Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears


spanking story

Head Girl – part 1

A spanking story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


She knew she had to stop. 

She had to stop before… 


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

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

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

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

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

“What a very naughty girl you are.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her tummy lurched, what had she done? 

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

* * * 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


* * 2 * *


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“2 o’clock.”

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door slid open, silently and ominously.




To be continued…






@spankingtheatre 2020

Originally posted at

With heartfelt thanks to a partner in crime.

The Girl in the Mirror


To whoever finds these pages,

I am writing down these memories in the hope that recording my experiences might awaken me from this awful nightmare. Or at the very least, help preserve what remains of my sanity. If you stumble across these words, I pray they are not too late to save you from the fate that has befallen me.

Because I should not be here.

I belong in another life. In another, quite different reality.

Yet now I realise how little it takes to stumble between worlds. The gentle push of  a sudden squall, a soaking deluge on a dim dank late October evening. A split-second decision to veer into the nearest doorway to shelter.

As the cold rain teemed down, without an end in sight, I began to pay more attention to my surroundings, and realised I beneath the porch of a quaint old antique shop.

Impulsively, I decided to venture inside. A tinny brass bell tinkled as I entered, although not loudly enough to wake the shopkeeper, a white-whiskered gentleman who continued to snooze obliviously behind the counter.

I walked past him, slowly and quietly, not wanting to disturb his slumbers. The interior was a ramshackle collection of worn-out furniture and curios. The gaps between the merchandise had been eaten away by the additional of new items, to the point where the walkways through the shop were so challengingly narrow it felt more like an obstacle course than a retail space.

I weaved through the jumble carefully, trying not to bump or break anything. The palette of the shop were shades of tired time-worn browns, the rusty dusty dressed colour of items whose original owners had passed, and their inheritors too. Those who had once cared for and polished these items were long dead, their bodies decayed to mud or incinerated. Yet their possessions had endured. Even though their furniture had died long before them, being fashioned from the corpses of long-dead trees.

This was, I realised, a mausoleum of what had once been treasured. A requiem to the furnishings that had once brought such joy to their homes, and which now sat in musty silence, mourning their owners, awaiting the chance of a new one.

I began to see the items around me differently. Not as tired old junk, but merely dormant, just like the shopkeeper.

That was when my attention was captured by a dressing table, and in particular, its strange old oval mirror. There was an odd sharpness to its silver rim, one that made it seem like a still pool of water, somehow captured upright. Its glass seemed ethereal, almost impossibly clear, in stark contrast to the scratched and pitted wood of the table underneath.

My reflection gazed back at me, with clarity and depth that belied the dim light of my surroundings. I had the eerie sensation that if I concentrated hard enough, I could begin to see things beyond my own reflection. I thought I caught a glimpse of a rudimentary bed, covers bulging as if someone was sleeping beneath. Alarmed, I span around to check behind me. But I found myself quite alone. With no sign of a bed of any kind.

I turned to walk away, but couldn’t help looking over my shoulder at my diminishing reflection. It was so vivid, shining as if backlit amid the piles of gloomy clutter stacked around it. Each step further away from it made my tummy churn, as if I was already missing it.

The shopkeeper’s eyes blinked open as I passed him. He asked me if I’d seen anything I liked, nodding when I mentioned the old dressing table. Its price was surprisingly reasonable. Recklessly, daringly, I decided to buy it.




The old dressing table was delivered to my home the following day. I had it placed at the foot of the bed, so its wonderful luminous mirror could throw its light across my bedroom. I liked to lie on my bed and stare at it, especially as I masturbated, with my legs spread wide, my intimate manipulations reflected back to me in perfect clarity.

Then, a few days after it arrived, I began to notice weird aberrations in the reflection, objects in the bedroom not quite appearing where they should be.

In the days that followed, the discrepancies between my room and the reflection seemed to increase. Until one morning I was shocked to see something moving in the reflected image. It seemed to be a person, a young woman. It did not appear to be me. Startled, I looked around anxiously, but found myself alone.

I peered closer, the fuzzy image sharpening, replacing the reflection of my own surroundings the more I concentrated on it. Now I could see the girl beyond was standing in front of her own bed, which looked like the one I’d momentarily seen in the shop.

Details of her face began to resolve, and I noticed for the first time she was wearing a bridle bar gag in her mouth, which opened her lips into a provocative pout. She was remarkably pretty, I found myself jealously wishing I was as eye-catchingly beautiful.

The woman loomed closer, lifting her flimsy gown and looking over her shoulder to examine herself. I realised then she must be looking into a mirror of her own. As she hitched up her hem, she revealed that she was not only wearing nothing underneath, but that her bottom was bright pink, with the telltale overlapping rectangular bands of a recent strapping. She inspected her marks in full view of me, as if I was standing right in front of her, my magical mirror giving me an extraordinarily intimate view.

Can she see me? I remember wondering. Does she know I’m watching her?

As I spied on her, she began to rub her spanked bottom with both hands, often pausing her massage to let her forefinger stray between her cheeks. As she pulled her buttocks wider, I noticed a silvery glint from between her legs, which I initially thought was some kind of labial jewellery.

Her fingertip was circling her bottom hole now, the crinkled little hollow clearly on display, as if she wanted me to see everything.

Overcome by the urge to play, I stripped off and sat on the edge of the bottom of my bed, as close as I could get to my mirror, and the compelling scene beyond. I spread my legs wide, stroking my drippy slit before l let my finger drift lower, until I was circling my own bottom like the girl I was watching.

I could not hear the girl I was watching, so I had no idea if she was panting, or emitting little mews of satisfaction as she played. I couldn’t see her other hand, but assumed it was circling her clit, just as my other hand was doing. I wondered if she could hear me, my moans and my squelching?

I saw her turn around, and peer towards me. Suddenly, I was looking into the eyes of the girl in the mirror. Her expression didn’t change, but it seemed that our gazes connected. Somehow I felt that I knew her, and caught glimpses of her memories.

Painful memories.

Of abandonment. Loneliness. Salvation. And bondage.

I could hear the clink of chains. And the cries of floggings.

I stared at the mirror, overcome by a sudden feeling of vertigo, as if I was peering over the rim into an endless hole. But unable to stop.

Carried away, I continued rubbing, and the beauty in the mirror stared into my eyes as I reached the point of no return. I’m sure I saw her smile.



And then, I must have fainted.

They call it la petite mort.

The little death.

I came, more intensely than I’d ever done before.

And something inexplicable happened.





I awoke in woozy haze, to find myself looking back at the mirror. The girl in the mirror was now lying on her bed. When I moved my arm, the reflection mimicked me.

Because it was me.

There was a bridle gag in my mouth, its bar firmly between my teeth, holding down my tongue, keeping my mouth open in a suggestive pout. I leapt to my feet, screaming, only for the gag to muffle my cries. My clumsy fingers tried frantically to remove it, but there was never any chance of undoing the fastenings.

I stumbled towards the mirror in a state of mild terror, raising my hands to my cheeks to discover I had a different face now. A remarkably beautiful face.

And more than my face had changed, I realised I was inhabiting someone else’s body.

I raised my gown to discover I was younger, and leaner. My breasts smaller and firmer. My mound was shaved smooth and bare. And my pert bottom was still pink and stinging.

But alarmingly, my labia were pierced and closed shut with three small silver rings. Attached to the topmost ring was a thumbnail-sized silvery shield, which  had been fashioned with a curve that hugged the contours of my new body, completely enclosing my clitoris. It was anchored in place by a thin bar that pierced the fold above my hood. I could see greasy fingerprints on its shiny surface.

Bewildered, and suddenly queasy with fear, my instinct was to run. As my heart thundered in my chest, I tried the handle on the door, which opened into a long colonnade of bright white columns.

Between the columns were occasional alcoves, some empty, and some occupied by statues. The white marble figures were intricately carved, with bridles in their grimacing mouths and rings in the cleft between their legs. Just like me, which made a chill of recognition run down my spine.

I crept past dozens of closed doors, with skylights and windows providing alternating pools of light and gaps of darkness. My pace quickened as felt the breeze of outdoor air, and saw the green of a garden ahead, but the view was abruptly dimmed as an ominous silhouette loomed before me.

I halted in mid-step, as the figure encroached into my little pool of daylight, revealing herself to be an attractive, impeccably dressed lady, possibly a decade older than myself. In contrast to my gauzy white gown, she was dressed in an austere black. A nasty-looking leather strap hung from her belt.

The woman barked a question at me, in a tone of voice that suggested she was most displeased with me. I didn’t fully understand the language she spoke, but the bridle in my mouth meant I couldn’t reply, even if I’d wanted to.

She grabbed my wrist, scolding me as she dragged me back to the room where I’d woken, which I could only assume was where I was meant to reside. Whatever here actually is.

She made me kneel on my bed, head down, bottom up, before lifting my gown to spank me on the bare. I moaned into the bridle as my already stinging cheeks were burned further by her cruel leather strap.

I was put to bed immediately afterwards, with hot ache of horniness smouldering deep inside me, the shield enclosing my clit denying me the chance to relieve myself. I took what consolation I could by rubbing my bottom hole, just as I’d seen the girl in the mirror do, before falling into a deep and troubled sleep.

The next morning, I woke early, as the amber light of dawn seeped through my little window. My room was spartan, empty except for a bed and a dressing table, which seemed indistinguishable to the one I’d bought, a week and half a lifetime ago. Its large oval mirror still gleamed with an unnatural light.

That first morning I remember just staring at my own image, or at least, the image of who I’d now become. I tried to concentrate as I’d done yesterday, until I began to see beyond my own reflection, and into another world beyond. My heart leapt when I caught sight of my own bedroom, my own clothes still scattered messily on floor, my mobile sitting idly on my bedside table.

And on my own bed, I could see myself — or least the body I used to recognise as my own. My body was naked, with her hand stroking between her legs.

Can she see me? I wondered. Was she playing as she watched me, as I once watched her?

That was when I realised another mind now inhabited my body, one surely delighted to discover her slit was not sealed, and her own clitoris was uncovered. I could see how she examined my folds in the mirror with an intense fascination.

I gazed into the mirror as deeply as I could bear, until I felt my mind strain, hoping to catch her gaze and lock eyes as she came. But I never could, because I don’t think she ever saw me. Perhaps she didn’t want to see beyond the mirror any more, back to her old world of pain and humiliation. For now, she was content merely to enjoy her own reflection.

And then they came for me.






I believe no-one knows I don’t really belong here.

No-one has ever explained why I’m here in the first place, so I’ve had to put the pieces together myself. I’ve even been able to learn some of their strange language, just enough to understand others, as I’m not permitted to talk.

They refer to me as Four, as that’s the number on my door. There are 19 other young ladies like myself here. None have names, just numbers. All are kept bridled.

This establishment is not a school, but some kind of training academy, where absolute obedience is demanded and punishments are commonplace.

We are being trained, it seems, to be Pavlovian Slaves.

That’s the best explanation I can come up with. We are being trained like Pavlov’s Dogs, conditioned to associate food with sexual satisfaction of others.

We have been told that when we leave this place, it will be to enter a life of sexual service. That when our Master or Mistress is at home, we will not be permitted to eat until we have pleasured them. And if necessary, any guests that are present too.

Hence we spend our days learning the art of erotic pleasure. How to use every part of our bodies to arouse and stimulate. Mouths, hands, feet, breasts, thighs and bottoms — everywhere but the vagina, in fact. That region remains sealed and untouched, until such time our owners decide to remove the rings that keep us closed.

