll describe how I like to pleasure myself, in intimate detail. Every stroke, every rub, the moistening heat and swelling lips, the sliding in and slipping out, the grimacing and gasping, the circling and clasping…

And he’d have to lie there, stiff, neglected and frustrated; listening to the little sucking sounds as she slid on her own fingers, hearing her breathing quicken into panting, hearing her mew and moan as she approached her climax.

Too bad he wouldn’t be coming.
But it was his forfeit.
And she only teased him because she cared.

* * * * *

But now, tonight, it was her turn.

He’d removed her vibe when he’d tied her to bed, which had felt like losing a part of herself. Now the music in her ears was her only form of stimulation, it also prevented her from hearing what he was up to downstairs. She was several tracks into the album now, which became a surreal experience, a forced listening, unable to move or talk, or indeed hear anything else. The lyrics of Karma Police made her chuckle given her present predicament. This is what you get when you mess with us, indeed.

After what seemed an age, she felt movement as he began to remove her cuffs, headphones and blindfold. Dazzled and wobbling from inactivity, she must have looked dazed, like she was waking from a particularly heavy sleep.

“Wakey, wakey!” he crowed. She merely mumbled something in reply.

“We’d better get you dressed…” he said brightly, helping her off the bed and towards their costume wardrobe.

“Oh? Really? Where are we going?” she asked excitedly.

He handed her a clutch of hangers: a grey skirt, a white blouse, white knickers, a tie; a school uniform.

“You, young lady, are going to Saturday morning detention. To have your bottom smacked.”

She harrumphed petulantly, scowled, and dressed in silence.

Soon, she looked in the mirror to see a younger version of herself staring back, all ready for school. He took her hand, leading her reluctantly out of the bedroom and down the stairs, stopping just in front of the closed living room door.

“Oh, one more thing.” he said, “You’re to wear this tonight, dear.”
He’d brought the blindfold from the bedroom, pulling it down over her eyes. plunging her into darkness. She heard the door squeak open in front of her, and felt her hand being tugged, as she was pulled into the room beyond.

She’d only taken a few tentative steps when he heard him say:
“Another naughty girl for detention, Ms Constance.”

She stopped, startled, suddenly anxious.
Who else was in the room?

Another tug of her arm, dragging her forward a few more steps. Then she felt him take her hand and place it on what felt like the back of wooden chair. Then a cool draught as he lifted the hem of her skirt, tucking it into her waist.

“Best sit down…”

She did as she was instructed, groping awkwardly for the seat, and wincing as she pressed her already spanked bottom onto the flat wooden seat. She was shocked to hear tittering around her: silly girlish voices.

“Silence!” bellowed a lady’s voice in front of her.

Wow. Where did all these people come from?

“You were told to stay silent!”, the lady’s voice roared. “I will not tolerate disobedience in my class!”

Class? Had he just turned their living room into a classroom? It was just the kind of outrageous stunt he’d pull.

She tried to recognise the voice. What was the name of that domme he knew? Janet? Janet Lainsbury? She knew Janet had a nom de plume for those on the receiving end of her cane, but couldn’t remember if it was Ms Constance. She’d met her only a few times anyway, random encounters at barbeques and garden parties. Janet had always flirted outrageously with her, treating her natural confidence as impertinence, and telling her that a spanked bottom was just what she needed.

“Girls, you are here to be punished…”, explained the strict woman’s voice. “And that means a caning for each of you with your knickers down.”

That announcement drew gasps from around her, and made a chill run down her spine. Who were these people? Friends of his? Friends of hers? Random strangers? And she still couldn’t quite work out how many people were actually in the room. She’d relaxed in this living room for years, now all of sudden her own home felt very eerie indeed, occupied and taken over. Anything could be happening beyond her blindfold, and that made her heart race.

“Claire! Stand up! Come up here!” the woman bellowed.

She heard a chair scrape faintly on the living room’s wooden floor, and – ominously – a cane swishing. Now she could make out a second voice, younger sounding, pleading ineffectually.

“Skirt off!” A faint rustling as fingers fumbled for buttons, followed by a flop as the garment dropped to the floor.

“Knickers down!” the voice ordered. A pause.

“Legs apart, Claire. Bend over.”

The voice certainly could be Janet’s – her enunciation was posh, almost RP, her tone authoritarian, almost domineering. And by the sounds of it, she was going to be bending over in front of her cane very soon. She squirmed in her seat, realising that when she pulled down her own panties she’d reveal the soaking wet patch between her legs, and Ms Constance would smile, knowing she’d been right all along.

There was a short whistling noise somewhere in front of her, accompanied by a slap, and a gasp. Then another.

She listened rapt to the unfortunate girl’s caning, having to imagine what was playing out in front of her. There were so many details for her imagination to fill in: she wondered how old she was, the colour of her hair, her complexion, what she was wearing and the shape of her body. Did she walk up to the cane confidently or quivering nervously, had she bent over resentfully or acceptingly? Was she being caned on her thighs as well as her bum? How wide apart were her legs? Were the other girls staring at her slit? Was the caning making her wet? More to the point, was watching this caning making her classmates wet?

The swishes, whacks and cries were getting louder.

She could feel a damp patch forming in her panties, just like in that teenage fantasy she’d described so exquisitely as she tormented him last month. This was karma indeed. She longed to be able to remove her blindfold, to witness every detail of this bare bottom caning with her own eyes. But now it was her turn to appreciate how want led to suffering; it was all part of the forfeit.

Abruptly, the swishing stopped.

“Leave your panties on the floor, Claire”, said her disciplinarian, “Now, you may sit down and begin writing your essay. One thousand words on why naughty girls deserve sore bottoms. Sitting on your stripes should provide some inspiration.”

To her right, something that sounded like the scrape of a chair, and a wince. She held her breath, waiting to hear who’d be summoned next.

“Fiona, you’re next. Stand up! Come up here!” the strict voice commanded. “You know what to do. Skirt off, knickers down, legs apart so the rest of the class can see.”

There was the familiar faint whisper of clothes being slipped off.

“Bend over.”

Those two words always made her clit ache. She imagined a nimble, athletic girl slowly leaning forward to touch her toes, making her buttocks swell, then part, revealing the secrets within.  

There was a swoosh, a whack and stifled moan. Then another. The rhythm of the caning made her mind wander, her imagination painting in what she could not see. Whereas the first girl yelped with every stroke, this girl sounded like she was enjoying her experience. She imagined her pushing her bum out to meet each strike, her clit hard, her slit wet and glistening, taunting her teacher to do her worst. Each successive whack was louder than the last, until eventually the moans gave way to whimpers.

“Wicked girl!” the voice chided when the caning eventually stopped, “Now go and sit down, a thousand words on why naughty girls deserve sore bottoms.”

Then through her reverie, she heard her name. And again.

She stood up hurriedly, just in time to feel a strong hand grasp her forearm, tugging her forward. Unable to pull down the hem of her skirt, her pink cheeks from her evening’s spankings were revealed to anyone watching.

“Someone’s been a naughty girl…”, the voice observed, almost mockingly. “Skirt off.”

She fumbled blindly for the buttons on her waist, letting the garment drop to the floor.

“Knickers down.”

Both hands went to her waist, pulling her panties quickly down to her ankles, slipping them off her feet and scrunching them up, in an attempt to hide the evidence of her excitement. She felt the cane tapping between her thighs, encouragingly.

“Legs apart.”

Being blindfolded made it more challenging to keep her balance, so she planted her feet well apart.

“Bend over.”

Those words again, making her tummy flip and her legs tremble. She leaned over and grasped her ankles, doing her best to keep her knees straight. She felt her bottom splay apart, exposing her wet lips, making them tingle. Her secret sin revealed.

“Filthy girl!” the stern voice scolded, “Excited by your classmates’ punishment, are we? Let’s see if stripes on your own bum changes your opinion.”

Head bowed, she blushed vividly. The humiliation! No one else was supposed to know how horny witnessing discipline made her. It just seemed a bit wrong to be so aroused by the pain of others, so delightfully wrong. But now it was her turn; she could feel the cane, long and thin, patting her bottom cheeks.

There was a short swishing noise, and a red hot line materialised behind her. The shock made her legs quiver, but mindful of her audience, she did her best to stifle her yelp, before straightening her knees and pushing out her bottom defiantly.

Another whack landed, then another, each stinging line lower than the last. Each impact burned momentarily like a long line of tiny red hot coals, before the sensation dwindled to warm tingly embers. Meanwhile the cruel cane continued travelling downward, lighting more fires at the base of buttocks and the tops of her thighs, before returning to the top of her cheeks for another pass.

She began to feel strangely detached from reality, like being in the midst of a particularly vivid dream. Already denied the use of her eyes, and with only the monotonous rhythm of swishes and slaps to occupy her ears, sensations from her skin dominated her mind. Now she could feel the repercussions of each stroke reverberating through her, making her arse and vagina clench. It felt like the cane’s echoes were travelling right through her, to the very tip of her clit.

She realised how close she was to coming.
No! Not here. Not like this.

Suddenly, a yearning swept through her. Where was he?
She wanted him; her white knight, her hero.
She wanted him to rescue her.
She wanted him to burst into the room, push aside this bossy old witch and carry her off in his arms in a show of eye-catching bravado that would make her classmates sigh.

She wanted to call his name.
She wanted to say: don’t leave me here; don’t leave me here squirming on my sore caned bottom, writing an essay like a naughty schoolgirl.

Another whack. Another whack.
Between her legs, a throbbing ache raged.
She yelled his name.

