Search

Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

Tag

spanking story

The Naughtiest Thing

spankingtheatre:

A spanking story for the new year

image

We – my closest, most intimate friends, have a little New Year’s Eve tradition.

Whilst others gather in loud, gaudy parties, we assemble for a quiet night in. Just us, no partners. As midnight approaches, we dim the lights and take turns to tell stories. It began when we were still at school, as a simple retelling of the most enjoyable experiences of our past twelve months. But as we’ve all become more worldly-wise, the salaciousness of our ritual has escalated, until now it’s a time to confess to each other The Naughtiest Thing we did last year.

We play for higher stakes now too. We four friends sit pantyless in a circle, holding our favourite dildos beneath our best party frocks, drawing lots to determine the order of when we tell our stories. The jeopardy is simple: if any of our stories make any one of our friends climax, the storyteller earns the right to demand the offender pays a forfeit. Traditionally, spankings have been popular forfeits, the loser seeing in the new year naked, facing the wall with their pink bottom on display. But we’re getting increasingly creative too.

This year, the topic is more provocative still.

What’s The Naughtiest Thing you’ve ever done?

And now, it’s my turn to speak.

The Naughtiest Thing I’ve ever done… I announce solemnly, my gaze roving across my friends’ expectant eyes… was when I was 19, and I brought my first boyfriend home.

I paused for effect, letting assumptions paint themselves within my audience’s minds. Scenes assembled from the palettes of their own experiences. I knew each and every one had all been just as naughty as me.

Though actually, as it happened, my tale did not take place in my childhood home. My dad’s eldest sister lived closer to where my boyfriend and I went to university, and so I decided we’d visit and stay for the weekend. My aunt is quite a presence, I think he was quite intimidated when I introduced them both, when she looked him right in eyes and told him in no uncertain terms, that she hoped he’d behave himself in her home. He looked at his shoes and stammered like a guilty little boy. And inside, I giggled.

The next day, as my aunt attended to domestic chores, I lead my boy out into the large garden. It was a beautifully warm late Spring day, and I led the way to the sun terrace, hidden from the house by a tunnel of overgrown pergolas. Shall we bask in the sun? I asked him, before lifting my dress to reveal my skimpiest bikini underneath. His eyes widened even more dramatically when I asked him if he’d like to put his hand inside and feel my breasts. He nodded vigorously, but I made him take off his own clothes first, stripping down to his own underwear.

I let him cup me with his right hand, then asked if he’d like me to take everything off. When he said yes, I insisted he went first. He pulled down his boxer shorts and I followed suit, so we were now standing in front of each other naked.

It was so thrilling, so illicit. My slit was so tingly and wet, I couldn’t keep my eyes off his rapidly swelling cock. His hands slipped down my body, as if pulled by a magnet hidden in my crotch. I felt his hot fingers cup my cunt. I felt the world around me fade into irrelevance, like everything around us was a rather mediocre memory.

But no matter how wonderful the experience, one must always remember it is simply a bubble in a world that moves to its own rules. When you’re distracted, others make their own moves, and sometimes your little sanctuary is interrupted. Moments later, as he massaged my moistening lips with his fingertips, my aunt caught us…

Keep reading

A brand new story for the new year, in case you missed it…

The Naughtiest Thing

A spanking story for the new year

image

We – my closest, most intimate friends, have a little New Year’s Eve tradition.

Whilst others gather in loud, gaudy parties, we assemble for a quiet night in. Just us, no partners. As midnight approaches, we dim the lights and take turns to tell stories. It began when we were still at school, as a simple retelling of the most enjoyable experiences of our past twelve months. But as we’ve all become more worldly-wise, the salaciousness of our ritual has escalated, until now it’s a time to confess to each other The Naughtiest Thing we did last year.

We play for higher stakes now too. We four friends sit pantyless in a circle, holding our favourite dildos beneath our best party frocks, drawing lots to determine the order of when we tell our stories. The jeopardy is simple: if any of our stories make any one of our friends climax, the storyteller earns the right to demand the offender pays a forfeit. Traditionally, spankings have been popular forfeits, the loser seeing in the new year naked, facing the wall with their pink bottom on display. But we’re getting increasingly creative too.

This year, the topic is more provocative still.

What’s The Naughtiest Thing you’ve ever done?

And now, it’s my turn to speak.

The Naughtiest Thing I’ve ever done… I announce solemnly, my gaze roving across my friends’ expectant eyes… was when I was 19, and I brought my first boyfriend home.

I paused for effect, letting assumptions paint themselves within my audience’s minds. Scenes assembled from the palettes of their own experiences. I knew each and every one had all been just as naughty as me.

Though actually, as it happened, my tale did not take place in my childhood home. My dad’s eldest sister lived closer to where my boyfriend and I went to university, and so I decided we’d visit and stay for the weekend. My aunt is quite a presence, I think he was quite intimidated when I introduced them both, when she looked him right in eyes and told him in no uncertain terms, that she hoped he’d behave himself in her home. He looked at his shoes and stammered like a guilty little boy. And inside, I giggled.

The next day, as my aunt attended to domestic chores, I lead my boy out into the large garden. It was a beautifully warm late Spring day, and I led the way to the sun terrace, hidden from the house by a tunnel of overgrown pergolas. Shall we bask in the sun? I asked him, before lifting my dress to reveal my skimpiest bikini underneath. His eyes widened even more dramatically when I asked him if he’d like to put his hand inside and feel my breasts. He nodded vigorously, but I made him take off his own clothes first, stripping down to his own underwear.

I let him cup me with his right hand, then asked if he’d like me to take everything off. When he said yes, I insisted he went first. He pulled down his boxer shorts and I followed suit, so we were now standing in front of each other naked.