As we are being trained to associate our owners’ pleasure with our own appetite, the only time we’re not gagged are the two meals where we assemble to be fed.

Our first meal is breakfast, before our day’s lessons begin. As we enter the dining room, we are ungagged, the straps that hold the bridle bar loosened so it dangles around our throats like a choker.

On each visit we each draw a ball from a porcelain urn. Each ball has a colour, and a number. White balls correspond to one of the 12 dining chairs, which have ivory phalluses on the seats. Those who draw a white ball kneel before the corresponding chair. By now, our conditioning means we are drooling, and so we eagerly take the carved protrusion in our hungry mouths.

Each cock is different, and the random allocation means we attend to a different one on every visit. I know all the cocks so well now. Numbers 1, 8 and 10 are big and thick; 2 and 4 are known as the flagpoles, thinner but ramrod straight; 3, 6 are distinctly curved.

The girls giggle about number 5, aptly nicknamed Bumstretcher, it’s half the length of the longest, but the thickest of them all. The others are shorter and stubbier, but we’ve been well-taught to deal with penises of all shapes and sizes.

Those kneeling before the phalluses suck them for five minutes, until a little bell rings, which is the signal to rise from our knees and take our seats. The protrusions well coated with our drool as we take them in our bottoms.

Choosing one of the 7 pink balls from the urn means a seat at the Mistresses’ table, kneeling between their legs to lick their bare cunts. Then rising to sit on her lap to be fed when the little bell tinkles.

The Mistresses are our instructors. There are two kinds of classes here, practical lessons on delivering sexual pleasure, where we master anatomy, techniques and positions, and physical training to develop our strength, stamina and suppleness. By now, we all have the toned physiques of athletes.

The lucky girl who draws the single golden ball gets to dine with the Academy Master. Her meal will begin with his cock in her mouth, until she feels his cream splashing the back of her throat. She’ll swallow that hungrily, before taking her place on his lap to be fed.

If he hardens again before the meal ends, she will be expected to dutifully roll a slippery sheath down his cock, then sit down on his lap so his stiffness enters her bottom. She’ll be expected to demonstrate her mastery of anal fucking, riding breathlessly as the whole room looks on in admiration.

Dinner time is the only opportunity to speak to the other young women here. We’re not supposed to talk, but we exchange illicit whispers. I’ve become more adept at understanding their language, which is both somehow familiar, yet eerily foreign.

I have asked about their families, but it seems all of us are orphans, each selected for service once we’d reached our 18th year. That was when we’d each been pierced and had our slits closed. We are each much too valuable a property to fall pregnant. And it prevents us from pleasuring ourselves.

I’ve also been earnestly warned not run to away from this place. My sisters speak fearfully about those they’ve seen try. Some point sadly at friends they claim they used to know, who now inhabit the alcoves of the colonnade, somehow frozen in time, petrified into stone.

Yet every morning before I’m summoned for lessons, I try to find a way home, I’ve tried masturbating anally in front of the mirror, trying to recreate the circumstances that brought me here. But nothing ever happens, it’s never quite the same, the other girl is never on the other side looking back at me.

Now my view of my old world is fading. Every morning I try to peer past my own reflection, but each day my view of my old bedroom is even fainter. I don’t know why, whether whatever channel that once linked our two worlds is diminishing, or if the other side of the mirror has been moved into a loft, or given away to a gloomy antiques shop.

It’s been months since I’ve seen the other girl, the inhabitant of my old body. I wonder how she’s faring in my modern world? In the life that she stole from me.

I have tried to rationalise what’s happened to me, to come up with some kind of explanation. Perhaps the mirror is some kind of escape tunnel, created by well-meaning abolitionists to liberate those unfortunate enough to find themselves doomed to a life of sexual bondage. Perhaps they’re unaware that the destination of those that escape is not their own reality, but one completely different. Was it their intention that we should swap places? Or was it a freak accident, an inadvertent consequence of climaxing whilst our minds were somehow connected?

If this is not a dream, then I fear I am trapped here, lost somewhere in time and space, in an unreal reality.






Something happened last night, in the flickering candlelight.

My time at the Academy is almost complete. I have been fully trained, there is little more they can teach me. So now I have been allocated.

My new Master seems to be a senior member of this society’s nobility. When I first encountered him, he was wearing a martial dress uniform, embellished with gilded epaulettes and extravagant braids.

I, naturally, wore nothing. Except for my bridle.

I knelt respectfully, just as I’d been taught, my face just in front of his crotch. Waiting for the moment when he unfastened my gag, whereupon I would reciprocate by unbuttoning his lampas-embroidered trousers.

With us was the Academy Master, to which the visitor addressed his questions. I recognised the familiar words for the rod and the whip.

I am told to rise and bend over for inspection. The visitor’s  hands are strong but he has the soft skin of an aristocrat. He strokes and fondles my buttocks, testing their firmness, before inserting his little finger into the tiny gap that remains of my slit. He seems satisfied to find me already drooling.

I think hear him ask:

May I try her?

I was taken to a candlelit boudoir that was dominated by a huge four-poster bed.

The visitor, who others deferred to as a Duke, had led me to the bed, and I had laid alluringly on my back as he admired my lithe naked body.

Then he reached over me, lifting my legs, pushing back my ankles until I was bent in half, my feet on either side of my head. There were cuffs attached to the corner posts, which he secured them around my ankles, and another pair for my wrists, ensuring my arms were spread towards the corners.

I watched helplessly as he fetched an unlit candle from a bedside candelabra, and warmed its base with the flame of another. Then he pulled something smooth and shiny from his pocket, and stuck the candle to its flat top using its melted wax. When he brought it closer, and I could see the shiny object was a steel butt plug.

In this position,with my bottom pointing towards the ceiling, my arousal seeped from my gap, dribbling over my bottom hole and down between my splayed buttocks, helpfully lubricating me when he pushed the slick plug into my bottom. The candle on the plug was now protruding vertically, and he used another candle to light it, before extinguishing every one of the surrounding lights.

Now we were alone together, surrounded by darkness, sharing the tiny pool of light emanating from the single remaining candle between my legs. From my point of view, it protruded proudly like a miniature lighthouse.

He disappeared into the blackness, and I heard the rustling of discarded clothes.

When he reappeared inside my little pool of light he was naked, with a riding whip in his hand. He began to spank me, and I could do nothing but struggle against my bonds, and feel the heat in my buttocks rising.

I remember staring at the mesmerising candle flame as he flogged me, watching the droplets of wax dribble downwards. At first, the molten wax hardened as soon as it touched the base of the metal plug. But it wasn’t long before the plug was coated in wax, which permitted the hot drips to run even further, right down to the very base of the plug and onto my bare skin. This wax momentarily burned my most sensitive parts, feeling like the impact of a tiny cane around my bottom hole.

The little pool of light we shared became dimmer as the last remaining candle diminished. As the flame got ever lower, I could see it flickering in the draught of his swishing crop. It did not escape my notice how skilfully he shielded the flame with one hand, as he spanked me with the other.

As the candle flame descended, the crust of solidified wax between my legs grew thicker, but I could also begin to feel the heat of the candle flame heating the steel of the plug in my bottom. As the heat rose, the burning heat from my flogging made me fear I was about to catch fire. I cried into my bridle, pleading for mercy with words I knew he’d never hear or understand.

Then suddenly, the candle spluttered out, plunging us both into absolute darkness.

Alone with just the sound of each others’ panting breath, we waited. Then I could feel the wax on my crotch cracking and crumbling, as he withdrew the plug from me,  leaving my bum hole abruptly exposed and gaping.

Now I could feel the heat of the Duke’s muscular body approach me. Moments later, my bottom hole was filled by something hot and moist, and stiff and long.

I moaned into my bridle, biting the rubber bar as we both convulsed in the dark.






My fate was to become a sex slave.

I live in His opulent manor, that is the extent and entirety of my world now. Its high spiked railings mark the boundary of my universe, what lies beyond is of no interest. My purpose is service.

The Duke, my Master, is a strict, but honourable owner.

Whilst my esteemed Master is away, attending to affairs of state, I am left to wander my gilded cage. I drift around its immaculately tended gardens, its gloriously decadent rooms, and my favourite place of all: its soaring wooden-panelled library.

It is here in the library that I’ve been scribbling down my memories, I have no idea if anyone else will ever read these confessions, but it helps me remember the life I once had in that other world.

I am hiding my pages within the leaves of my Master’s books, He is always far too busy to ever read them. I suspect the true role of these towering shelves is really to signal His erudition to His visitors. Just as I am a means to demonstrate His exquisite taste for the feminine form.

Perhaps His descendants will find what I’ve written in decades from now, long after we’re both gone. But I have one last trick to play, something they can never take away from me. My language.

I have written my memoirs in English, a language no-one here understands. Those who discover my pages will find my weird writing baffling; but that is my intention. Mysteries make things valuable. My hope is that in time these pages will come to be treasured, copied, examined and scrutinised by curious curators.

I am dedicating my time to creating my very own Voynich Manuscript. As time passes, its infamy will grow, it will be that notoriously undeciphered text. This is the mystery that will spread it far and wide, becoming an obsession for amateur codebreakers and linguists.

Eventually, I hope, they’ll crack it and translate it, and be able to read it. The strange story of The Girl in the Mirror will be known around the world, the girl whose soul was somehow captured by a siren’s reflection.

But like all great fairytales, I shall embed within it my own subversive ideas. This society  seems to believe order demands freedom from choice. I shall describe  a mirror-image world, a world of sexual liberation, personal liberty and freedom of choice. I hope those who read it will begin whispering. Who knows, maybe such words might be the spark that ignites a purgative fire.




But that is a future I know I will not see. I have now accepted my fate, and made peace with my new purpose. To please my new Master.

When my Master is home, I am not permitted to eat until He has been satisfied.

Now I crave pleasuring Him in the same way I crave food. I salivate in His presence, drooling from my gagged mouth and shuttered slit.

They conditioned me well at the Academy. Since when I grow hungry, I become horny as well.

My job is to pre-empt his pleasure. Sometimes I bring him his favourite whip, and bend over submissively. Or I let him discover me, dressed up alluringly, or not dressed at all, glistening with aromatic oils and stroking my own body.

And then I am spanked. He likes to spank me. To hear the slap of His palm on my perfect bottom, or the slap of His whip, the pretty marks it makes and the moans it provokes.

When He unfastens my bridle afterwards, He likes to hook His little finger into the gap of my slit, and dab my own arousal onto the tip of my tongue.

I have come to learn that the only taste more divine than the saltiness of my own cunt is what issues from His thick firm cock.

When He is satisfied, we eat together. I typically sit on His lap, my kind Master raising the food to my mouth, stroking my hair as I chew contentedly and appreciatively. He likes to feed me, like a favourite pet.

He likes to position me so my bare bottom hangs over the edge of one thigh, so He can fondle and spank my warm pink cheeks, whilst my own arm is thrown around his shoulders. I embrace Him like a doomed sailor clinging to a mast in a storm. He is my rock, my world entire.

I exist to serve.

I am The Girl in the Mirror now.






@spankingtheatre 2019

Originally posted at

You’re welcome to reblog and share.



I’d never been good at waiting.

But his instructions were quite clear.

“Stand still, be quiet — and don’t turn around.”

So I just stare at the wall and listen to footsteps walking away. He stops after 10 steps. Behind me, a hinge creaks. There’s some clattering and some rustling. What is he doing?