She was still bending over when he embraced her, lifting her off her feet.
She felt his hand grip hers, pulling her strongly as they ran from the room.
Led by his hand, she galloped up the stairs.

He pushed her onto their bed and ravished her utterly.
He didn’t remove her blindfold until she’d fallen asleep in his arms.
He cradled his treasure affectionately.


Their game had become a golden braid, two strands, his and her’s, weaving together every time they played. Even after all this time, they still inspired each other, reveling in each other’s fantasies, making each other’s secret dreams come true. The braid bound them together, tighter than any vow.

Last month, trussed and blindfolded on the bed, he’d had plenty of time to contemplate his riposte. She’d planted the seed, as she’d described her teenage fantasy of watching a spanking in exquisite detail. Nourished by his frustration, a plan had grown in his mind. Next month, he’d pledged, he’d make her fantasy flesh.

It had been a great performance by Janet and her girlfriends. The quality of Skype calls was amazing these days. Connect it to your home cinema system, and it’s like they’re in the room with you.

He had always been such a tease.

@spankingtheatre 2012

Repost: Cosmopolitan


Our first submission for the Inaugural Erotic Storybook Saturday Theme Challenge is in! This wonderful piece sets the bar high! I highly recommend a visit to this writer’s blog to read more of his work. Making his Library debut and kicking off the challenge, please give a big round of applause to…


I saw it on the coffee table in my gyno’s waiting room.
It was half-covered, almost buried by other magazines, but the stern-looking lady on the cover caught my eye. She stared out authoritatively, dressed in a black school-gown and mortarboard. And in her hands, she was flexing a cane.

A copy of Cosmo, with a headmistress holding a cane on the cover.
I felt myself needing to know. I didn’t recognise her, perhaps there was some celebrity on the hidden side of the cover. Perhaps the cover story featured the celebrity talking about their schooldays, paying tribute to some strict school-teacher whose discipline helped steer a wayward child towards hard work, fame and fortune.

Except… the lady with the cane didn’t look like a singing or acting coach. In fact, she looked decidedly kinky. And dominant. Erotic even. She gave the camera an underlook that seemed to say: I’ve had quite enough of your misbehaviour, young lady, now bend over.
My imagination began to buzz with possibilities.

I looked around the room as casually as I could manage. Three other ladies shared the room, each a polite distance apart. I wondered if they’d seen what I’d seen. One was engrossed in her own glossy magazine. The other two were gazing aimlessly around the room, as if telepathically playing a game of Eye Spy. If I reached for the magazine, would they notice? Would I reveal my darkest secret? Would they exchange knowing glances? Look at her, the one with Cosmo, she gets turned on by bottoms being smacked.

Read More

If you like reading erotic stories, take a look at EroticStoryBook – and if you like writing them, you should enter the challenge!

Repost: Waiting


Story Time: Waiting

I love sexy stories and I want to share the really good ones I find out there.  This one is from a new follower who writes stories focused on spanking and discipline.  This has been a theme of my posts lately, so it fits right in. 

Settle in and prepare to enjoy a thrilling story of a naughty school girl struggling to learn the value of patience. 


“Come here”, I am summoned.
I hesitate before I meekly take two steps forward.  My eyes still gaze at the floor as I dare not meet his stare. In one hand he’s holding something, tapping it against the other.

“Bend over the table”
A finger points at the large, imposing teacher’s table at the front of the room.
I stare at it, not daring to move, like a startled rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.
Now he speaks more loudly.
“I’m waiting. Don’t make this any worse”

I hurry over quickly and hesitate for just a second before bending over the table. The table looks old; its worn, slightly uneven surface is mottled with splots of ink. It also feels old, as I reach over it my fingertips rub across gaps in the grain. And as I lower my head, I can smell its age, its fresh wood smell is long gone, now it smells of old wood polish, like a musty wax. It is a sturdy table, it would protect me, I wish I could somehow hide underneath it. But it’s too late now; so I just close my eyes and listen to his heavy footsteps, and that soft tap – tap – tapping. Getting louder, and louder…

…Continue Reading…

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,


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.
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.
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.
“ 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.
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.

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…


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

Abstract Art

“The buttocks are the most aesthetically pleasing part of the body because they are non-functional.  Although they conceal an essential orifice, these pointless globes are as near as the human form can ever come to abstract art.” — Kenneth Tynan

* * *


Everyone knew the penalty for neglecting to do a homework. A short, agonisingly embarrassing walk to the front of the class, followed by a humiliating bend-over dance to the wooden ruler’s beat.

Hannah hadn’t done her homework. She’d come prepared with an elaborate excuse of almost farcical proportions, a twisty tale of family complications and misunderstandings. But it hadn’t been able to save her.

“Come up here, Hannah”, was all he needed to say.

Across the classroom, all fidgeting stopped. A perfect hush settled.
Everyone knew what happened next.
Head bowed, Hannah stood from her desk, she reached the low platform at the front of the class in 6 slow footsteps, visibly hesitating before taking the final step up to stand beside him.

His finger beckoned her one step forward.
“Bend over”, he ordered, in a tone that left no-one in the room in any doubt this was a command, and not a prelude to negotiations. Nevertheless, she turned her head, giving him one last plaintive look. No mercy was forthcoming. His eyes merely narrowed.

Hannah bent over, her bottom jutting towards her captivated classmates, grasping her ankles, and shutting her eyes, too ashamed to look back through her legs at the gawping class. Moments later, she felt the unmistakable draught as he lifted her navy blue pleated skirt, and folded it over her back. All the while, her classmates stared on silently, as if spying through a peephole, fearful that any sound would give away their presence.

Hannah whined pitifully as she felt his fingertips enter the elastic waist of her underwear. He pulled her panties down slowly, the tight white material revealing her athletic buttocks, before stretching to follow the contours of her thighs. He pulled them past her knees, patting her thighs to encourage her to spread her legs apart until her panties stretched between her ankles like a sad parody of a hammock.

Her classmates stared at the bared mounds of their hockey team captain. Some nodded approvingly amongst themselves, Hannah might be a bit of brat, but there was no doubt she worked out; she was in great shape.

Two dozen transfixed eyeballs followed him as he went to fetch the wooden ruler from his desk, and returned to stand behind her.

“What happens to those who forget their homework, Hannah?”

Hannah could feel her face burning hot with shame, sweaty, almost feverishly. Had she dared open her eyes, she would have looked back through her open legs to see her classmates, upside down, staring back at her. She dearly wished she was somewhere else, or at the very least, could close her legs and hide behind them. She tried to reply, but couldn’t find the words to answer.

He wasn’t offended, often just a bit of encouragement was needed. By now, the classroom resembled a waxwork scene, all silent, frozen in position, waiting.

Suddenly, there was movement!
The ruler blurred… a slap, accompanied by a yelp. Then three more.

“What happens to naughty girls who forget their homework, Hannah?”, he prompted.

Her vocal chords now loosened, she answered much more easily.
“They.. they.. get their b.. bottoms sp.. spanked, sir”. She cringed as she said it, feeling like she was 8 years old. Grasping her ankles tighter in consolation, she wondered if she’d ever live this down.

The ruler and Hannah began their duet. Its soft whoosh – shorter and less threatening than the swish of a cane, was followed by a thwick! as it slapped across her rear, and then by a cry, moan or little shriek, as Hannah danced for the class’s delight.

She had begun her bend-over dance with tiny jumps, bobbing upward, almost lifting a foot off the ground. Soon her hips were swaying with the rhythm of the stokes. As her bottom reddened and her exclamations grew louder, she began to bend her knees, instinctively twisting her body, hoping to throw his aim, hoping the next smack would somehow avoid her burning patches. But she danced in vain, so little of her bottom remained unspanked that her gyrations only served to flash the secrets between her legs for all to see.

He finished with six hard whacks across both cheeks, which almost made Hannah burst into tears, but she was determined to keep her composure in front of her peers. He allowed the shocked silence that followed her last yelp to linger, before ordering Hannah to the corner to reflect on her disobedience. As she shuffled to her destination, her knickers still around her ankles, she reflected: it had been a brilliant party last night – but next time, she promised herself, she’d definitely get her homework finished first.


The reaction of Hannah’s classmates to her performance had varied. Her friends had stared down at their desks, flinching with each of her yelps. Those who regarded Hannah as an uppity self-appointed princess, deserving of her childish comeuppance exchanged smirks. And at the back of the class, one particular student gazed in genuine fascination, shuffling in her seat as Hannah squirmed under the heat of the stings. Natalie watched the expression of her teacher as he spanked, he looked stern, but it was a countenance born of duty rather than viciousness.
She wondered if he ever got as aroused as she did.

She also wondered if he’d noticed her, and her little act of rebellion.

School uniform consisted of a white blouse and navy blue skirt. Above her desk, she was a model of compliance, tidy auburn hair, spotless white blouse and stripy school tie – but concealed beneath her desk, she was defiantly wearing a pair of navy blue shorts. Some of her classmates had noticed, with oh!-look-at-you! titters as they’d flooded into the room. But she had ignored them and sat down quickly and deliberately.
She wasn’t wearing the shorts to boost her reputation as a rebel.
She wanted to know something much more important. Something she just had to know.
Had HE noticed her among the crowd? Did he look out for her?

She bit her lip, wondering if he’d seen her. She was flouting school rules, and he was strict about rules. Her mind buzzed with excitement as she anticipated having to admit her behavior, wondering how he’d reply. The knowledge that she was breaking the rules so brazenly seemed to draw her eyes – as if by a magnet – back once more to stare at Hannah, who was still standing forlornly in the corner, hands on her head, her bared red bottom radiating a colourful reminder to all of the price of disobedience.