There’s a hulking wooden cupboard at the back of the classroom. It’s always kept locked, like some ancient reliquary. What exactly lies within has been the subject of many speculative conversations among my peers, but no student has ever looked inside. He must be looking for a suitable implement to punish me with. What will it be, I wonder?

The suspense is building, my breathing quickening, but I dare not turn around. That would be asking for trouble. Yet, my curiously is an itch that must be scratched. Restraining my impulsiveness has always been my weakness. Maybe just a peek, I’m sure he won’t even notice me. I can’t even hear him, he must be still rummaging inside the cupboard. I take a chance, quickly turning my head — only to see him looming over me. His voice chastises my disobedience.

“I told you not to turn around”.

Keep reading

Next in the alphabetical retrospective of spanking stories is Waiting.

This school-set story also happens to be the very first post I made on this blog. It wasn’t the first spanking story I’d written, I’d been writing stories privately for a while, but it was the first I considered sufficiently good to risk posting publicly.

I had no idea how it would be received, whether those stumbling across it would think I was weird or perverted, or scoff at its amateurishness. My advice to new writers is not to let such petty concerns silence them before they’ve even started. All creative art has its critics. Write what you always intended to express, and those who imagine things the same way will find you, one by one.

The audience for this blog grew slowly. I posted several stories in the first few months, including Cosmopolitan and Carrot and Stick, to accumulate a body of work that might leave new readers eager for the next one.

I also made a point of talking to early followers via messaging, to discover what they thought of the stories, what worked and what didn’t. After all, the reason why I chose Tumblr for my writing was a community of readers already existed, one where you could share (by reblogging) the stories you liked, and which you thought would interest those you knew.

So, to those who have shared and encouraged these stories over the years, a massive thank you. This blog, and these stories, would not exist without the faith you showed. Your support has not just led to thousands discovering and exploring an interest in spanking, but tens of thousands of bedtime orgasms and well-spanked bottoms.

And this is how it all started


A spanking story

The door to the detention room had opened without warning. 

She looked down at what she’d written, now spanning several handwritten pages, initially neat,  but then steadily deteriorating in presentational quality. as she’d entered the Zone. That moment had unleashed a flood of words, in a sudden hot torrent of erotic self-expression whose candour had taken her completely by surprise. 

She’d been expecting his return for a while. In fact, he had promised it. He had left her here alone to write, alone in detention with just a pen and her thoughts, which ironically where the two very things that had gotten her into so much trouble in the first place.

She had finished writing about 10 minutes ago, having said everything she had intended to say. Enough for writer’s regret to set in, to become acutely self-conscious of the confession she’d just poured onto her pages. Which Sir would soon be reading, and from which Sir would soon learn all of her secrets.

For the past two hours, she’d been sitting alone in classroom 21A. Yet several hours before, she’d been sitting on the very same chair surrounded by her classmates, attending one of Mr Mortimer’s lessons. 

Strict, dreamy Mr M was her Maths teacher. He wasn’t toweringly tall, but he did have a certain presence, a quietly-spoken compelling demeanour, never domineering or bullying, but there was never any doubt his voice expected obedience from those who heard it. 

Yet she had disobeyed him. He had told the class to work on their own solution to a calculus problem, some esoteric application of partial differential equations. She normally excelled at this kind of challenge, but this morning she was distracted by more carnal thoughts. 

Her pen had hovered over her blank page, awaiting instructions from a mind that had decided to concentrate on matters other than higher-order geometry. Her eyes seemed to lose focus, as if the muscles responsible for their movement had grown weary, until she was absent-mindedly staring at her teacher. In her daze she hadn’t even realised how flirtatiously she’d been combing her fingers through her hair, and certainly hadn’t noticed her classmates’ sideways smirks. Not that her inattention was caused by indifference, on the contrary, Mr Mortimer’s class was the highlight of her academic week. 

She found herself lapsing into a daydream, a beguiling distortion of her current reality. Her mind began riffing on her teacher’s stern demeanour, the disapproving glance he’d given her when he’d noticed she wasn’t writing. Then, her imagination took over, escalating her situation into a thrilling fantasy. 

With surprising clarity, she dreamt her whole class had gotten into trouble. Each one of them having to write little confessions for Sir, who then lined them up at the front of the class to have their panties pulled down and their excitement inspected. 

She felt her pen move, clandestinely doodling…

It had been an extraordinary, pulse-quickening daydream. But just like the parabolic problem she was meant to be solving, her mental escape was fleeting, a trajectory that was always doomed to return to earth. Then reality resumed, her teacher’s characteristically stern voice asking her to remain behind and see him after class. As her friends tittered, a shock ran between her legs so intense that she almost peed herself.

She looked down in shock, and hurriedly turned the page with the obscene picture she’d scribbled, earnestly hoping no-one had managed to glimpse it.

She spent the remainder of the class calculating almost apologetically, not that her remorse stopped her panties from filling with a wetness of a very different kind. Eventually, the end of lesson bell rang, and she sat shame-faced, blushing brightly as her classmates filed past her, shooting a series of silent, teasing glances as they went.

When the last had left the room, she had stood, closing her textbook and gathering her possessions, before self-consciously smoothing down her skirt and advancing to the front of the class. 

“You wanted to see me Sir?” she’d asked, with a coy innocence that even she didn’t find particularly convincing.

He got straight to the point. 

“You are in my class to learn, young lady. This classroom is not a quiet place for students to drift off to their private little dreamworlds.”

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

She was shocked to hear herself apologise, basically admitting her guilt before she’d even had a chance to formulate an appropriate excuse. But Mr M was very charismatic, slightly intimidating even, and she didn’t want to lie to him.

“Report back here after lessons end today, young lady. Dismissed.”

“Yes Sir!” she said excitedly.

It took her a few moments to realise how ridiculous she sounded. She was being called back to be disciplined, probably to sit in detention like a silly little schoolgirl. Yet she had reacted to her sanction like she’d been nominated for some special honour. She hurried out of the classroom blushing furiously, not daring to meet her stern teacher’s gaze.

* * * 

At the end of the school day, she had arrived back in the classroom to find Sir waiting, and the subject of her detention essay already written on the blackboard in front of her.

“What I was daydreaming about”

She took her familiar seat, as he sternly explained his expectations. Her task for the afternoon was to write an essay on what had been so compelling that she’d zoned out of his lesson. He had other things to do, so would be back in two hours to read her work. 

On hearing this, she’d stammered a single question.

“M..must I write everything, Sir?”

“Everything, young lady.”

And then without another word, he left, closing the classroom door behind him.

She had spent the first 10 minutes alone utterly conflicted. Surely she couldn’t tell him the whole truth of what she’d been dreaming about – it was far too filthy. But what would she write instead? She suddenly felt very transparent, as if he had already read her like a book. She was sure he already knew that some kind of erotic fantasies were involved, even just through her giddy responses to his questions. If she made up something, she knew she’d just come across as silly and lame, nowhere near the adventurous young adult she believed herself to be.

Perhaps, she pondered, honesty really was the best policy. To admit spanking turned her on, and how she fantasised about him putting her over his knee almost every night, as she stroked herself to sleep.

So she had begun writing.

A couple of hours later, on his return, she’d handed her pages over, demurely and respectfully. He had sat down behind his own desk, and begun to read what she’d written, wordlessly and impassively.

Whilst she sat in trembling silence, awaiting his verdict.

* * *

Her essay went like this:

I have something to admit to you, Sir. I fantasise about you.

I fantasise about you being strict with me. I imagined it only last night, how you noticed my lack of inattention in class, my pen doodling aimlessly rather than scribbling studiously. 

In the interests of full disclosure, I include the image I was drawing in class this morning. 

As you can see, the scene depicts all 12 of our class bending over at the front of the room. I have drawn us all from behind, with our skirts lifted and our panties pulled right down, pooled around our ankles. You’ll note our socks were still pulled up high to the tops of our calves, as I’m sure you’ll agree, there’s no excuse for slovenliness. 

You’ll see twelve bare bottoms staring out from the page. I have to confess that in a study period earlier this afternoon I embellished my original scribble to add additional accuracy, drawing the hairstyle of each of my classmates, so the odd lock of hair is the only aspect of identifiable individuality visible from behind their legs as they touch their toes.

I am there too, of course. My own legs parted, a few subtle pen strokes depicting the folds of my slit. I drew myself that way because in my fantasy, that’s how I imagine you wanting me.

I’ve drawn you too, Sir. You’re standing behind us, surveying our row of a dozen cute bare bottoms. You’re holding a long thick wooden ruler in your right hand – because we are all going to be spanked. 

I should explain that I drew you with a ruler because that’s what I use on myself when I’m home all alone, when I imagine you spanking me. 

You might also appreciate the fact that in my reverie, I imagined a whole backstory to this scene. Would you care to know how we all came to be bending over at the front of the class, with our bare bottoms on display?

Yes, I think I should explain.

I was imagining that you’d noticed how the concentration levels of our class had been waning. How our expressions had become dreamy and distracted. Understandably, this had displeased you, and we all should certainly have known better. After all, we are the most senior pupils in the school.

So you had decided to confront the issue with your characteristic candour. And we had arrived in class to find a single sheet of paper on our desks. You began to address us directly.

“I have a question for you all, class, And I want you to think about it very carefully.”

You turned to the blackboard, and began to write something slowly. 


I wonder if you could feel the weight of a dozen eyes on your cute backside. Lingering admiringly.


There were chuckles and tittering as what you were slowly writing become apparent – and then inevitable, to everyone’s general amazement.


“How many of you masturbate whilst thinking about me?” you asked us starkly.

A few shrieks of surprise were followed by nervous giggles. But no one dared break the subsequent silence.

“Well, since no one will admit to it, I’m going to have to line you all up at the front of the class, and check inside your panties.”

Your threat provoked gasps.

“Since I wouldn’t expect any pupil to attend my class with wet panties, I can only assume anyone I find with a mess in their underwear has been remembering what they get up to at night as I was writing on the blackboard.”

“So, before I inspect you all, and determine the truth, I shall offer you all one last chance to confess.”

“If I am the subject of your fantasies, and you masturbate whilst thinking of me, you may write out the nature of your fantasy on the page in front of you.”

“If you have nothing to confess, and I discover the insides of your panties are dry, you may assert on your page that you do not fantasise about me, and nothing further will happen.”

“If you fail to confess, and I discover your panties are actually soaked, I shall remove you from my class, and you will have the pleasure of old Mr Barnaby’s tutorage instead.”

You felt that was a much more threatening sanction than spanking the offending girl’s bottom. I think you know many of us lie awake in bed stroking to exactly that disciplinary eventuality. And so you sought to make use of that.

“If you do confess, you will be put over my knee and immediately spanked. As clearly what you crave is a good hard spanking on your bare bottom.”

“You have 5 minutes to write your response. Then your inspections will begin…”

By this point, I’m sure you’re intensely curious about what I would have written. So let me tell you…

Sometimes, when I get home before anybody else, I go straight to my room. I don’t even change out of my uniform, I pick up the thick wooden ruler I keep on my desk, and bend over. I imagine your deep, stern voice scolding me, telling me that I’m going to be spanked. Our school rules are strict and very clear, skirts will be raised and underwear lowered. So that’s exactly what I do, I bare my bottom in the little erotic theatre of my own bedroom.

I hope my candour isn’t too embarrassing for you, Sir. But you did ask me to include everything. 

I hold my ruler behind me, raising it up as far as I can – before I bring it down on my poor little bum with a dramatic smack. I imagine it’s you who is spanking me, Sir. I know you smack hard, but also that it’s for my own good. 

After I’ve given myself a dozen hard smacks, I place my free hand underneath me, and rub myself in urgent circles whilst I bring the ruler down, repeatedly, until I feel I can’t take anymore. Then I imagine being spread and inspected, I know regular inspections are a vital aspect of any good disciplinary regime.

When you’ve examined me, you send me to stand in the corner, placing the ruler between my sore pink cheeks. Just at the right angle so the edge of the ruler parts my swollen pussy lips, collecting the sticky dew that drips from me. I stand in the corner with my arms folded behind my back and the ruler jutting out from between my sore pink cheeks Sir, and I think of you.

That’s what I do when I’m alone, Sir. I spank myself until my bottom is hot and stinging, and imagine it’s you who is disciplining me. I’m sure the other girls would have similar stories, but I’ll let them speak for themselves. Perhaps they’ll find themselves seated where I’m sitting now soon, telling you their stories.

But I was also imagining what happened next, after you’d read our confessions.

There would have to be spankings. Long, hard, painful spankings on the bare bottom for every one of us. I imagined myself bending over at the end of the line, my skirt lifted, my messy panties already tugged down to the floor. You had already moved down the line, splaying our bums to inspect our excitement. Now we were being dragged from the line one by one, to the lone chair you’d placed at the front of the classroom.

I imagined peeping back on the unfolding scene through the narrow gap between my own slightly parted thighs. It was enough to see each one of my classmates being put across your knee. Once skirts were flipped up, and bottoms bared, I imagined you spanking each girl with the wooden ruler.

I imagined each one of my classmates kicking and squealing childishly as they got their thoroughly deserved spankings. You would spank each one to tears, then lead her back to her original place in the line. You’d tuck her skirt into her waist, and fold her arms behind her back so she couldn’t rub. Then she’d stand there sobbing and sniffling, and her bright pink cheeks displayed for your appreciation.

Eventually, it would be my turn. I’d feel your hand grip my arm, dragging me upright, then pulling me towards the spanking chair. Before I knew it, you’d have put me over your knee.

There would be the usual cursory bottom inspection, of course, tugging my cheeks apart to ascertain how excited I was. Whereupon you’d see my bare slit glisten, conspicuously and disgracefully.

But my spanking would be different from all the others. I would take my spanking stoically, impressing you with my grown-up self-control. When it was all over, I’d be the only one standing in the line not crying. Standing proudly with my red bottom on display, a glistening wetness just visible between my legs.

So, now you know, Sir. That was what I was daydreaming. This has been my confession. Know now that I’m sitting in a little puddle of my own excitement. I must commend you, this assignment has been a most effective means of discipline. Now I see what I deserve with absolute clarity.

* * *

He said nothing when he had finished reading. He remained seated behind his desk, motionless, almost statuesque, not even acknowledging her and the filthy fantasies she’d written, or the obscene accompanying cartoon. It was as if the shock of her sordid behaviour had petrified him. And so they both sat there in silence, her heart thumping in her chest.

All she could do was watch and wait, studying him intently for even the tiniest clue to what he might be thinking. Was he disgusted by what she’d confessed? And now considering whether to throw her out of his class?  Or was he on the verge of abruptly standing, to haul his chair to the front of the classroom? She might only be seconds away from being grasped by the wrist, and put over his knee. She throbbed at the very thought.

Then, as she watched him, she noticed something. How his expression had subtly changed. He was no longer focused on her pages, but was now gazing idly at some indeterminate point far beyond. A visceral thrill ran through her as she realised what that meant. 

Sir was daydreaming. 

Unseen in his reverie, she sat in her own little sticky puddle, and smiled.




@spankingtheatre 2019

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Ups and Downs: Part 1


A story of appreciation and discipline, in two parts

I’m standing in disgrace at the front of the class, in a classroom that’s not really a classroom. 

I must confess, I didn’t take my assignment seriously. I thought it was all a bit of a giggle. Now here I am, my back to the rest of the class and my dress hitched up above my waist. I can hear my classmates scribbling busily behind me, they’ve been warned that any dawdling and they’ll be dragged up here to join me. Even so, I wonder how many have risked looking up from their pages to sneak a peek at me.

I feel the tremble of approaching footsteps again. I hold my breath, bracing myself for what I know happens next. A single whack from a wooden ruler stings my left bottom cheek. I scrunch my mouth shut, I don’t want to give the class the satisfaction of hearing my discomfort.

Of course, the smack to my bum is more than just chastisement. It’s also my signal. I obediently lift my hands from the top of my head and reach downwards to my sides, my fingers sliding inside my knicker elastic. I bend at my waist, slowly pulling my panties all the way down to my ankles. From bitter experience I know if I attempt to pull down my underwear too quickly, I’ll get a volley of smacks across the backs of my thighs. 

So I must pull down my panties slowly… Very… Slowly… And that means lingering in the most shameful position of all. The one where my bare bum juts out towards the class, making my cheeks spread apart, admitting a breeze of cool air that tingles my most intimate parts. For several seconds as I lower my panties down my calves, I can’t help but reveal my bottom hole and the little slit that lies just beneath, and all its secret folds. The moment my panties reach my ankles I leap up, bolt upright, replacing my hands on the top of my head, my face burning, knowing I’ve just exposed my everything.

Behind me, I just know my classmates are surreptitiously looking up from their essays, sneaking sly looks at the pink patches now spreading across my newly exposed flesh. I know this because that’s exactly what I do when others occupy my current position. And then the footsteps recede again, and I’m left alone.




All too soon I hear the footsteps return. The next whack is on my bare bum, applied to the sore patch now developing on my right bottom cheek. This is my cue to bend down and pull up my panties – slowly of course – allowing all those witnessing my disgrace another good long look between my legs.

My skin is now exquisitely sensitive, I can feel the material of my underwear tickling as it passes up my thighs. Then there’s a moment when my gusset nestles between my intimate lips just before I roll the rest over the tender flesh of my newly spanked bottom. My obligation done, my hands fly back to the top my head, and I wait for the dread thud of approaching footsteps again.

On the next stinging whack, I’ll pull my panties down again. 

Whack, up, wait. 

Whack, down, wait. 

Up and Down. Up and Down.

My slow-motion spanking will continue until the ruler-wielder is satisfied I’ve learned my lesson. Though I must confess, when I’ve watched this exquisite bottom-warming show from the classroom seats: I’ve never wanted it to stop. 

Does that make me a bad girl?

Keep reading

Next in the alphabetical retrospective of past stories is Ups and Downs, a two part long-form story that explores the wonder of mentorship, and the appreciation of strict discipline. 

In fact, the major themes of this story with be familiar to any who have read and understood my last post on why we pull down your panties. If you haven’t, I’d recommend reading that first.

One key theme is the erotic theatre of the
undressing ritual, a deceptively simple act capable of flooding a submissive girl’s mind with a heady mixture of trepidation, excitement and shame.

But the story deals with deeper psychological themes, such as what it means to submit oneself to physical discipline. During the story you’ll encounter good girls, who submit willingly to their discipline, and so are rewarded accordingly. But you’ll also encounter a bad girl, haughty, stubborn and resentful, who attitude to a spanking is very different indeed.

Who would you prefer to answer to?

A strict governess who whacked your bare bottom, and sent you to bed angry and unsatisfied?

Or a strict headmistress who ensured you were always soaking wet before she punished you? One who always sent you away grateful that she cared enough to steer and discipline you?

You may read Ups and Downs, and make up your own mind…

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…

Keep reading

Next in the alphabetical retrospective of past stories is Treasure Hunt.

The previous post served as an appropriate prelude, as the central theme of this story is playfulness, the switch couple have invented their own little naughty game, with the winner taking charge for a night, in what has become a series of increasingly outrageous sex games.

This will be a familiar theme if you’ve my posts on the naughty well-behaved, and the secret of sexual spontaneity.

Fundamentally, this is a story about building your own sexual reality. It is a quest to discover what really turns your partner on, because really, that’s the greatest aphrodisiac of all.

But the very best sexual experiences often involve activities experienced for the very first time. Sometimes we don’t really know what we desire, and are reluctant to spell out what we want. And there is great pleasure in being surprised. That’s only possible inside a strong partnership, committed to continuing exploration and experimentation.

Those discoveries are the true Treasure.

And they’re well worth the Hunt.



And then she announced:

“… the next item on the menu… will be bare licked cunt…”

She let her words hang in the air, where they seemed to charge the atmosphere between us like a tiny erotic thunderstorm.

In the vast treasure trove of my memories, that one moment blazes with an exceptional clarity. Somehow perfectly preserved, infinitely replayable.

Yet behind every memory is a story, a winding path of strange happenstance and improbable events that stretch back into the hazy mist of every experience. Stories lie submerged like icebergs, their brilliant summits glowing as vivid snapshots, their intricate genesis hidden, lost deep beneath our minds’ turbulent waves.

What could be more human than forgetting? We are not machines or paintings or books. We are biochemical repositories of circumstance, whose subtle complexities of existence are readily outshone by visceral moments of dazzling pleasure.

Yet, it is our stories that define us. Not those seductive, emotion-charged glimpses that we can summon on demand to burst like gratifying fireworks in our minds. Our stories are always there, lurking unbidden, the true substrate of our being.

Perhaps we were never meant to probe too deep, to pull on the loose threads of our memories, to let them unravel. Who knows what unexplored paths exist in the Minotaur’s maze? Perhaps they really are best left alone, unvisited and forgotten. Who knows where those passages might have led…

To those that enjoy dining well, there is one establishment whose reputation exceeds all others. One whose name is spoken with hushed reverence.

It is La Oubliette.

The Forgotten Place.

It holds no official awards, and appears in no guidebooks. No one can even say for certain where it really is, let alone how to make a booking. It is as if the outside world had indeed forgotten its existence, to become a closely guarded secret known only to an elite cognoscenti.

Some mock it as an in-joke, some dismiss it as a preposterous myth. Yet if it exists, it is a destination of intimidating exclusivity. No bribe, no level of celebrity will secure you a table there. Some say all guests must be personally invited. I know prominent individuals who had lived and died waiting for a coveted invitation, which never came.

Life had been kind to me, but I am neither rich or famous. Yet one morning last year, completely out of the blue, I received a powder-blue envelope in the mail. It looked expensive and classy, crisp artisanal paper, my address elegantly handwritten. And when I opened it, I was staggered to realise it was a message purporting to be from the famed Chez Oubliette. Somehow, for some inexplicable reason, they had sent me an invitation.

The single page missive stated that a table had been booked for me, and me alone, on the 28th of December. This date was not negotiable, if I wanted to accept, I would be met somewhere in Geneva by a member of La Oubliette’s staff. If I declined, the message politely assured me, I would never hear from them again. There was also an ominous warning: not to tell anyone else I’d received an invitation, or it would be immediately withdrawn.

The date they’d offered was intriguingly bizarre, just after Christmas. A time when most folk were still on holiday. Perhaps it was a quiet period, between two festivities. But I had no say in the matter, my only choice being to accept or decline. At stake was only a dinner, but something told me if I said no, I’d regret it for the rest of my days. Within the hour I emailed the one-time RSVP address, confirming my acceptance.

My rendezvous instructions arrived the following week. Soon after, I booked my plane ticket with quivering hands. But what exactly was I getting into?