He was scribbling their next homework assignment on the blackboard now. Homework was another of Natalie’s secret pleasures; she wanted to please him. All those little messages he wrote thrilled her. Scribbled in thin red ink in her exercise books, commending her, telling her how clever she was, telling her how proud he was of her. Sometimes she would read his praise when alone, just before bedtime, and fall asleep imagining him dispensing some very special rewards to his very best students.

And yet, he said so little to her in class. On occasion she’d flirted clumsily, trying to attract his attention, but the man remained impassive. She stared at his shapely behind as his chalk chattered across the blackboard, whilst around her, classmates shared bored sighs and stares.

The chalk finished scraping. He turned to face the class, looking past all the drowsy faces to the back of the room to look straight into her eyes.
“Homework is due by next Thursday’s class. Take your time, and create something great.”

The moment she found herself in eye contact with her teacher, Natalie straightened up, quickly removing her elbows from the desk. A small grin appeared on her face, it almost surprised her. She had contemplated forgetting to do her homework, but hated the idea of disappointing him, even more than the idea of having her bare bottom dance in front of the class.

Meanwhile, Hannah’s time in the corner was almost served. Denied the relief of rubbing, the heat from her bum dominated her senses. And confusingly, something else was warming up down there that definitely shouldn’t be warming. Then, through her daze, she heard him call her name. At long last, Hannah could pull her panties up over her smarting bottom, fold down her skirt, and make the short walk of shame back to her desk. Where she discovered sitting down hurt even more than her classmates’ stares.


He had indeed noticed.
Back at his desk, he sighed at her disobedience. Natalie was such a bright girl, yet her silly acting up was becoming increasingly obvious. He would have to have a stern word with her after class, and ascertain where her skirt had gone.

She would plead her innocence of course, contriving some scarcely believable fiction about her uniform going missing, or having to be urgently laundered. He was beginning to suspect she was flouting underwear regulations too. He made a mental note to inspect her, just to make sure.

From the back of the class Natalie tried to decode his gaze. He had spotted her, hadn’t he? Almost by reflex her mind began to whiz through her multiple excuses, critiquing their believability before deciding on one she thought most bulletproof. It wasn’t going to be long until the class ended, and she started to tingle with excitement.

She turned to the back of her notebook, noting the homework down, and beside it, the word spank. SPANK. In bold black ink, again and again, overlapping the word and watching with a smile as it sank through each page…


The end-of-day bell rang with a deafening clanging that belied its tiny size.
All around the room, sighs of relief mixed with the rustle of satchels.

He pointed to Natalie amid the crowd – wordlessly – his finger beckoning her forward.
Me sir? She mouths, pointing to herself with faux surprise.
Inside, she shivers.
Her friends send worried glances, but she wafts them away.
I’ll be fine, she mouths innocently.
I hope, she thinks.

The classroom cleared quickly, leaving the two of them alone.

She stood silently in front of her teacher’s antique oak desk with her head bowed – before realising with alarm she was staring at his crotch. She lowered her eyes to the table. Up close, the wooden ruler on his desk looked ominously large, and somehow her gaze alighted on the 8-inch mark, prompting an embarrassed shake of her head as she brought her eyes up to the level of his chest. She clasped her hands in front of her waist, where despite her predicament, a strangely exciting tingling had developed. She tangled her fingers together, letting her pinky fingers brush ever so lightly against her groin.

They stood in silence, the old enamel-faced wall clock counting off the seconds. She could barely breathe. He fixed her with his eyes, as if searching her soul for answers.
But she remained inscrutable.
“Explain yourself, young lady.”

She finds herself rushing her fabricated lie.
“I… um… Well, I lent my skirt to a cousin… and she had a lady accident and it needed to be properly washed!”
A miniscule pause as she read his face.
“You couldn’t expect me to wear my uniform in that condition, could you?” she finished, almost cockily.

As soon as the lie had left her mouth, she hit a wall in her mind, realising her fiction was told a bit too provocatively for a girl of her age. His subsequent cross-examination was probing, without ever being cross, and she had soon tied herself up in a web of contradictions and ludicrous fantasies. She soon realised he didn’t believe her, and dropped any pretence of an alibi; recognising herself in a hole, she stopped digging. She coyly flicked her auburn curls from her forehead, stood silently and blushed.

He understood now, it was obvious, the uniform story was a ruse to test his authority. And there was something more. He’d noticed how upright she’d sit as soon as a classmate had been summoned to the front of the class, and how intently she’d stared as Hannah’s knickers were peeled down. And how her hands were always below her desk, moving almost imperceptibly, in time to the ruler’s slaps.

She would have to dance for her misdemeanours.

He stepped out from behind his desk and moved toward her. She flinched, instinctively stepping backwards, but he grabbed her wrist and marched her towards a corner of the room. His rapid actions so deliberate she dared not protest.

“Shorts and panties down to your ankles, young lady…”

His voice made her hairs stand on end, he had a strong, narrative voice. How many times had she imagined him saying those very words in private moments alone.

Nervously, she brought her hands to her waist, grabbing the elastic of her shorts when she remembered her choice of underwear. French lace: only the best from Paris itself. It was a gift from an old boyfriend, in fact, she’d lost her virginity wearing these. Not that this was a problem then; but her school was very clear about wearing plain white, cotton panties, after all one never knew when one’s skirt might be lifted in front of the class. The school had no intention of allowing the serious business of discipline to become a lingerie parade.

She turned to face her teacher, trying to conceal the panic in her eyes by furrowing her brow in a childish pout of protest. His face was unmoved, her pouting made her look like just another silly little girl in need of a bottom warming. And many had gone before her; keen eyes would have seen evidence of their recalcitrance, countless scuff marks where they’d been dragged protesting into the corner. Tiny dents and scratches in the wooden floor from countless little stamps as disobedient bottoms were smacked.

“I’m waiting…” he said sternly, “Panties all the way down.”

Panties around the ankles had such childish connotations. Panties pulled down to the tops of the thighs might cover most of a girl’s secret places, but modesty was a privilege only big girls deserved. He believed those who behaved like little girls should be treated as such, their nakedness revealed without shame, their panties around the ankles to stop any infantile kicking tantrums.

She allowed her hands to travel south, her lace panties just visible beneath her dark shorts, and swallowed nervously. She wondered if she’d pulled her shorts and underwear down together, he wouldn’t notice. A deep, deep breath.

She pointed her bottom towards him, and revealed herself with a flourish, pulling both garments down to her ankles in an instant, and bending down just a little too far, to ensure he caught sight of the slit peeping out from between her legs. Hoping his eyes were elsewhere, she tried to cover the white lace with the edges of her shorts best she could, and raised herself to meet her teacher’s gaze.

The eyes of a lecherous man would have been twinkling at the sight of her nakedness.
The eyes of an angry man would be narrowed, staring back, threateningly.
His eyes remained resolute, as if he had a duty to perform.
“Hands on head, feet apart.”, was all he said.

Her hands moved quickly, but her feet complied slowly.
“Something to hide, young lady?”
He knelt in front of her, his eyes level with her bare mound. Her intimate lips were puffy and slick, as if recently moistened by a lover’s tongue. He looked down, and saw the lacey nest between her ankles.

He smiled at her naivety. Silly girl.
The secret she sought to hide was her lace panties.
But the secret she ought to have hidden was the damp, creamy patch on her gusset.
The patch told him everything he needed to know. Unequivocally.
Spankings didn’t just fascinate her.
Spankings excited her.

“Would you care to explain yourself, young lady?”

Dumbfounded, she knew he understood. But without an answer she could merely say meekly,
“There’s nothing to explain… sir.”

Feeling her teacher’s breath warm on her freshly shaved mound was in danger of causing a snowball effect, a familiar sensation was growing between her legs. She tried to decipher his tone of voice, was he shocked? Upset? Or perhaps even delighted? This man was impossibly unpredictable – frustratingly so, and that excited her, tremendously.
She swallowed hard.

“Face the corner.”
She does.
His footsteps clack on the wooden floor. Walking away. Walking back.
She feels a cool sensation press against both her cheeks.
She shudders as she recognises it.
His wooden ruler.

He asked again, inviting her confession.
“Did watching Hannah do the bend-over dance excite you?”

She froze, finding it hard to concentrate, the cold wood of the ruler brushing her like that.
She paused before replying.
“…is… That what you think sir?”

When he speaks again his voice is different. Deeper, louder. No longer inquiring, but commanding.

She flinched, startled at his tone. No longer wanting to disappoint, she bent over to touch her shoes. Cool air tingled her warm, damp lips as she exposed herself, making her shudder.

The cold ruler pressed against both cheeks again.
“Does watching the bend-over dance excite you?”

She dared not look at her teacher through her legs, her voice squeaking at the imminent prospect of punishment. Adrenaline was now coursing through her, emboldening her, and suddenly she felt the urge to end her charade, to release her long-suppressed secret. To share it with him.
“Y-yes sir…” she admitted, as she felt her tummy flip.

The rush of relief was accompanied by a wave of embarrassment that rendered her face pink, and made her eyes water. She had finally revealed herself, and her deepest secret. She realised that from now on, during every spanking she witnessed, her teacher would know, even without looking, that at the back of the class, she was about to get very aroused indeed.