The restaurant’s name suggested a place that wanted to be forgotten, but there was also another, more sinister and disturbing meaning. An oubliette is the term for hidden dungeon cell. Typically one with a concealed entrance, like a trapdoor in the ceiling. One difficult to find, and impossible to escape from. A place where people could be made to disappear, somewhere they could be permanently forgotten…

On a chilly day just after Christmas, I boarded an early morning flight from London to Geneva, anxiously hoping that the icy weather would not delay me. But we landed in good time, and it was easy enough to get a taxi to the Quai de Versoix on the shores of the lake. According to my instructions, someone would meet me here at 1pm, assuming the whole thing wasn’t an elaborate prank. In which case, I consoled myself, I would go chocolate shopping.

The unremarkable little pier was deserted and bleak, the trees lining the promenade now just a row of bare spindles against the grey lake and grey skies that seemed to merge together so seamlessly. There was a cafe nearby, its twinkling Christmas decorations providing welcome splashes of colour to a cold leaden afternoon. It also gave me a place to wait, somewhere I could sup a hot coffee and have a bite to eat, and watch perfect strangers come and go.

Until, someone happened to recognise me. Although I did not recognise him.

He addressed me by my name, and extended his hand for me to shake. His English was perfect, but spoken with an obviously French accent. He suggested we leave the cafe, to which I nodded, and followed him out onto the promenade. We walked down the short pier, out of earshot of any passers-by, to where a small boat was now moored.

“If we are to go any further Sir,“ he told me, “we shall have to establish some rules. If you agree, we may proceed. If not, we shall go no further, and I shall call a taxi to go back to the airport.”

As he listed his rules, I felt a strange apprehension. No restaurant had ever made such extraordinary demands of me. Yet given the circumstances, I felt I was powerless to refuse them. My predicament felt almost erotic, here I was being tantalised by a desire I’d cherished for so long, and was now being told its price was my absolute obedience.

I listened in shocked silence as the emissary detailed what was expected of me, before he concluded: “I do hope you’ll trust us, Sir.”

Something deep inside told me it was safer to decline, but if I did, I’d always regret it. Besides, the right to be bold to the point of recklessness had always felt like the epitome of male privilege. I agreed to his conditions.

The emissary extended his hand, waiting for me to hand over my mobile phone. I fished it from my pocket reluctantly, shutting it down before handing it over. It felt like I was relinquishing one of my limbs. Then I stepped down onto the deck of the gently bobbing boat, its tiny cabin was only large enough to shelter its pilot and a pair of passengers. The stranger stepped down after me, inviting me to take one of the vacant seats beside the wheel.

Then he took a wide black padded blindfold from his pocket. He’d warned me about this, no-one could be trusted to see the route to La Oubliette, so I didn’t protest as he pulled it over my head and covered my eyes. I felt a click too, as he fastened my seat harness, pinning me back in my seat, which only served to amplify the eroticism of my predicament. But I knew that my desire would require my obedience.

I heard the boat’s engine roar into life, acrid smell diesel fumes wafted past my nose. Then I felt movement, and a sway as the little boat lurched away from the pier and sped out into the lake’s choppy waters. My pilot didn’t talk as we sailed, leaving me alone with my thoughts. What had I got myself into? Where was he taking me? As I’d been faithful to my instructions, no one knew I was here.

I can’t say how long we spent on the water, because I must have dozed off, lulled into a nap by a combination of the rocking boat and my early morning start. It was only when I felt my guide’s hand on my shoulder that I realised we had stopped. I had no way of even knowing if we were even still on the Swiss side of the lake, or had crossed to the French side. He unbuckled my harness and helped me step out onto what sounded like the planks of another pier, before guiding me into the backseat of a waiting car.

I felt myself buckled into my seat again, and his hands by my face checking my blindfold was still snug enough to prevent the leakage of any secrets. He entered the car on the driver’s side and we were in motion again. With nothing to see, and soporific sway of winding roads, I was soon dozing off again.

I was woken by the jostling of a bumpy gravel surface. Soon, we had stopped completely, and I was being escorted out of the car into the icy evening air, to be shocked by my incoming breaths burning in my lungs. My guide walked me a couple of dozen paces before I could feel warmer air on my cheeks. I could feel the ambience around me change, we were indoors again.

And I heard a heavy wooden door slam shut behind me.

My eyes blinked painfully as light flooded into them once more. Someone had removed my blindfold. But even after my vision had become less blurry, my surroundings still offered few clues to where I’d been taken. Was this the fabled Chez Oubliette, or would I be taken elsewhere from here? From where I stood it was difficult to tell whether this was indeed a restaurant, or merely the entrance to someone’s home. It could equally well have been the lobby of a mountain resort, or the entrance hall to some remote Alpine chateau.

It wasn’t the man who’d driven me here who took off my blindfold, but a slim middle-aged woman in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo. She introduced herself as the Maitre D’, with the kind of stern sensual authority that immediately made me think the D stood for Domme. At that moment, I couldn’t tell if she had a warm meal planned for me – or a frigid dungeon cell.

She encouraged me to follow her, ushering me into a small bathroom to freshen up, before I was escorted down a plushly carpeted hallway into a private room.

The room was not elaborately furnished, and its decor was distinctly minimalist. It contained a small dining table, made of chunky exposed beams and a velvet-covered armless dining chair. In the corner was a rather contemporary looking wooden clothes stand, its elegant curved struts linked by short shelves. The table was draped by a pristine linen dining cloth, but was bare and unset. There wasn’t even a menu. Mercifully for my still sensitive eyes, it was only dimly illuminated by a several wall-mounted candelabras.

The Maitre D’omme spoke with a brusque confidence that made it clear she was used to people obeying her instructions, no matter how outrageous they might seem.

“We ask that our guests dine naked. Please undress.”

This was not spoken as a request, but as an instruction. I had already been warned. The price of this meal was my obedience. And the currency of obedience was trust.

I undressed as I was told, hanging my coat and jacket on the clothes stand, before self-consciously unbuttoning my shirt. The Maitre D’omme watched on impassively, as I removed my shoes and socks, even when I hesitated before unbuckling and pulling down my own trousers. Eventually I stood before her in just my underwear, but I knew that had to come down too. Moments later, my clothes were hung up or folded away, and I was completely naked in front of her.

“Thank you, Sir.” she said graciously, before walking over to the single chair and lifting it backwards, and inviting me to sit.

I took my seat.

“Would Sir care to place his hands behind him?” she requested.

I did as I was asked. What happened next might have surprised me, but I was rapidly becoming accustomed to how this peculiar place operated. She knelt down behind me, and I felt my wrists being gripped as she cuffed my hands behind my back. The cuffs were padded, with a long chord between so I could still sit with my shoulders in a natural position. Once she had restrained me, the world went dark again as she pulled the blindfold back over my eyes.

“I’m sure Sir understands, the palette is more sensitive when not confused by seeing.”

I nodded, not really being in a position to argue an alternative.

“Sir need not worry about his hands, we shall do the feeding tonight.”

The Maitre D’omme was standing beside me now, so I assume it was her fingers I felt sliding beneath my flaccid penis, lifting it from where it lay between my thighs as she squeezed, tugged and inspected it.

What kind of restaurant was this? It certainly felt more like an exclusive brothel than a gourmet brasserie. I was beginning to suspect why this establishment might be rated so highly by those lucky enough to be invited here.

“We have a planned menu here, each item especially selected to appeal to your personal tastes. You must be hungry?”

I nodded.

“Then let me introduce you to your server for the evening…”

There was a pause, and what sounded like the door opening, then closing.

Then a second voice spoke.

“Good evening Sir…”

It was another female voice, with what sounded like a southern English accent – but one that sounded tentative, almost nervous, possessing nowhere near the same gruff authority as the Maitre D’omme. I wondered if my own nakedness had taken her by surprise, I found my mind suddenly racing: trying to determine whether I’d been singled out for special treatment – or a special kind of humiliation. I did my best to play it cool, to assume I was here for the former, not the latter.

“Good evening” I replied. I was unaware of the time, but my grumbling stomach suggested it was definitely dinnertime.

“I’m leave you in the care of your server, Sir. Rest assured, you’ll be attended to by the most capable hands. Bon appétit.”

I thanked the departing Maitre D’, whose departure was accompanied by the waft of the most delicious aromas. There was also a faint thud, and clink of dishes, which suggested things were being put down on the table in front of me.

The English voice of my hostess spoke again, this time louder and more confidently.

“Our menu begins with a selection of appetisers, Sir. We’ll begin with marinated crayfish in a brassica puree.”

I could sense something moving towards me, just before the scent of the incoming morsel drifted into my nostrils. I opened my mouth reflexively, and she placed it onto my tongue, before gently tapping the underside of my jaw to close my mouth. The taste was exquisite, the subtly spiced plump flesh of the crayfish dissolving into the mustardy tang of its puree as I chewed slowly in the most dignified manner I could manage.

My hostess must have been feeding me from a platter, as there were just two of each type of morsel, before she moved onto the next one. The tastes I experienced spanned the globe: I recognised latino tamales, Indian curries and several types of Mediterranean meze. And interestingly, there was no red meat. How did they know I ate fish but not meat? They seemed to know so much about me.

Occasionally she’d pause to offer me a drink, raising a glass of sumptuous wine to my lips and tilting it until it dribbled between my eager lips.

I could feel my dick swelling as she fed me. I tried to concentrate on the flavours on my tongue and those wafting onto my palette, rather than the eroticism of being cuffed naked to a chair and fed gourmet food by an unseen woman. I hoped she wouldn’t be offended by my growing erection, but she seemed too professional to mention its looming presence.

How strange to be so aroused by someone I’d never even seen. In my blindfolded darkness my imagination could run free. Right now I could be being fed by a supermodel, or a world-famous celebrity. She might possess a face of such beauty or familiarity that I’d spend my time staring at my hostess, rather than truly enjoying my meal.

All the subterfuge I’d experienced began to make more sense now. Denying my eyes would preserve the secret peccadillos of this establishment’s most famous patrons: that they liked to feed naked diners by hand in a covert mountain-top restaurant.

Was that the reason behind its strange name? Somewhere celebrities could visit incognito, where they could act as if they’d been forgotten. Because what would you crave if you’d spent your entire life in front of cameras, perpetually in the public eye? Any chance to be anonymous would be so precious.

I found myself wondering if the lady serving me had once worked as a waitress, perhaps as she’d struggled to break into the world that would ultimately make her a household name. And maybe here she was, waitressing again, but this time, she was the one in control, this time the white middle-aged male diner was not leering at her, but naked and helpless, unable to even feed himself, opening his mouth when he was told, and then chewing obediently.

I was fully erect now, my cock stiffening to the extent where it could support its own weight, I felt it rise from between my legs and point crudely at my unseen host. But suddenly, I felt my lust tainted by a queasy embarrassment. I imagined what she’d be seeing right now, just another stiff cock pointing at her, just like all the other ones. The cocks of all the bullies, oligarchs, sexpests and supplicants that had sought to claim her body over the years.

I wondered if I should apologise. Or complement her. Or make a joke of it. Or even ask her if I was on the menu too. But I was too intimidated by her invisible power to open my mouth. I remained silent, and obedient to her promptings.

“What a naughty boy!” she said mockingly, gently twanging my erection with a finger.

I could feel my heart pounding, suddenly terrified I’d offended her. That the next thing I’d hear was the door slamming shut behind her, that my lack of self-control had grouped me in with every other dismal male she’d ever encountered, causing her to walk away in sneering disgust. I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears as I waited impotently for her response.

After what seemed like an age, she spoke again.

“Do you know who I am?”

Weirdly, her voice did sound somewhat familiar, but I couldn’t really identify it. I might have heard her on TV, or in a film? A politician, even? It was so difficult to say.

An equivocal, almost apologetic, “I don’t think so…” was the best I could manage.

“There are some delicious sauces accompanying these dishes. It would be a travesty to waste them.”

She dabbed my lips with her finger, smearing them with a sweet spicy puree. I licked my lips eagerly, she was right: its flavour tingled intensely on the tip of my tongue.


I nodded, and then felt movement just in front of me. It seemed as if my hostess had sat down on the table, and placed her feet on the seat of my chair, either side of my hips.

I felt her fingers cup the back of my head, tugging my hair, and pulling my head forwards. Suddenly something warm and fleshy was pressing into my mouth. At first I thought I’d bumped into her forearm, until my lips registered the unmistakable contours of a nipple. I realised my host was topless, and had smeared some of the sweet spicy sauce on one of her breasts. I suckled her slowly and respectfully, circling her nipple, exploring the little dome beneath until I’d cleaned all the stickiness from her skin. In response, she cooed her appreciation.

She smelt intoxicating, a faint floral perfume, with an odour of intense femininity that reminded me of the scent when you pull down a lover’s panties to discover she’s already wet. I pressed my nose against the smooth soft skin of her breast and inhaled deeply, she smelt of contentment, of a picnic in a meadow of wildflowers, of sunshine and warm blue skies.

As I rested against her, it seemed like this was the slowest time had ever passed.

And then she announced:

“… the next item on the menu… will be bare licked cunt…”

She let her words hang in the air, where they seemed to charge the atmosphere between us like a tiny erotic thunderstorm.

I lowered my head, slowly tracing the contours of her chest with my tongue. I could feel the bump of each rib, rising and falling as she breathed. These were not slow steady breaths, I noticed, but the quick shallow panting of someone excited. I had to arch my back to go lick lower, but my cuffed hands weren’t secured to the back of my chair, providing enough freedom of movement for me to leave a wet trail down her torso.

I reached her tummy, ticking her firm flat flesh with the tip of my tongue, eliciting little giggles. Her coy playful laugh made my heart swell and my balls ache.

My tongue explored further, moving cautiously downwards. My chin encountered her thighs, spread just widely enough to act as guide-rails, as if she was keen to prevent me from veering off course. Keen to ensure the only direction I could proceed was downward.

As I encountered the curve of her mound, the musky scent of her arousal filled my nostrils, making me almost light-headed. Her mound must have been just waxed, it felt so exquisitely smooth. Her giggles had become appreciative murmurs now, like a small bird cooing. Then my tongue found the little dip of her cleft.

I pursed my lips together, suckling her hood for a few moments before descending to explore the folds of her slit. I was exploring by touch, my mental picture of her most intimate places solely constructed from sensations from the tip of my tongue. Her clitoris was a firm little bump, hiding under a tight arch of flesh. Her labia were small and elusive, easy to lick but difficult to capture and suck. Her vagina was already creamy when I found it, gaping permissively. My tongue intruded inside easily.

She was, quite simply, the most delicious single thing I’d tasted all night. An intoxicating blend of salty, tangy stickiness. In retrospect, erotica most often describes a licked slit as sweet – but that’s the emotion it engenders, not its true taste. Sweet pussy suggests it’s like candy, a treat for immature little boys. But pussy is not an indulgent dessert, it is a main course for adults, intended to be savoured by connoisseurs.  

I licked her long and hard, up and down every inch of her slit, until my tongue began to ache. I suckled her clit until she purred, until she seemed to be teetering on the very edge itself. And then, I stopped.

I heard her emit a long moan of frustration, then her hand gripping my erection tight, as if trying to squeeze the cum out of me.

“Did you enjoy your bare licked cunt, Sir?”

I told her it was absolutely delicious. But didn’t tell her what I was really thinking: how it might be even better skewered on my own fleshy spit.

“Might I interest you in dessert, Sir?”

Of course, I replied. I was eager for more.

Her feet moved from where they’d been resting on my chair, and I felt her get up from the edge of the table where she’d been sitting. There was a pause, accompanied by the clinking of steel and porcelain that suggested the table was being cleared. Things were happening in front of me, then she announced:

“Your sticky chocolate fudge pudding is served, Sir.”

I waited, sitting upright, waiting for a finger to dab on my lips, or for a silver spoon to hover beneath my nose. But nothing appeared. I could hear her heavy breathing, and sense she was still in front of me, so I lowered my head towards the table inquisitively, until the aroma of warm chocolate filled my nostrils.

I followed the smell to its source, and bumped into soft bare buttocks of my hostess, now obligingly bent over the dining table. My tongue soon located a large dollop of sticky chocolate fudge between her bottom cheeks, provocatively smeared around her bottom hole. I chuckled in appreciation of her deviously naughty imagination.

My tongue began to excavate the euphorically sweet mush between her cheeks, with my hostess helpfully spreading apart her buttocks so I could push ever deeper, the tip of my tongue circling around the wrinkled hollow of her bottom hole, until I’d licked her completely clean. It felt and tasted unbelievably decadent, like something from an orgy during the last days of Rome.

I could feel my head buzzing, and not just from the exceptionally rich fudge I’d consumed. My cock was still almost painfully stiff, and even though I couldn’t see it, I knew it was pointing at my hostess’ bare wet cunt, still bent across the table with her legs spread. If I stood, I’d probably be able to slip into her tight little slit in seconds. But that seemed exceedingly poor table manners. Very rude, in fact. Quite ungentlemanly.

Eventually she broke the tense silence.

“Your self-control is admirable.”

“I don’t even know who you are, Madam.”

“I had wondered if you’d be able to guess by now.”

That comment only served to fire my curiosity. I might have heard of her? I wracked my memory, replaying what I could remember of her voice, searching desperately for some kind of match. As I pondered, I heard something rustling, then a tearing noise, then something cool on the tip of my cock. It seemed my hostess had taken the initiative, and was now rolling a condom down my stiff shaft.

“May I mount you, Sir?”

I swallowed reflexively, suppressing a cough. I’d never had sex with a complete stranger before. Whatever was the right answer to a question like that? Was this how the bill was settled in this strange establishment? Not with a credit card, but with a climax?

“By all means.” I said, as nonchalantly as I could manage, as if this was the kind of situation I found myself in all the time.

I felt her body heat against my thighs as she straddled my lap, until she was standing just above my stiffness. She grasped me, guiding it to the edge of her entrance, and then sat on me flamboyantly, impaling herself in one swift motion, and making both of us gasp.

I felt her fingers intrude into my open mouth, they still tasted of the rich chocolate I’d licked from her bottom. My tongue lapped at them greedily.

She left her fingers inside my lips as she rode me with increasing salaciousness. Squeezing me with her tight cunt, varying her rhythm – speeding up, then abruptly stopping, alternately mewing with pleasure and giggling provocatively.

I felt like I was going to burst, but somehow every time I seemed on the brink of spurting, she rode even harder, taking me even further. Deliriously, I began to wonder if my wine had been spiked with powdered blue pills to keep me from coming.

My hostess, however, was subject to no such constraints. She tugged my head forward until my face was pressed to her chest, so a stiff little nub poked into my lips. I obediently suckled her nipple again, hearing her demure moans deepen into guttural grunts as she got closer and closer, as she fine-tuned the angle of her hips so I hit just the right spot.

I felt her convulse as she came hard on top of me. She bucked wildly, until she lost the strength in her limbs, and flopped exhausted against me, her arms now folded around my neck in an intimate embrace.

Suddenly, light split my darkness and dazzled my eyes.

She had removed my blindfold. I snapped my eyelids shut, shielding myself from the dim but still painful light, opening them cautiously as they slowly became reaccustomed. Initially, she was merely a blur, like a ghost, or a partially-forgotten memory. Then she came into focus, smiling, wide eyed. Beautiful.

I did know her.

It was Amber.

We had been lovers once. And she was just as cute as I remembered. Her short auburn hair glowing in the candlelight, with that coppery hue that always made her name so appropriate.

“My God…” I sighed.

How funny that divine invocation should be the instinctive reaction on encountering a long-lost lover. As if those glancing up to the heavens were looking in the wrong place. Surely if the greatest power in the universe was love, then God would not be found floating somewhere above our heads, but by staring into a lover’s eyes.

I stared at her open-mouthed. Just like I did the very first time I met her.

“I love your little fragment of neutron star,” I observed.

She giggled, clutching the gold pendant that hung by a delicate chain around her neck.

Those were the first words I’d ever said to her. She was so beautiful, so intimidating, looking into her eyes was like staring into the centre of the sun. So I’d lowered my gaze to her gorgeous slender neck, and her pendant of gleaming gold. In moments, I knew the silence between us would become irretrievably awkward, I was desperate for something interesting to say, some bon mots that would make me seem intriguing and attractive, and not lame and predictable like all the guys.

How strange that our destinies would be intertwined with another moment, a cataclysmic event in the incomprehensible abyss of deep time that is the distant past.

Somewhere in the endless emptiness of space, two scorchingly bright spheres, each as wide as a city, are about to end each other’s existence. Each had been suns once, fiery giants blazing into the lifeless black void for billions of years. Eventually exhausted, their inconceivably dense embers had pirouetted around each other for eons, drawing ever closer with the slow inevitability of a lovers’ kiss.

And then, inevitably, they touch. They do not just explode, they annihilate each other, with such savage violence they tear the very fabric of space and time apart. In that moment, a cascade of impossible atoms are forged. Among them would be gold, in countless trillions.

After drifting for an eternity, the new particles would find themselves within an immense dust cloud, one so big it would ultimately collapse and coalesce under its own enormity. Squeezed by exceptional pressures, a rocky planet would form around those miniscule atoms of gold.

Once the planet’s broiling surface had cooled, a quirk of in the fabric of nature would lead to some of the neighbouring molecules beginning to organise themselves. A runaway biological reaction would begin, from which an awareness of extraordinary sophistication would emerge. It would achieve something the universe had never been able to do before: collect the gold, an interstellar substance older than the planet itself, and craft it into art.

Six billion years after that stellar collision, a being of awesome biological complexity would happen into existence, and wear that lustrous lump of neutron star residue around her pretty little neck.

That first time, Amber had laughed at my dorkiness. And then again at its preposterous impossibility.

It seemed just as improbable that the two of us would ever get together, that in this huge wide world, we’d somehow bump each other, and manage to overcome our mutual suspicions and anxieties. That our minds would recognise kindred spirits in each other, and that against all the odds, we had somehow connected.

After we’d first met, we’d eventually gone to bed together a few times and fooled around. I remember teasing her one night, binding her hands and stroking every part of her increasingly slick and sticky folds. All whilst I whispered details of how her imminent orgasm was only possible because of supernova stardust, ancient atoms embedded in the astonishing marvel of her metabolism. Her eventual climax was biochemical reaction of staggering complexity, an emergent eruption of trillions of molecules. It delighted me enormously.

Now we both were laughing, our eyes damp from the ludicrous improbability of somehow meeting again.  

I pulled further on the threads of my memories, and was shocked to realise the last time I’d seen Amber in person was just after Christmas, ten years ago. Almost certainly ten years to the very day, come to think of it. We’d last seen each other at Heathrow Airport, crossing paths after spending the holidays with our own families, before each flying onto new year parties in separate continents.

As we’d hugged and said cheerio, the thought didn’t cross my mind that I’d never see her again, but other things had just happened. We’d each embarked on new flings, too busy with the work commitments of our fledgling careers. We were young and impetuous back then, living for the future rather than the present. So over the following years we’d gradually lost touch. We’d shared emails over the years, but then our communications dwindled, we never quite did get round to seeing each other again.