Without warning, there was a whistling whoosh.
The ruler slapped across both her cheeks, imparting a thin pink band.
She gasped, hugging her calves close. But the fiery shock of pain faded quickly, to be echoed by a tingling between her legs; a deep, throbbing ache.
The secret word flew around her mind. Conjugated in all its variations.
Spank. I am being spanked. He is spanking me.
I’m getting a bare bottom spanking, from him.

Another slap burned her right cheek. Her discipline concentrated on one spot, the pain awful, then exquisite. Yet she pushed her bottom out, ready for more.
Her left cheek burned next, stinging, radiating.

He timed her spanks to coincide with her breathing, each arriving just after she had exhaled. Unable to call out, she moaned and gasped with every gulp of air.
As her breathing quickened, so did her discipline.
The combination of her shallow breathing, her erotic excitement and having her head down at her feet began to make her feel light-headed. A fire was raging between her legs, and she knew she was losing her ability to control it.

I’m going to come, she realised.
I’m going to come during my bend-over dance.
I’m going to come as I get my bare bottom spanked.
I’m going to come as he stares between my soaking legs and watches my cunt quiver.

She danced in daze of pain and pleasure, swaying her hips and bending her knees. Each time the ruler snapped against her, stinging her raw little backside, a vibration would buzz between her legs, her moan choked with gasps of air. Her teacher picked up the pace, his strokes less targeted, more forceful, more stingy, more erotic.

She fought for control of herself, her rational side protesting: telling her she couldn’t come, not like this. Not in a classroom, not in front of her teacher.

Whereas her animal side was scrutinising him. Punctuating her pain were flashes of detail: his pink face, fixed with concentration; his sleeve rolled up that chunky forearm; how his waistcoat hugged him, and his curve snaked as he twisted to deliver each blow. She liked watching him perform his own dance. She noticed how small beads of sweat made his forehead glisten, he wasn’t going easy on her. From between her legs, she tried to focus on his crotch, was that a hard on – or just a fold in his trousers? Deliriously, she shocked herself by wondering if he’d fuck her after this, if his hips would slap her fresh sore marks, if she’d be able to take him balls deep.

She could barely stand now, her legs quivering with more than just pain. Her eyes shot open, dragged into reality as she felt her pelvic floor twitching. She couldn’t hold it back much longer, and still the smacks continued to land, each pushing her closer and closer to the edge: left cheek – right cheek – left – left – the sting grew in the same spot. His aim dropped lower, stinging her sit-spots. So dangerously close! It felt so good she almost decides to let it happen, the rush is there now, she can feel herself buckling, how many times has she imagined this moment, bent over a pile of pillows on her bed, thrusting, grinding. Her cries rose again, higher, faster, she can barely speak.


She starts with a moaned yell, which becomes a purring whisper: “S…stop, I… I can’t hold it sir…”

He either didn’t understand, or didn’t listen, instead his ruler revisited old marks, keeping her bottom ablaze.

“Oh please sir…” she almost starts to beg, when she was this close, nothing else mattered. Her knees threatened to drop, but still she stuck out her bottom, as if she couldn’t wait for the final few smacks to arrive. Then a volley of hard smacks whacked across both sit-spots, vibrating her entrance, and starting the delicious cascade. He continued to spank her as she came, making her shout even louder. The evidence of her excitement dribbled out of her, seeping shamefully down her thighs and onto the white lace she had tried so hard to hide. He lowered his weary arm, watching as the quake of pleasure surged through her.

Suddenly she felt like a puppet with cut strings, and her legs went trembly. She sank to her knees, her stinging bottom now a patchwork of pinks and reds, upturned as if for his inspection. In between, her labia were dark and swollen and wet, like lips salaciously inviting a kiss.

“Naughty girl…”, he observed, matter-of-factly.

He reached down to her hands, helping her stand, and walked her a few footsteps forward into the corner of the room. His feet tapped hers, encouraging her to widen her stance, her soiled underwear stretching between her ankles like manacles. He pushed her head lower, so her
nose almost touched the wall, making her bum jut out to keep her balance.

He moved her hands behind her, encouraging her to clasp her bottom cheeks. She flinched: her own flesh felt shockingly hot to the touch. She longed to soothe herself, but his hands stopped her motions.

“No rubbing!” he admonished, “You will stand there in disgrace. Now hold your cheeks apart… more… more… that’s better.”

The new red band across her bottom divided in two, revealing her bottom hole and the thin white cleft that had been sheltered from his ruler. Pulling apart more, she exposed her secret lips, slick with her excitement. Exposed to the air, she felt her most sensitive parts chill, whilst all around, her buttocks smouldered.

She felt a swell of shame, exposing herself to her teacher like this. Her hands twitched, wanting to caress the sting. She could feel herself stretch, her face burning with embarrassment. He’d never made her classmates do this, had he?  Then again, she couldn’t remember anybody else ever coming on her underwear…

“You may stand there exposing yourself whilst you reflect on your disgraceful behaviour.”

She stayed in position facing the corner, the region between her legs aching.
Is he looking? She wondered. She squirmed, but he said nothing.

Silence intervened.
Quiet enough to hear a clock tick.
Her cheeks burned.

Behind her, a pen scribbled.

Eventually, she dared look back, the shame clear in her expression. She spoke softly.
“W..what are you doing…?”

He had returned to his desk, and sat facing her.
“I have work to do, young lady.”

She heard his pen scribble, stop, be put down, be picked back up and used again. The sound of pages turning. She was jealous. She wanted his attention. She arched out again, with an ostentatious groan, putting all her weight on one leg, and then the other, letting herself sway lightly. She’d make him notice her… Somehow.

… behind her, the clock ticked, his chair squeaked, papers shuffled …

She cleared her throat, trying to listen out for any change in his movements. Nothing. She scuffed her feet, again no reaction. Finally, she sighed loudly, turning her voice into a childish whine.
“Siiiiiir…” she called, arching her back again, swaying back on her legs, threatening to get out of position.

He looked up to see her swaying. Her hands were still behind her, splaying her pink cheeks apart. Her dark hole tightened slightly as she swayed, almost winking. The lips of her slit were still slick and swollen.

He checked his watch. It was about time.
Her heart quickened as she heard his chair scraping, and his footsteps approaching, until he was just standing just behind her.

“Keep those naughty cheeks apart, young lady.”

She heard a rustling, something being drawn from a pocket…

She froze in a limbo between fear and anticipation, she knew looking back would displease him, so kept her eyes on the wall in front of her. Perhaps his punishment was having some effect on her behavior, after all. She held her breath, listening intently for the sound of foil tearing.

She felt his hand brush her thighs as he reached between her legs.
She had so much she wanted to say in her next breath: Sir, I’m sorry for being such a brat. I know I deserved to be spanked like a child. I’ve learned my lesson. Look, I’m ready to be treated like a young woman now. But she could not express all that in a breath.
So she simply gasped.

His hand cupped her crotch.
His fingertips resting on her mound, her lips in his palm, his wrist in her bottom cleft.

His touch felt cool and luxuriously soft: he had covered his hand with his silk handkerchief.
Just a flimsy stretch of pale blue silk separated his flesh from hers.
She felt the silk mingle with her slickness.
She felt the silk sink within her folds.
She felt the cool silk enveloping her, and his warmth just beneath.

She pulled her sore spanked cheeks further apart, wanting to signal her obedience, longing for the sensation to reach deeper inside.

He stood in silence behind her, motionless, content to hold her in his hand. It was as if they’d both been turned to stone, into some erotic statue. Man and naughty spanked brat in marble, artist unknown.

Her entrance twitched, knowing the thin layer of silk was all that blocked his hands from touching her. From entering her. She waited to be stroked, she wanted to be stroked – but she understood the dynamic, he was her teacher, she was his pupil, and she would do what he said. She sensed if she waited she’d get her reward. He was always a fair man, a firm hand amid her spoilt life, like an older brother who wanted the best for her, who had vowed to protect her.

She was overcome with the urge to apologise, she knew she had been a brat, and that he would have found her brattiness extremely tiresome. With a shaky voice, she spoke guiltily.
“I.. I’m sorry for violating the uniform code, and lying, and….”
The sheer humiliation of what she was about to say made her hesitate.
“… and for making a mess in my panties. I deserved my punishment sir…”
She swallowed hard before adding a painful “Thank you for disciplining me, sir.”

“Good girl.” he commended.
A smacked bottom does do wonders, he thought.

But there was still the issue of her deteriorating behaviour to address. Were he to send her home now, he was certain she’d spend the rest of the day admiring her bottom in her mirror and rubbing herself. Her acting up would get worse, as she tried to grab his attention, as she tried to engineer another afternoon alone with him. No, she’d have to shown who was in control, that punishments could be painful, and the privilege of pleasure had to be earned.

“Young lady, you will report here after classes end, every day, for the rest of the week.”
He paused to let his instruction sink in.
“And I will send you home after you’ve done your bend-over dance.”

That drew a gasp.
Her mind raced to interpret what he’d said. A bare bottom spanking every day after school? For a moment she saw herself, walking home with a shameful secret, her red bottom glowing under her school skirt.

Her hands and arms were tiring now, from holding apart her bottom cheeks. She relaxed her legs slightly, shamefully allowing her weight to rest in the palm of his hand. She tried not to let her mind wander.

Just what sort of dance did he have in mind?
The familiar quick-tempo swaying that he orchestrated with his ruler?
Or perhaps a slower, more intimate dance across his knee?
Or the ritualised stretching, jumping and prancing of a caning?
Or did he mean her current position, bent over in the corner, held in a clench, like some obscene ballroom pose?
Or …?
He couldn’t mean that, surely?

She blinked, looking back at him nervously.
“S-sir… I think I misheard you. I thought you said every day.. I.. I’ve had my punishment..” she eyed the man, unsure of what he wanted.. “I.. I’ll wear my uniform, properly.”

“Every day this week, young lady.”

“This hasn’t been punishment. Do the other girls finish their bend-over dances soaking between their legs? We both know that you’ll be riding your fingers in bed tonight.”

Her face hidden out of sight, blushed vividly.

“So, every day for the rest of the week, I’m going to punish you properly. You’re going to report to this classroom properly dressed. You’re going to tell me you’ve been a very naughty girl. You’re going to pull down your panties and politely ask me for a long, hard, bare bottom spanking.”

“And rest assured I shall stop well before you disgrace yourself. I shall be sending you home with just a sore bottom. And the next day, we’ll do it all again. That, young lady, is punishment.”

She bit her lip. A spanking every day would kill, not to mention getting home late every day would raise suspicions. She studied her teacher, knowing he was serious.
“E..everday? But, if I take it well…”, she let the sentence trail off, hoping that she’d be let off if she behaved herself tomorrow.

“If… IF… you stop acting like a silly brat, and start fulfilling your undoubted academic potential, you may find that life can become much more pleasurable indeed…”, he let that thought hang in the air for a moment.
“Now, keep your legs apart whilst I clean up your mess…”

His hand began to move underneath her. She became aware again of the luxurious sheen of the silk as he pressed it over her hairless mound. She could feel his fingertips crest her mound and slide back her hood, lingering to let her feel the exceptionally soft silk caress her clit. She was so wet, his fingertips glided effortlessly behind the silk. He could feel the material dampen as he traced the folds of her lips, up and down, up and down, as she tried to grind against him.

The square of silk had barely moved, but his fingers continued their intimate journey, beginning to slip within her lips. As he approached her entrance, his fingertips began to move in ever decreasing circles, as if they were caught in some kind of vortex, and were being sucked into the warm wet hole of her vagina. Through the silk, his fingertips explored her maw, rubbing the inside of her ring, smearing her excitement across the silk.

His fingers left her hole throbby, unfulfilled and aching, and moved down to massage the hinterlands of her perineum. He dabbed and rubbed, tracing her contours, soaking up all the juices that had dribbled down. Finally, his index finger approached her bottom hole, skirting around it, slowly circling, wiping it clean, spiralling inwards until his fingertip hovered over it. She felt it tantalise her, gently pushing, threatening to enter…

She felt a delicious frustration, did he intend to push it into her? Or should she impetuously thrust backwards and impale herself? Suddenly, the pressure from his fingertip vanished, and she felt a cool draught as he whisked the handkerchief away. And the moment was gone.

At his command, Natalie pulled her lace panties up over her tender-pink bottom, hoping she didn’t show her discomfort. Her shorts followed, and he gave her a tissue to dry her eyes, but not his blue handkerchief, which lay soiled on his desk, a long blotchy streak smeared across its length, testament to her excitement.


Later that evening, Natalie quietly locked her bedroom door, undressed, and knelt on her bed. She began to rub herself as she tried to remember as much as she could of her experience. She wanted to relive every detail, every sensation.

When it came to recalling her corner time she reached behind to grasp her still smarting buttocks, splaying them apart, enjoying the guilty rush of exposing herself. She held herself open, simulating her almost interminable wait, before finally slipping her vibrator deep inside. As she held her bottom apart, she remembered his silky touch as he’d caressed her folds whilst wiping her clean, and how she had willed him to probe deeper. Her vibe became him, as she imagined fantasies she could never confess.

She began to rehearse what she’d say to him tomorrow, just under her breath, for her ears only.

“I’ve been a very naughty girl, sir”, lips barely moving.
Her bottom tingled, she felt herself tighten against the vibe. She worked it deeper.

“I’ve been a very naughty girl, sir” she whispered. She’d be peeling her panties down at this point, feeling the tight material flick her pussy. Moments later, she’d be bending over, and he’d be lifting her skirt, she pulled her bottom apart further, simulating the view of her slit he’d see as she waited obediently for her well-deserved spanking.

“I’ve been a VERY naughty girl, sir” she repeated desperately.
“Please may I have a long… uh… hard… ohhhh… bare bottom sp—-”

Her climax swamped her whispers, and overwhelmed her utterly.


Several streets away – at the very moment Natalie climaxed – he was at home, hosting a dinner party.

An attractive young lady was standing in his lounge, admiring the collection of small square abstract prints mounted on the wall.

“Fascinating designs, painted on linen?”, she enquired.

“Silk, actually”, he replied.

She gazed at swirls and splotches on one particular pale blue square. “Lovely. Tremendously expressive. Reminiscent of O’Keeffe.”

“Indeed” he smiled, “I only acquired that one earlier today.”

They stood admiring his collection, it already filled one wall, and was now beginning to populate an alcove.

He gave a friendly grin; which might also have been the smile of someone who knew a secret no-one else knew. He alone knew the provenance of the ‘paintings’. Each silk square was a student or lover who’d climaxed during a spanking. Each one he’d wiped clean with a silk handkerchief as they’d shamefully held their spanked cheeks apart.

It was the universality of female anatomy that gave his abstract art a similarity, a thematic consistency. In each vertical lines could be discerned, with a characteristic splotch at its top, imparted by the wet bulb of her clit and its hood. Underneath, the lines widened, sometimes dividing and swiggling as the silk traced the folds of her lips. Then another dark splotch as the silk was massaged across and into her entrance. And sometimes, just below that, there was a fainter, enigmatic patch of golden brown. Some naughty girls had dirty bottoms, and some liked his finger inside.

His eyes fell on a pink square subtitled “Amanda”. A wild, wilful young minx – but clever, she’d ground herself greedily against his handkerchief that day, trying to come one last time, creating a manic series of swirls and whorls. A doctor now, he’d bumped into her a few months ago. Apparently, her husband had put her over his knee every morning before she went to medical school.

His hand touched his guest’s shoulder, subtly steering her towards the dinner table.

“Behind each one is a story…”

He might tell her the truth one day.


@spankingtheatre 2012

with grateful thanks to the imagination of

The Bottom Smacking Machine

There was just the merest space between the bookshelf and the chest of drawers. Just enough to slide a few sheets of paper between them.
Or wedge in a ruler.

She called it her Bottom Smacking Machine.
Though that name did somewhat overstate its complexity.
Bottom Smacking Contrivance would have been more accurate, if much less catchy.

She’d thought it strange when he’d first instructed her to search her house for a narrow gap between two heavy objects. The gap had to be narrow enough to hold in place a few sheaves of paper, and have space to stand either side of it. And two sides of the gap had to be more or less flush with each other.

Eventually she found one.
When she reported back, he instructed her to wedge her plastic ruler into the gap – just up to the 8 centimetre mark, and leave the rest jutting out.
And put it just below waist height.
Suddenly, his intentions became very clear.

She had been so very, very naughty.
And he was such a long, long way away.
Some means of discipline would have to improvised.
Or standards would slip. And that would be just unacceptable.

One night alone, her phone chirped.
A new message.
From him: pronouncing her sentence.
A visit to her bottom smacking machine. 30 whacks on each cheek.
She cursed his strictness, but wished he was here to discipline her himself.

She was well rehearsed with her punishment protocol by now and began to make her preparations.
First, she had to decide on a setting, and dress accordingly.
She had considered donning her pyjamas, and acting out a bedtime spanking before being put to bed. She also thought of wearing her skinniest thong bikini, and pretending to be a Roman galley slave, being whipped under a merciless sun.

In the end though, she decided to wear her school uniform, and to imagine herself reporting for after-school detention to find her teacher holding a ruler. She lay on her bed, a hand inside her panties, imagining all the details. Joining the back of the queue, she would watch her classmates being called forward, one by one, to pull down their knickers.

In her mind’s eye she’d look on timorously – but fascinatedly – as they yelped in response to the ruler’s slaps. Then, skirt up, knickers still down, each girl would be sent to sit down, wincing as her sore bare bottom met the cold hard wood of the desk benches. Her dedication to fleshing out her fantasy was commendable.

She opened her eyes, looking across her room to stare at the ruler, now hanging in the air beside the bookcase. She closed her eyes, and found herself standing at the front of the queue. There was only one desk in the detention room still empty: hers. Her rubbing quickened, knowing it was her turn next. Behind her eyelids she heard her name being called. She managed to stop rubbing – just in time – and rose from the bed feeling every inch the naughty schoolgirl, a throbby, achy unresolved heat inside her knickers.

Her legs were trembling as she walked towards her appointment with the ruler.
She stood in front of it, continuing to play out her punishment fantasy.
“Oh no sir! Please don’t spank me! Not on the bare!” she pleaded, to her empty room.
But there was no one to hear, no one to grant her reprieve.

She turned around. She could almost see her pink bottomed classmates in front of her, sitting uncomfortably on those crude wooden benches, each girl so wanting to rub her sore bottom but with their hands cruelly occupied by writing lines instead.

She reached down to her hem and raised her skirt, tucking it into her waist.
“Oh sir…” she whined, “not on my bare bottom!”
She let her fingers linger inside her knicker elastic. With no disciplinarian to keep waiting, she could enjoy the skin-tingling sensation of slowly lowering her panties as they slid down her legs. Once fully exposed, she started to bend over, shuffling backwards until she felt the cool plastic on her bum.