She remained impaled on my stiff aching shaft, rocking up and down more gently now, as she got her breath back.

All the pieces began to fall into place now. This wasn’t a place to be forgotten, it was a place of  Forgotten Lovers. That was why a table here was only ever extended by invitation, and why some were never invited at all. Only a long-lost almost-lover could invite you, and a shared regret had to linger in both your hearts. Perhaps we would both have an evening, alone in the privacy of this little room, to discover if the spark still glowed, and whether we could be lovers once more.

“What would you do if I released you?” she asked.

I opened my mouth to answer, then abruptly stopped. A sudden wave of awareness had surged through my mind. Of all the questions she could have said, why had she say that? Not: how have you been? Or: so good to see you! But what would I do if I was liberated?

I thought back to the version of me that she once knew. The one so eager to be nice to her, to win her attention. She had changed. And, I realised, I had changed too.

I looked deeply into her beautiful pale green eyes, into the dark black pools of her pupils, and held her gaze.

“If you untied my hands, I’d put you over that table and spank your bare bottom.”

“Goodness! Why?”

“Because I’ve wanted to do that ever since the very first night we met.”

“God! Why didn’t you ever say?”

I wasn’t quite sure of the answer to that. I think I was just too naive back then, too eager not to cause offence to my brilliant, elegant, sexy friend. I thought she’d think poorly of me, that I was a thug, a misogynist. I so wanted to earn Amber’s approval, I silenced any desires I thought I might offend her. In doing so, I’d made myself bland, an unappetising dish just as she’d begun dining in a gourmet world.

She rose from my lap, letting my still stiff cock slip from her slick slit, and then stepped backwards, so she was no longer straddling me.

And then she paused, naked in front of me. Her smile replaced by an opaque, thin-lipped expression, as if daring me to stare at her gorgeous naked body, daring me to condemn myself with my own lustful stare. It felt like a challenge, a test to see if the nice little boy deep inside me would surface to apologise for finding her so attractive. Instead, I just smiled. It was the smile of someone who had learned hard lessons on the absurdities of life, who had come to appreciate its unpredictability. It was the smile of someone just looking at a lover.

Moments later, a similar smile broke through on her face too. She stepped behind my chair and released my hands from their cuffs. As I stretched my arms and shoulders in relief, she walked back in front of me, provocatively standing between my seat and the table with her back to me.

I stood, grateful to stretch my legs again, and wrapped my arms around Amber’s chest. I hugged her close, feeling the heat of her back against my chest. My lips reached her right ear, and I whispered the most romantic two words in the English language.

“Bend over.”

She obeyed without comment or complaint. Shifting the sole item remaining on the table, the half-empty bowl of sticky brown dessert, so she could lie fully across it.

I moved behind her, pushing her feet apart with my own until they were on either side of the table legs. This position served to stretch her buttocks into small round globes, and reveal the sticky swollen slit between them.

“You have been a very naughty girl.”

This wasn’t delivered as a question, or an observation. It was a statement.

She responded by wiggling her posterior provocatively, so I dealt with her. Swinging my open palm back and then downwards, spanking her bottom cheek with a resounding smack.

I looked at the tiny patch of pink I’d created, a mark I’d waited a lifetime to deliver, but had never previously been bold enough to try. Amber didn’t attempt to say anything, content to simply emit a low quiet moan. I spanked her again, this time as a flurry of quick stinging whacks. Her submission, her acceptance of the pain I’d inflicted thrilled me.

I spanked her for being a little tease. For the subterfuge that brought me here. For fucking me and leaving my balls to ache. Every now and then I would pause, cupping my hand between her legs, massaging her slit, letting her wetness seep onto my palm. But I was in control now, I would take her to the edge and leave her yearning.

And I would take her as I pleased. My almost painfully hard cock entered her swollen slit easily. As I slid in and out, I used a finger to rub her wrinkled hole, smearing it with the leftover chocolate sauce. Her arse was much tighter, so I told her that would be where my cock would go next. She didn’t protest, merely moaned.

Then I resumed her spanking, alternating flurries of smacks with my finger intruding ever deeper into her tight sticky gap.

When I was ready, I let the tip of my stiff cock rest against her bottom hole, its sheath glistening with her wetness. I began to prod her tight entrance, threatening to enter. But then Amber surprised me again, pushing back on me, impaling herself with a shrill cry of delight.

I fucked her spanked bum slowly, reaching over to feed my chocolate encrusted fingertips into her mouth. She obediently licked my fingers clean as I pushed ever deeper into her bottom.

Her arse was so tight, after a dozen deep thrusts I could already feel myself approaching my limit. I slowed down, smacking what I could reach of her bum and upper thighs when I slid out, feeling the wet kiss of her sticky lips against my shaved sac when I pushed deep. Our breathing matched my rhythm. In and out. Shallow and deep.

As I try to delay the inevitable, I think back over all that’s happened today, and all that’s ever happened between us, and wonder what on earth I’m going to be able to say to her once our fucking ends. Once we’ve both got our breath back, once our waves of ecstasy abate, and the starkness of reality resumes.

I shall suggest we dress and go outside, to cocoon ourselves in our sex fug, and stand in wonder beneath the clear night sky. Hand in hand, we’ll look up at the awe-inspiring starscape twinkling infinitely high above our heads, letting our eyes scan the million points of light sparkling on their stark velvet canvas.

I’m thrusting deep again. I am going to come now. Amber’s right hand is gripping the edge of the table, I grasp it, pushing it beneath her, between her legs. Then I lean forward, to growl my final instructions into her ear.

“Put your fingers on your fucking cunt.”

Later, with our bodies still trembling, we’ll venture outside, and snuggle together under the timelessly vast heavens. Our flushed faces slowly numbing in the chill alpine air. We’ll hug and whisper our hopes and our dreams, our joys and our sorrows.

We’ll talk of pasts and futures, of nebulae and neutron stars.






@spankingtheatre 2019

Originally posted at

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The Summons of Cold Castle

A Guest Story, by an anonymous friend and contributor

I have the great pleasure of attending the Cold
Castle Academy for Finishing Young Ladies. I know this is a “great
pleasure” because I am reminded of that fact every time I even think of a
negative comment over my schooling in the presence of my Great-Aunt

Cold Castle makes the place sound so imposing. I remember my first
day so well. As the vintage car that had been sent to pick me up rounded the curve
of the drive, trees spilled away to reveal a charming country estate
cut from sandy stone, set with big windows and
surrounded by a meticulous garden.

It is everything one with a naughty mind might assume about an all girl’s boarding school.
Yes, we do get up to all sorts of mischief.
What would you truly expect from a whole lot of young ladies left to their own company and amusement?

In the evenings, after classes and dinner have finished, the day
staff retire to their own homes in the nearby village, save for the lone patrol matron – who, quite conveniently – is never to be found. Even
when the strange events begin to unfold.

I suppose I can truly only speak for my own experience. Some might find what I’m about to describe scary, disturbing or even unnaturally perverse. Some might even find it as arousing as I do.

Each night, after our lamps are extinguished, I lie in my wooden cot bed, in a blackness so absolute, it matters not whether my eyes
are open or shut. There are eight of us in my chamber, and I can almost hear the evening symphony swelling, as the intensity of our
desperation rises. The heat of our bodies hanging heavy in the air. 

Soon our eyes will accustomise to the gloom and we will rise, and we’ll open the shutters just a crack, to admit the merest sliver of wan moonlight. Then we’ll begin to play our usual games; Spin the Bottle, Truth or Dare, Kiss My
Cunny, and Overboard.

Sleep is not something any student here prioritises at
this investigative stage of our lives.
During the day we have all the usual things; lessons,
instructors, punishments. A disobedient girl may be held after class for
a whipping, but that’s usually a disappointment. Never sexual, always
carried out in the most swift and proper manner over
a clothed rump in the quiet privacy of an empty office. Even being called to the headmaster’s office, a situation which
has inspired many a wank, never results in anything but a stern

But the truly interesting thing – the unique, almost unbeleivable factor that sets Cold Castle academy apart – is that it’s haunted… 

Well, that’s the only explanation that makes sense to me. We have all heard things, seen things that cannot have any other explanation.
The patrol matron is overly fond of drink and her routine is an easy one to memorize.
She does a once round of the dormitory corridors, then she can be heard
creaking about downstairs for an hour or so before settling into the library
with her bottle.

That’s when our fun begins.
Some nights it’s the whole group coming together in a circle on
the floor for a rousing game of Spin the Bottle. On other nights covers
are pulled back and beds are shared.
The fog of arousal, the buzz of buildup, the heady smell, the hum of heaving chests – it’s intoxicating.
I let the energy wash over me, relishing every whimper, moan and gasp. Once all have finished, the heat fades, silence falls. We sink into an exhausted sleep.

And that is when they come.

I’ve heard my friends’ tell their own stories. Out of your slumber for no reason, you
suddenly find yourself awake, and where before there was pitch darkness, now you find the dormitory drenched in a low, blue light – even when the shutters are closed, and there is no moon
in sight. 

Even more mysteriously, you will find on the end of your bed a folded square of rough, scratchy fabric and a member.
These enticing objects have been described in all sorts of
shapes, sizes and materials; some long and knobbly, others soft and

You rise, somehow sensing you have been summoned, picking up your bundle and making your way into the headmaster’s study. All around the strange weak blue light pervades the corridors, like a seeping mist. On arriving in the study, you discover the
thick rug that usually covers the centre of the room has been pulled aside, revealing a hatch in the floor. Upon lifting the latch, you will
descend a short flight of stairs into a cool,
dusty room.

When you step off the stairs and onto the floor of the little room below, the trapdoor swings closed above you, and you find yourself
trapped. Still the eerie blue light tints your surroundings, filtering down through ten or so round holes
drilled through the study floor high above your head. 

Something tells you to spread the coarse cloth onto the floor and remove your
nightgown. The evening’s earlier activities have already relinquished
you of your undergarments. Standing bare in the cold blue air you take a
moment to properly examine the member. It seems to hum with an inexplicable potency. 

Looking back, I would tell you I knew it was to be me that night
before I even fell asleep. I didn’t know that I knew, but had I thought about it, I would have realized.
The buzz and heat that throbbing through my body had been overwhelming. I had ridden my fingers
into glory, encouraged by chorus of moans from the bed next to mine. A friend who liked to join in as her neighbours played, and who was well accustomed to what they enjoyed.

I had pictured her, writhing together, our mouths buried in the other’s crotch.
On the other side, if I concentrated, I could just about hear the shy moans
of a new student, tentatively investigating her body for the first time,
emboldened by the activity surrounding her.
Her soft reluctance burst the dam within me as I imagined her
quickening breaths indicating that she’d found the courage to plunge her
longest digit within her hungry depths.
My orgasming voice joined that of my bed sisters and I slept
peacefully, contentedly until, for no explicable reason, I was awake. 

Sitting up, I could see arms and legs entwined in several of the room’s beds, whilst some lay empty, their sheets urgently tossed aside. I could hear the quiet breaths of my sleeping sisters, from whom my eyes drifted to focus on the
small pile beside my feet.

The cloth felt like it had been woven from rough wool. And
the member atop… it was shaped like a short, thick stone
dagger; obviously not one that was sharpened with a point. Or perhaps the head of a trident would have been a more accurate comparison, as it had a long centre shaft
and two equal shorter ones on either side. Grasping its base, I was impressed by its weight and unnatural
coldness. With reluctance, I accepted my fate and swung my legs to the
floor. The summons could not be ignored.