In her fantasy classroom, she imagined him scolding her.
“Disgraceful behaviour! 60 whacks for you, girl…”

She reached back, pulling the plastic ruler away from her.
She felt its tension building on her fingertips.
By now, she knew just how much to bend it.
Too little, and she’d receive an avuncular pat.
Too much, and the ruler would snap.
Just enough gave a delicious slap.

She imagined him, standing behind her, poised with his ruler, about to strike.
She felt the ache between her legs.
She let the ruler slip from her fingers…
It sprang back in an instant, delivering a smack that made her bottom quiver.

“Ooooo! I’m sorry, sir” she whispered.
She pulled the ruler back a bit further this time, her fingers trembling.
The ruler sprang back again, smacking the spot where the first blow had landed.
She yelped, feeling her bottom smart.
Bending over fully, she touched her toes, savouring the fiery pain until it ebbed into a warm tingle.
She shuffled slightly, so the next blow would strike a different spot.
“Oh, sir…” she whispered as she reached behind again, “I’ve been such a naughty girl…”
The ruler twanged again, and again; she gasped as it corrected her.

Soon, the dispassionate ruler had turned one of her cheeks pink.
Her instructions were unequivocal.
She turned around, and stood on the other side of the ruler, shuffling until she felt the cool plastic on her unspanked buttock.
“Oh please sir, I promise I’ll be good…” she begged, but her pleas fell on no ears at all.

She reached behind her with her other hand, pulling the ruler back.
The smack made her mew in pain, but she showed herself no mercy.
He had sent her to the bottom smacking machine to be punished because he cared, and she had deserved it.
The ruler twanged again and again, until her whole bottom was pink.


Faraway, inside his jacket pocket, his phone cheeped.
A new message.
A photo.
Of her.
Her bottom glowing.
Her hands on her head.
Her school skirt still raised.
Panties around her ankles.
She stood astride the ruler, its edge just parting her pussy lips.
She’d even included a message.
“Thank you, sir, for disciplining me.”

Her obedience made him smile. Standards did have to be maintained.
On her next infraction, maybe he’d have her replace the ruler with a whippy cane.

“Good news?” asked his dinner companion.
He pocketed his phone, smiling back, “The best.”

@spankingtheatre 2012

Throne of Shame

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

He took the princess’s hand delicately, elegantly holding hers on top of his, and led her.
“Your throne, your highness”

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

Silken bonds dangled from the armrests. He reached behind her to undo her gown, which dropped around her feet.
“Please, be seated, highness…”

* * * * *

Once upon a time, in a faraway land of cloud-capped peaks and twisting paths, in a grandiose turreted castle adorned with fluttering pennants, lived a princess.

She was no fragile damsel, but a headstrong fighter, prepared to slay any man who dared challenge her feminine strength. By habit, she drew her sword with a defiant toss of her head.

Yet she would flee from her kingdom one fateful night, leaving all her riches and privileges behind. She had discovered she had been betrothed. An arranged marriage, a life not of her choosing. From her bedroom tower, the world had stretched out below her, beckoning her with the promise of adventures. There were turquoise seas and ancient forests, bone-white sands and shimmering lakes, sun-wracked deserts and eerie crags.

She would not be a minor supporting actress in another’s fairytale. She was a princess! A warrior! And she was determined the world would know her name. She disguised herself in a soldier’s cloak, hurriedly grabbing just the barest essentials and her favourite sword, and stole away from her castle by starlight.

Several weeks later, their paths crossed at a rickety river bridge.

He was a lord, returning home with his army. His scouts had spotted her, but he rode up to challenge her alone. The two warriors instinctively crossed swords. Fighting – or was it flirting with their blades – teasing, probing, determining each other’s character with every thrust and parry. Until, exhausted and sweaty, they locked eyes, and in that moment understood each other.

He told her to accompany him. She had resisted, vigorously, of course. So he had her put in chains. It was either that or leave her to stumble into the merciless clutches of his enemy’s roving armies. They would ensure the remainder of her life would be nasty, brutal and short – staked to the ground naked for soldiers to defile.

She accompanied his army on their ride home as a captive. When they made camp the next night, she was brought to his tent, still chained. He described her likely fate should she be freed, and offered her an alternative, instead of serving an army, she would serve only him.
“I’ll bow to no man!” she snapped back.
He just smiled at her challenge.

Her clothes were filthy from weeks sleeping rough, he soon cut them from her – despite her protests. Afterward, he bound her to his bed and washed her. Then he shaved her, his fingers protecting her soft lips from the razor’s edge.

She shouted in indignation when she saw the chastity belt.

It was a supple white leather belt with silver front-shield that curved like a horn as it tapered between her legs. He adjusted the girdle so the silver curve hugged her body like a hand cupping her crotch, the palm covering her shaven mound, a silver fingertip tantalisingly close but not touching her bottom hole. No man would touch her; neither would she.

The following night she was brought before him again. He untied her gown, exposing her naked, save the manacles around her wrists and ankles, and the small silver shield around her waist that defended her modesty. He pushed her onto his bed so she lay face down, and restrained her further with rope. She cursed him angrily for his affront. He chided her for her indiscipline – then began to whip her thighs and buttocks with his riding crop.

She yelled furiously, raging at the indignity, cursing his impudence.
No one had ever chastised her before.
She was a princess!
No one had ever dared be so bold.

Yet she had grown up under the shadow of physical discipline. If she had misbehaved, or flouted her royal household’s strict rules, her governess would escort the rebellious princess back to her bedchamber and undress her. Once divested of her fine silk robes and undergarments, she would be redressed in calico undergarments and a gown of coarse sackcloth. And in place of her gold filigree tiara, she would wear a circlet of straw.

Once dressed more humbly, the princess was escorted to the punishment room, high in the old decaying East Tower: a rarely visited – and conveniently out of earshot – corner of the castle. The room contained a padded leather bench and crude wooden throne on a small raised platform; she called it her Throne of Shame.

The disgraced princess would then stand in front of the spanking bench. And wait. She was meant to be contemplating her misdemeanours, of course, but her attention was drawn instead by the small details of the spanking bench – and the stories its patina revealed. Like how two holes in the restraining straps were worn larger than the rest, the holes that represented the diameter of a young lady’s wrist. And how, in the bench’s black leather, she could see the shadow of goodness-knows-how-many generations of squirming miscreants scuffed into its surface.

All the while, behind her, she would feel a palm-sized wooden paddle pressing against each of her buttocks, kneading, lifting, spreading each cheek, but never striking. She would wait in silence, and begin to long for a sudden smack, or a firm push in the small of her back that would bend her over the spanking bench, or the thrillingly cold draught of her gown being lifted as her bottom was bared. Still she waited.

But princesses were not to be beaten. Soon, she would be shaken from her reverie by a hammering fist on the old oak door. It would be one of the palace guard – and one of her friends. The guard would be dismissed, and the princess and her young friend would look at each other in awkward silence, each knowing what must happen next.

The princess would apologise to her friend as she began to undress her. By now, all of her friends had stood naked before her, and over the passing years she had seen their bodies change. She held the hand of her naked friend as she escorted her to the A-shaped spanking bench, and apologised again as she spread her friend’s legs, binding each ankle to a back leg of the bench. She would step around the bench to face her friend, both now blushing pink with embarrassment and apologise once more as she pulled her hands forward, bending her friend over the top of the bench, raising her bottom high to face her throne. She knelt down, securing her friend’s wrists to the front legs of the bench with straps, and whispered a final apology.

The princess would step up onto the platform, and sit guiltily on her wooden throne of shame. She would watch with guilt and fascination as her governess dabbed her finger into a small clay pot of ginger paste, and rubbed it into her friend’s bottom hole. In moments the leather straps would creak as she struggled against her restraints, splaying her buttocks wide as she seeks relief from the burning between her cheeks.

The governess would then explain to her friend the crimes she is about to be punished for.
The princess’s crimes.

Picking up a long-handled paddle, she would look up expectantly at the straw-crowned princess, waiting for the order to begin. The princess would look down from her high throne, facing her friend’s bottom, a few footsteps away, knowing she must perform her duty, lest her friend’s ordeal be extended. She would blush red, but speak authoritatively, like a princess should.


Smacks began to echo around the punishment room. The governess spanked hard, slapping one cheek, then the other with her wicked rosewood paddle. All the while, the princess stared down from her wooden throne, her gaze fixed on the reddening cheeks of her struggling friend, almost close enough to touch.

Each whack is accompanied by an anguished cry, guilt makes the princess long to take her friend’s place, trying to imagine the sensation of each smack as it rings in her ears. Yet she can not avoid staring between her friend’s lithe thighs at her most secret places. Underneath her sackcloth gown, between her own legs, she would feel herself tingling.
Soon, tears of guilt and shame would drip down her cheeks.

The chastened princess did not misbehave often.
Though sometimes, when she was alone at night in her chamber, lying in her ornate four-poster bed with its satin curtains drawn, her fingers would begin to wander. Her favourite fantasy involved the paddle, the throne and the spanking bench – and that intoxicating, illicit view of a freshly spanked bottom, and the secret area in between.

And sometimes, the very next day, just to see it again, she’d misbehave.

* * * * *

So it was with a shock that she realised she was not being beaten, but disciplined. For years, she had fantasised about such punishment, of receiving her comeuppance, imagining the hot sensations as her bottom was smacked. She had always wondered how much it would hurt; but it really wasn’t that sort of pain. She stopped yelling.
This was discipline, chastisement, and she deserved it.