Gathering my bundle, I shuffled my way down the corridor, descending to the  floor below and through the imposing study door. I do not know who – or what – has pushed the heavy furniture
back against the walls, and rolled back the rug to expose the trap door hidden beneath. I took a deep breath, before kneeling and pulling the cold iron ring, coughing lightly
as the dusty musty air filled my nostrils.

As I descended, the steps creaked against my bare feet, my way illuminated by the blue light shining through the holes in the floor above.
When I reached the bottom, I could only just stand up straight in the small room. The stone walls around me glowed dimly, adding to my sense of confinement. I spread my rough blanket to cover the dirt of the floor.    

Knowing that next I was to discard my nightie, I scanned the
walls for a hook. Finding none, I folded it carefully and set it on the
bottom step, that’s when I heard the trapdoor latch above me. Trapped, with no way out, I knew what I had been summoned here to do. I rested the the 3-stemmed member upwards in the centre of the blanket, and gently eased myself onto the floor, lying on my back, heels clamped together
against the member’s square base. 

Now I conjured memories, crafting them into new delicious imaginings.
My new bed neighbour with her soft whimpers, yearning into me as I
drew my fingers down her body, cupping her mound, bringing her
tentative digits into mine.
 The cool air of the room lapped my hole which gaped stickily as
my knees lay spread. I tugged my nipples, stretching and twisting until
they were hard. I pinched my clit, making slow circles pulling it out of
hiding from beneath its hood; flickering
gently back and forth my mind searching for more wicked images. 

Perhaps one night we will venture from the safety of our sleeping
corridor and find ourselves fucked atop the headmaster’s desk, or taken
into the classroom and punished the way we wish: naked, in a room filled
with hungry eyes.

The last time I was punished I rushed straight from the
humiliation into the awaiting arms of my closest bed sister. She took me
into the woods and carried on my punishment; bending me over a fallen
log, lifting my skirts and switching my barely heated
cheeks until they were the stinging with the fiery intensity I longed for.
 I cried freely as she continued through my objections, trading the switches for her slipper adding a longing ache to the burn.
 She spanked me to my brink under the rustling leaves, surrounded
by birdsong and then she took me on that log, tribbing and riding until
we both lay exhausted on the forest floor. 

Strangely, she was expelled the next day. Yet it could not have been for
our woodland activities or I surely would have gone, too. I still miss her… hands.

I often wonder, had she ignored the summons?

I dipped my finger inside
myself, feeling the slickness within my depths. Now I was ready to bring my member up closer. I curved one side – one of the shorter prongs – until
it just teased my insides, if I pressed it against my mound, entered just deep enough to lubricate its tip.

Crawling onto my knees I angled the member carefully, shivering and shrinking as its icy hardness split my lips.
 Gripping the base with my heels, I sunk slowly onto the middle protrusion until
the uppermost prong paused, begging entrance to my puckered hole. Grimacing
as it stretched me, I gave in to what it wanted, bearing down until the
front curve was pressed cruelly into my clit.

Now, I was full.
The member’s marble so unyielding as it bore into my soft, warm flesh.
Carefully, I began fucking up and down, rocking my hips, enjoying the
little suckling noises that escaped.
My cunt was stretched by the thick intruder whilst my bottom hole hummed
with pleasure. Only my clit protesting as each thrust tugged its hood back, bruising my delicate little pearl a little more.

I could feel the pressure beginning to build, and continued my dance. The voices grew louder, the light bluer,
the air colder, the stone inside me harder. My fingers fought to find my clit,
fumbling with what little flesh they could find. I longed for her touch.
To be riding my member in my bed sister’s presence,
for her pleasure, my spanked cheeks glowing.

In my mind, I had run from the headmaster’s office, chastised
little by his lecture, to be greeted by her stern expression and firm
grasp, conveyed to our clearing.
The log was gone, but in its place was a wide ankle-high stump. She
withdrew my member from her skirts and relieved me of what I was wearing. Clambering, I
knelt atop the rough-hewn wooden surface as she placed the member
between my legs.

Eyeing me as she dipped to lubricate
its prongs with her spittle. I relaxed my thighs and sank onto the phallus,
her smile growing with my discomfort.
There is a glint in her sparkling eyes before she rounds out of sight. I
nearly lose my balance as her thin doubled woven belt strikes my
bare bottom. Her lashes fall evenly, encouraging my thrusts.

Once I cross the peak she pulls me to the edge of the stump,
spreading my thighs. I smile up at her expecting her tongue to suckle my
honey, but instead the belt comes down harshly through my clitoris and
extra-sensitive-from-freshly-cumming cunt.

In the dusty room I writhe against the member distracted by my fantasies.
I grow ever more adventurous, rocking wildly, clit crushed with each
raucous grind. I ride to the edge before feeling the blue light tipping
me backward, urging me to raise my knees high and plunge the member from
I obey, lying on my back again, hips thrusting upward into the unforgiving phallus, until I cum. Loudly, with my legs shaking. 

I lay still a moment before letting the member fall; my hands
sliding to fondle my breasts, before crawling further to investigate my throbbing
I rub it gently, soothing the ache, legs twitching as my fingers cross the engorged bean. Then I jerk it roughly to another orgasm. 

Soon, I roll over again, so my face in the dusk, and my buttocks in the air. I thrust the
member desperately from behind, my empty hand scrabbling against the wall for anything to
pull against. I feel my juices dribbling down my thighs, bucking as my
open pussy relinquishes and reaccepts the member with
a sucking smack of a sobbering kiss. I can feel the cold blue air licking hungrily at my arousal, as I climax deliriously for the forth time tonight.

Collapsing onto the floor, tired and used, I can hear the voices
beckoning me to stand. I quickly slip my nightgown over my head, its thin
fabric doing nothing to hide my erect nipples. It’s brighter now, an extra blue square of light above my head indicating the trapdoor is again unlatched and open.

I ascend the stairs, but the moment my eyes come level with the floor above I am confused
to see that I am now surrounded by a circle of my naked bed sisters, their faces
pressed against the floor, their bottoms high in the air, their glistening slits on
full display. Each panting, urgently. Yet before I bend to
temptation forces beyond my understanding ferry me back up the stairs and  convey me into my bed.

don’t remember falling asleep.
And none of us remember the blue spirits in the daylight. I don’t
understand how we can forget. We go about our days in varying degrees of
scandal and normality, and only when night falls does our horny hum
wake the ghosts.

The very next night I wanked myself off to the memory of the previous evening after a very arousing game of Kiss My Cunny.
Here we close the shutters, and all sit on the edge of our beds whilst one girl fumbles about
in absolute darkness as we contort ourselves, trying to trick her into
suckling our pussies. When she mistakes the clit for a nipple or
dripping labia for the tongue she must pay a penalty
of the group’s choosing. 

Last evening I was the Cunny Kisser and I had made my way through
half the group before licking the proffered pussy instead of anus as I
had been aiming. My penalty was voted on and decided, and carried out summarily. It would be a group fingering over the baseboard, my cheeks spread, the solid
wood pressing into my stomach, a clamour of hands fondling me, whilst others held me in
place as I bucked against the innumerable squirming
digits within.

I came shamefully quickly to a round of racous laughter.
This was pronounced too lenient an execution and I was sentenced
to two more orgasms. They came quickly as I imagined what my fate would
have been had my original playmate still been here. She would have advocated a much more uncomfortable punishment, like a thorough pussy spanking, and then being put to bed with towels tied around crotch and waist, to prevent any chance of nocturnal relief. Exhausted by my climaxes, I fell into a deep and contented sleep. 

I was awoken several hours later by a low murmuring, and
unquestioningly joined the throng of my bed sisters as we shuffled down towards
the study. Compelled by the blue spirits, we moved as if in a daze – fully conscious
yet unable to resist. When we reached the study, we simultaneously removed our nightgowns, shyly
devouring each other’s nudity before obeying the unsaid command to kneel with our faces
to the floor. 

Like remembering fragments of a dream, I suddenly realised what I’d wintessed as I’d walked out of the trapdoor last night. Face
to the floor, looking through one of the little peepholes, I had a full view into the little room below. Just where I
had been last night lay the new girl, on her back, her legs spread wide. 

We tend to pleasure ourselves in darkness, rarely do we see our
wickedness. Our hands have felt much, much more than our eyes have ever
 From this spectacular vantage, I could feel my slit dampen in
mere anticipation of what my eyes were to see. My gaze consumed her
naked form; blue light glistening off her dark skin, hair twisted above
her head, full breasts, shaved mound, member in

Just as I had, she was preparing her body to be filled, flicking
her clit. Those timid whimpers rising easily through the floor. I tried
to reach backwards to fumble my own but frustratingly found that I could not move my
Below, hesitantly, she began to twist the member, hers was a thick screw
made of glass. Her legs shook with each turn; mouth falling open,
silently protesting the intrusion.

I wondered what she was imagining. What naughty thoughts filled her head?

Did she like it when I had kissed her swollen lips?

Did she know I
had purposely lost that game, just for the chance to taste her?

Were her fingers
among those rubbing me furiously to my edge?

Would she one day become my
one bed sister?

And ride me?

And spank me? 

Just as that thought entered my mind, my naked bottom, high in
the air received a searing smack. I tried to turn and see who was behind
me but my gaze was locked on the show below.
The screw was all the way inside now, and she was gently tugging
in and out. Delicious sucking noises could be heard with each slight
movement. Her knees were drawn to her chest giving us the most invasive
view, her most delicate privacy fully open for
our eager eyes. 

Another crack fell upon my bottom and the wonderful heat rose. I
began to expect the next blow, eyes desperately consuming the show
below. She toyed herself to cumming and as she shook a volley of silent
blows fell across my cheeks. I bit back tears of pain
and joy.
She rolled to her knees, assuming the same position as us, gently beginning to twist the member into her puckered rosebud.
 I imaged the sensation, cold hard glass, intruding further and deeper with every turn. How the pressure must be building in her tummy. 

She reached her edge, fingers pounding sloppily.
I too had nearly reached mine. The intoxicating inconsistency of the
swats behind me returning with a vengeance. What I had judged to be a
leather paddle made no sound as I was jolted in place by each swing. I
tried to cry out but no sound came.

Silently I relished my punishment, rocking my hips to feel the
split between my lips. Each swing bringing a rush of air that cooled the
juice spilling from my slit.

Then, as the pressure within had built until I was sure I could no
longer take it, an unseen force plunged into my gaping pussy, fucking
me roughly. Something bigger than I’d ever had inside me before. Stretching me,
filling me.

I longed to let my head roll with pleasure.

 My fingernails dug into the floorboards, I pictured us all,
our bare bottoms glowing in the moonlight, eyes devouring pleasure below as we
received an invisible filling of our own.

We watched her come, as our own excitement peaked, watching in a state of near delerium as she put her gown back on, wondering if we would be cruelly denied the very release she had just been granted. 

Yet just as her toes hit the first
step, the fire burst within me.
I gushed down my thighs to a volley of fresh stings. I still
could not move; my bottom glowing, my stretched pussy throbbing, desperately panting.

She walked past us, no doubt wondering what had just occurred, just as I had. She would find out, soon enough.

Many thanks to the author of this work, a wonderfully creative mind who I’ve collaborated with before, but whose blog is too polite to post stories like these. If you liked this piece, I think you’ll enjoy her other work:



A spanking story

The schoolgirls wearily traipsed through time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keep reading

Wishing you all a very happy Lupercalia.

May all your buttocks be flogged.

And your slits be filled.

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