Later that night she was returned to her own bed, tied down and left alone to contemplate the warm afterglow of her whipping. It had been incredibly humiliating. But deep down – she admitted to herself, being so powerless had been very exciting. Whips and chains and rituals of discipline would bedevil her dreams.

The next night she was brought before him again. Again, he untied her gown, exposing her nakedness, and restrained her to his bed. This time though, she held her tongue, as if silenced by the guilt of unpunished childhood follies. He produced a seductive, spicy, musky balm and began to rub it into her feet and hands. She did not demur.

He combined the sensations from his fingers with his warm breath, gently blowing and nibbling her tingling flesh at the nape of her neck, then her calves, and behind her knees. He rubbed the balm further, nuzzling her inner elbows and thighs, before caressing her throat and breasts. Behind the silver shield of her chastity belt, a fire began to smoulder between her legs.
He would make no attempt to quench it tonight.

The following night, she was brought before him again. But this time, she untied her own gown,  and lay down on his bed before he’d said a word. He smiled at her compliance, then turned her onto her back and tied her down.

Again his expert fingers began to spread aromatic oils across her canvas. Featherlight touches danced across her calves, earlobes, shoulders and the small of her back, leaving her longing for a lingering touch.

He ran his fingers through her hair, and raised her chin to see her sparkling eyes coruscate with desire. He explored the valley of her back, finally arriving at the crevice of her buttocks. A lone finger skirted her puckered entrance, causing her to frantically pull against her bonds in protest, but she was defenceless.

His finger teased and probed her hole, stoking the fire behind her silver shield, a hot, wet ache she was desperate to satisfy. Then he stopped, switching his attention to the soles of her feet, and then the nape of her neck. Each time he returned to her hole, his finger teased her more salaciously. She would tug at her bonds, trying to arch her back, urging his finger deeper, but then it would vanish, only to reappear in another corner of her world.

Later, his finger brushed her hole again. She was about to beg him for release when she felt a surge of shame. She suddenly realised that she was no proud princess, no untameable warrior spirit, they were lies she’d told herself, masks she’d donned. In reality, she was an undisciplined wench, a lust-driven harlot, a spoilt brat who’d got wet watching her friends being spanked for her own misdemeanours. He had discovered her true nature, he had whipped her like a scullery maid, and now here she was, behaving like one. He had found her weakness, and tamed her with her own desire.

He continued to tease, tickle and tantalise her until her will to resist finally crumbled like some long-besieged city wall. She cried out, begging him to remove her shield and take her.
But he just smiled.

“Patience, my lady. We arrive at my castle tomorrow. And I have a surprise for you.”

* * * * *

They rode into his castle as the sun set, its granite walls glowing pink in the dying light. It sat atop a small hill, its six tall towers staring out like sentinels, watching over the lands he had sworn to protect.

He escorted her to his private chambers, and searched the eyes of his manacled guest. Now he could see the rage had vanished from her eyes. He unlocked her shackles. She stretched her arms and legs, then hugged him. It was not a romantic embrace, but one born of loneliness, the desire to feel the warmth of another again. Each smelled of sweat, grass and horses.
“Thank you”, she whispered.

He knelt before her and unlocked the girdle of her chastity belt, admiring the delicate folds of her femininity. He undressed slowly as she watched. On removing his shirt, she saw his stout arms bore the souvenir scars of battles and skirmishes. It never crossed her mind to look away as he began to remove his undergarments. Through surreptitious assignations with past lovers, she was no stranger to the male form. When he stood naked before her and knelt, he could smell the musky odour of her sex.

He led her by the hand to the adjoining bathroom. The circular tiled pool had already been filled with hot water, filling the room with mist. Candles glimmered in the steam, flickering floating orange orbs, will-o’-the-wisps in a fragrant swamp. They entered the water eagerly and washed the grime of each other’s journey away.

Afterwards, he dried and dressed her in a simple gown. They dined in a room at the top of a tower, on a table crafted from an old tree stump. After weeks of dried rations they devoured the fresh food eagerly; and slowly, they began to talk to each other. They learned each other’s names, and related the stories that had caused their paths to cross. As the moon rose, he pointed out the lands below, the silver ribbons of the rivers, the dark shadows of the forests and the red dots of faraway fires, each a small haven of safety in an inky black night.

A silence – just the sound of cicadas chirping nearby – and then:

“I promised you a surprise”

* * * * *

They descended a spiral stone staircase, and he led her by the hand into a small room. The tapestries on one wall were illuminated by a bank of candles on the wall opposite. They were alone.

At the far end a single throne glimmered with gold. It was ornately carved, it sat on a dais of burgundy and jade.

He took the princess’s hand delicately, elegantly holding hers on top of his, and led her towards it. “Your throne, your highness”

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

She noticed the silken bonds dangling from the armrests – and something else, a strange wooden contraption on the floor below the dais, just a few footsteps in front of the throne. It looked like some kind of spanking bench, she thought, suddenly recalling the details of the austere punishment room of her youth.

He reached behind her to undo her gown, which dropped silently around her feet. She stood naked in front of him without complaint. He spoke softly, but firmly.
“Please, be seated, highness…”

She hesitated, then stepped up onto the dais with as much dignity as she could manage. The throne’s gilded craftsmanship was exquisite, but her eyes were irresistibly drawn back to the bone-white ivory protrusion in the middle of the seat; it was as wide as her thumb, as long as her index finger, with a subtle curve, and there could be little doubt about its purpose. She knelt over the throne, and took the ivory finger in her mouth, her tongue feeling every sculpted groove as she moistened it.

She stood and faced him, her arousal obvious, before stepping backwards and beginning to sit. She supported her weight on the armrests as she lowered herself towards the ivory finger, then she felt it, cool and damp, poking between her bottom cheeks. She raised herself slightly, feeling the finger trace down her crevice, until it touched her arsehole. She pushed against it, gasping as she felt the cold, hard protrusion slide inside her. As her legs quivered, she dropped the remaining short distance, fully impaling herself on her new throne of shame.

She sat upright, regally, her posture immaculate. But he easily saw behind her pretence of elegance, she could not conceal her abasement as she squirmed disgracefully upon her throne’s protuberance. He stepped onto the dais and bound her wrists to the armrests with the silken ties, then parted her legs to bind each ankle to the throne. His fingers glanced across her lips as he dabbed the damp patch of velvet between her thighs, tsking at her lack of self-control.

Fettered and immobile, she felt the pleasure of impalement spread from her arse to her crotch. She imagined a bonfire spitting hot embers towards a pan of gunpowder, realising the inevitability of an explosion…

But what he said next shocked her.
“Is this really how a princess should behave?”

She stared back, open-mouthed.
“What kind of princess wanders in rags, in the wilderness?
What kind of princess impales herself so readily?
What kind of princess soaks her own throne with her arousal?”

Dumbstruck, she let his words sink in. Had she really behaved like a princess in his company? Now without her jewels, her fine robes and her servants, was she even a princess anymore? Certainly her behaviour since they’d met had been more akin to a common harlot than a highborn princess. Now here she was, penetrated, owned and tied to be used – and she liked it. The intrusion in her bottom felt so good, and her arousal was undeniable; from her glazed eyes to her engorged nipples to the slick, open pink petals of her cunt. She tried to regain her composure, stretching against her bonds, trying to concentrate on other sensations.

“Let’s see…”

Now he walked past the strange wooden contraption, and left the room. It reminded her of the spanking bench her friends had once been bent over, but it was much taller, almost as tall as he was. It was also much narrower, its legs were as wide as her stance at the base, but quickly narrowed to a leather-covered top – actually, it was more of a ridge than a top; an apex, an edge. But its most distinctive feature was the carved horse head at the end that faced away from her, it give the structure the appearance of an oversized children’s toy. The head had an authentic-looking bridle, all straps and shiny plates and reins. At the end closest to her, there was a small rickety-looking two-legged stool underneath. A giant rocking horse, that didn’t rock, with a back that was more edge than saddle. Her mind boggled at its strangeness.

She was still trying to understand its purpose when he returned. This time there was someone with him, a young woman who wore the utilitarian clothes of a servant girl. She was suddenly acutely aware of her nakedness, but bound to the throne with her legs apart, she was incapable of covering her modesty.

“You stand before a princess. Be sure you show the due respect” he told her.

The servant girl looked surprised, then suddenly alarmed, as if she’d left a fire unattended, and quickly approached the dais to curtsy. The princess tried to acknowledge the girl’s tribute as regally as one could whilst bound naked to a golden throne with something up one’s bottom.


The servant girl didn’t seem particularly shocked by his command, and removed her clothing quickly. Undressed with a single word, the princess thought; his exhibition of erotic power excited her. She ran her eyes down the servant girl; a cute face, blue eyes, short boyish black hair, clean unblemished skin, a shaven mound. Was that usual for a servant girl?

“Stand up on the stool, and straddle the horse” he instructed.

The servant girl approached the back of the horse tentatively, stepping up onto the stool at the very back of the horse and swinging her left leg over the narrow ridge. Now she stood astride the flat thin edge, her feet on the stool, one on each side of the strange structure.

“Now, sit” he said firmly.

She lowered herself as he instructed, but the ridge between her legs was far too narrow to serve as a seat. She felt the cool leather-clad edge part her buttocks, then touch her lips. She rocked back slightly, shifting to avoid pressing on her most sensitive parts, until ultimately she found herself balancing precariously, resting her perineum against the edge near the very back of the horse. He could see from the straining muscles of her thighs she was still supporting most of her weight with her legs, but said nothing. He produced a thin leather thong and tied her hands behind her back.

The servant girl stood astride the horse with her back to the princess, hands bound behind her back, teetering slightly on the stool.

In a flash of terrible clarity, the princess suddenly understood the cruel purpose of the wooden horse.

On several awful occasions, it had been the princess’s terrible duty to witness a hanging. To the beat of drums, she and her parents, the King and Queen, would solemnly file into the royal balcony, and sit on their thrones overlooking the great castle courtyard. She would look down on the gallows, its ominous old timbers blackened as if by fire, she’d see the noose dangling expectantly in the breeze, and shiver.

The sound of drums would rise to a deafening roar, almost too loud to think, as if trying to mask the horror of what was about to happen. A glint of gleaming metal would then catch her eye, pushing through the crowd: the guards escorting the condemned from the dungeon to underneath the dangling rope. They would be lifted onto the stool, their hands already bound behind their backs. The hooded hangman would pull the noose over the poor wretch’s head, and pull the rope tight, then rest his foot against the stool; he would look up at her and wait…

She saw him rest his foot against the stool.

“Give the order, highness”

The realisation of what was going to happen next made a shiver run down her spine, she squirmed on her throne. She felt the thrilling power of authority, yet simultaneously yearned to be free of her throne, to be free of her responsibilities. But she knew her duty, and so she spoke loudly and imperiously.


With a firm push, his foot tipped the stool, toppling it over. The servant girl dropped a fraction onto the leather edge, her feet jolting and dangling like a wretch on the gallows. The princess watched her feet kick the air with morbid fascination, watching her hands struggle behind her back as she vainly tried to free herself. And faintly audible beyond the servant girl’s moans, were the faint squeaks of flesh on leather, as her weight was painfully concentrated on the crevice between her legs, splaying her vulva apart.

He reached behind the struggling girl and untied her hands, bringing them in front of her and re-tying them with the reins. This made her lean her forward, rounding her bottom cheeks, revealing to the princess how the cruel edge had parted her lips. From her vantage point, her eyes sparkled, she was enjoying her privilege, enjoying watching another’s punishment again. It felt wrong, it felt shameful, but it was intoxicating.

From the side of the horse, he took a riding crop with a long black stem and tipped with a rounded flap of leather. He whipped it through the air, making it whiz threateningly, before slapping it across the servant girl’s buttocks. And again. The poor girl cried out, but said nothing. The sound of smacking filled the room as the princess’s gaze flits between the pink patches appearing on the victim’s bottom, and her bare feet – kicking the air, as if nestled in invisible stirrups.

He’s making her ride the horse, she realised, as she began to match the tempo of her canter by rocking on her throne. He began to whip more rapidly, bringing her to a gallop. Her cries quicken too, she tugs the reins, leaning even further forward, so now the princess can see the dark hole between her reddened cheeks. The remembered shame of watching her friends’ gingered bottoms wink in the punishment room washes over her, making her skin tingle. She is so desperately close to coming.

When suddenly, the slapping stops.

He reached down to right the stool, placing it underneath the servant girl’s dangling feet. At last, her trembling legs take her weight again.
“Good girl”, he told her, “you may dismount”.
He helped her swing her leg over the horse and step down to the floor. She stood silently, her hands between her legs alternately nursing her whipped cheeks and her vulva, now red and puffy and sore from her ride on the horse’s edge.

Now he approached the throne, stepping up onto the dais. He knelt between her open legs, close enough for her to feel his hot breath on her slick, engorged lips.
“I see you enjoyed that performance”, he said, as he began to untie her ankles.
She said nothing in reply, lowering her eyes in shame as he untied her wrists.

“Stand up please, highness” he commanded.
She rose slowly, hoping neither could hear the sucking noise as the throne’s protrusion pulled from her bottom.
“Now stand on stool, highness, and straddle the horse”

She stood mouth agape; so he repeated his instructions, more firmly this time.

She knew she had to comply. She stepped down from the dais, approaching the wicked horse tentatively. She paused, then stepped up onto the stool and swung her left leg over the narrow ridge, so she stood astride the horse just like the servant girl had done. The folds of her lips hovered just above the horse’s edge, as if teasing it, close enough for her to feel the warm dampness of her predecessor.

He gathered her hands behind her, tying her wrists with the leather thong. Her legs trembled as she imagined herself standing naked under the gallows, hands tied behind, teetering on the fatal stool, looking through the noose at the jeering, lascivious crowd…

His voice broke her reverie.  “Take your place on the throne, girl”

Her throne? She looked over her shoulder to see the servant girl daintily lowering herself onto the now slick protrusion. She began to wonder if she was truly just a servant girl, she had acted quite submissively yes, but she also possessed a certain sexual confidence, she was comfortable with her nakedness, and had endured her torment with little complaint.
Perhaps she was a concubine. Or a lover. Or…

The thought hit her like a mace’s glancing blow, she tottered on the stool, flexing her thighs against the edge to preserve her balance. What if the girl was his wife? His princess!
They could be playing with her, secretly laughing at her.
“I found a feisty one on my travels, my dear”, he would have told her, “she calls herself a princess, yet wets herself like a slut.”
“O make me your slave, my Lord”, she would have replied, “whip me on the Horse as she watches from the Throne of Shame, then let me witness her disgrace!”

She had thought she had nothing more to lose when he stripped her of her clothes, now she realised he was stripping her identity away too, exposing the secret submissive that lay beneath her haughty princess persona. Worse – she was complicit, willingly collaborating as he stripped her to her core, made tame by her own desire.

She faced forward again, a shiny bridle plate reflected the scene behind her in miniature, with the other girl seated regally on the throne, her wrists and ankles tied as hers had been. She felt his hand grip her cunt, a finger probing inside her.

He spoke differently now, his once polite, respectful tone now admonishing.
“Disgraceful wench!” he scolded, “Sopping wet. Does the pain of others excite you?”
He rested his foot on the stool, rocking it threateningly.

As she tried to keep her balance, he slapped her bottom with his hand. And again. Instinctively she shied away from the blows, leaning forward, feeling the hood of her clit rubbing along the horse’s edge. Her bottom was raised now, and he spanked her vigorously, scolding her after every few smacks. Her hands, tied just below the small of her back, flailed uselessly, powerless to prevent him splaying her buttocks. He ran his finger around her hole; after her time on the throne it betrayed her readily, eagerly accepting his invading digit. He pushed in deeply, continuing to spank her with his other hand, chiding her licentiousness as she ground herself against the horse’s edge.

He withdrew his finger and addressed the girl on the throne.
“Give the order”
It was the first time she had heard her voice, she spoke clearly and confidently.

His foot toppled the stool with a firm push. She felt herself fall, just a fraction, and then a sudden burning pain as the leather edge forced her labia apart. Her weight pressed cruelly against the base of her mound and her clit as her feet danced beneath her, stretching vainly for the ground, whilst her hands struggled behind her. Her wetness translated her writhing into an exquisite torment, even a tiny shift in her balance would make her slide ever so slightly, pressing the sadistic edge against a new and tender part of her cunt.

He let her dangle on the horse until her feet stopped kicking, then untied her hands, before retying them to the reigns in front of her. In the silence, she thought she could hear faint murmurs of pleasure, but in her daze could not be sure if she was responsible – or the girl impaled on the throne behind her.

A swishing whip broke the hush.
Moments later, she felt it smack against her arse.
She recoiled instinctively, grinding herself against the edge, a stripe of pain across her bottom, followed an instant later by a stripe of pain along her most sensitive place.
He began to whip quicker, making her grind against the horse at a cantering pace. The burning between her legs intensified, pain and pleasure mingling until they were indistinguishable.

She gripped the reins tightly, as if trying to rein herself in. She was so close to coming, but her last vestiges of dignity tried to hold her back from what she knew would be a wench’s climax: the disgrace of coming by rubbing herself as she was whipped. She longed for a princess’s climax, to be worshipped by a stiff cock as she lay blissfully in a white feather bed. Instead she was being forced to masturbate herself on this horse, as a servant girl stared between her legs, watching her bottom turn red.

Once upon a time, she had wished – she would have done anything – to swap places, to be the one over the spanking bench, to feel her bum burning, to be forced to spread her legs to expose everything she had to the authority on the throne. Now her wish had been unexpectedly granted, her disgrace was almost complete.

He continued to castigate her between flurries of slaps.
“What a wanton hussy. Rubbing her clit in front of others. My humble servant girl behaved with more decorum.”

“Are you really a princess? Or an imposter, weaving an improbable tale of a runaway princess in the hope of shelter and charity? I should send you to work in my kitchens.”

He was whipping her rapidly now. And she was losing her battle of self-control, she felt the tell-tale tremors deep inside. All those years of tedious royal dutifulness, she’d never felt anything like this, the shame of being his slave, the delight of suffering under his whip.

“And since you like it so much, you can spend every night in the dungeon, sitting across a device such as this.”

She pulled at the reins and clenched her legs, gripping the narrow beam with her thighs, driving the edge deeper into her aching slit, proferring her bottom in a final act of submission.
He accepted her sacrifice, and whacked her hard between her cheeks.
She thrust herself onto the edge, feeling her throbbing clit slide down its slick ridge, until it was buried deep inside her.
She came ecstatically.
She came shamefully.
She came revealingly.

* * * * *


They fucked again as they watched the sun rise, colouring the tower-top bedchamber with a golden glow.
It had been an exhausting night.
But he was sure he had made the right choice.

@spankingtheatre 2012

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