It was so thrilling, so illicit. My slit was so tingly and wet, I couldn’t keep my eyes off his rapidly swelling cock. His hands slipped down my body, as if pulled by a magnet hidden in my crotch. I felt his hot fingers cup my cunt. I felt the world around me fade into irrelevance, like everything around us was a rather mediocre memory.

But no matter how wonderful the experience, one must always remember it is simply a bubble in a world that moves to its own rules. When you’re distracted, others make their own moves, and sometimes your little sanctuary is interrupted. Moments later, as he massaged my moistening lips with his fingertips, my aunt caught us…

My aunt’s initial expression was one of extreme surprise, before her familiar strict mask dropped down her face. From that fleeting moment of shock, her sternest frown emerged.

You know what happens to naughty girls in this house, she told me.

For one horrible moment, I feared her statement meant that I alone was being held culpable, that all my careful planning had been for nothing. But then we were both told to go to The Room, and wait there “for punishment”. We weren’t even allowed to gather up our clothes, so had to hurry into the house still naked.

What kind of punishment? he whispered plaintively as we climbed the stairs, his cock now flaccid, his hands shyly covering his crotch.

Why a spanking, of course, I told him. On our bare bottoms. We’re each going to get a good hard spanking on our bare bottoms until they’re pink and sore. That’s what happens to naughty girls and boys here. He looked at me with mouth agape, waiting for me to say, only joking! Except I wasn’t.

I led the way to one of the guest bedrooms, which was innocuous enough that I could see the anxiety in my boyfriend’s eyes transform into smirking expectation as soon as he saw the double bed that occupied the centre of the room. As if my aunt’s threat was suddenly forgotten, and the actual reality was that he was being led (naked) by his (also completely naked) girlfriend towards a big soft bed. Where she would clearly lie back and spread her legs wide, and beg him to put his big hard dick into her juicy cunt.

That was because he didn’t know what happened here. I’d been punished here several times, usually alone, but a couple of times I’d had my sister for company. Auntie would sit on the bed, and put us across her knee. And had we just waited, that would have been our fate. But I had something much more radical in mind.

The large bed here was at first glance, rather ordinary. It was covered with a plump ivory duvet, with matching pillows near the wooden beams that comprised its headboard. But on closer examination, unusual features revealed themselves, for a start, it wasn’t pushed against any of the walls, meaning you could walk all the way around it.

Then there were the silvery bedknobs glinting in each corner of the frame: four egg-shaped stainless steel protrusions. They were a late addition to what had been a simple unadorned short-posted bedstead. They were actually buttplugs, with holes drilled in their bases, which had allowed them to be screwed firmly into the wooden posts beneath.

That was what I so admired about my aunt, she was the kind of lady who’d think: you know what this bed could really do with? Buttplugs in each corner. And then get the tools out and do it.

I fetched the pot of lube that was sitting brazenly on the shelf, another sign this room wasn’t quite what it seemed, and began applying it to the two knobs at the bottom of the bedstead.

I took my boy’s hand and led to a corner of the bed, telling him to rise up on his tiptoes and straddle the knob. I guided him so the tip of the knob rested against his cute little bum hole, and warned him to stay there, before encouraging him to sink down until it began to enter his bottom. I must confess, watching his tight little hole stretch was quite thrilling. When he was properly impaled, I straddled the knob beside him, and allowed myself to sink down too. Soon it was stretching my bum open too.

As we stood there waiting, I told him my aunt would be inspecting us when she arrived, and so he should pull his foreskin back so she could conduct a proper examination of his penis. With his bottom filled, he was much more compliant, and he did as he was told. Soon his cute dick had stiffened to the point where his helmet bulged. My aunt wasn’t really going to inspect him, I was just curious, and wanted to see every detail of his cock close up for myself.

The combination of the bedknob in his bum and his foreskin pulled back made him very hard indeed. I could see its veins bulge, and a clear fluid dripping from the tip. I gave my own swollen clit a few hard rubs before instructing him to follow my lead as I put my hands upon my head. Then we waited in nervous silence for Hurricane Auntie to blow in, and punish us.

Eventually, we heard approaching footsteps. My aunt appeared with a thick leather tawse, split at the tip into two sawtooth strips. Her purposeful stride halted immediately when she saw us straddling the bedknobs. I’m sure I saw a little smile flash across her face. But she said nothing, she didn’t even lecture us. Instead she just took up a position between us, feet spread apart in a classic power stance, and ran the fronds of the strap down our bare cheeks, just to check we were both in range.

My aunt twisted at her hips, swivelling her arm backwards before swinging back in one fluid motion to deliver a stinging whack to my boyfriend’s bottom, one so loud it made my ears ring and my pussy tremble. He yelped with the pain, I doubt he’d ever been spanked before.

She twisted and whacked him five more times with her forehand swing, covering his poor bottom with pink splotches. Then without moving her feet, she swivelled her hips to address me, giving me six smacks with her backhand.

Auntie was an excellent tennis player, self-disciplined, focussed, strong-wristed and unerringly accurate. I always loved watching Wimbledon, imagining what an expert spankers each player would make, how each might lift my skimpy white skirt, tug my snow white panties down, and demonstrate their exceptional timing and technique.

Her leather strap imparted a terrible sting, each whack echoing deep inside me through the knob I’d so disgracefully impaled myself on. But I was so aroused, I barely felt the pain.

My aunt turned to face my boy again and resumed her forehand swipes. She had only delivered three more when he emitted a deep moan and came, ejaculating a long stream of creamy mess on the bedsheet in front of us. He got a scolding for his troubles, but no respite, and I think the poor boy felt every subsequent whack even more keenly after he’d spent himself. If I’m honest, I was rather disappointed by his lack of self control.

We got thirty-six whacks each, six sets of six, by the end of which I could feel my own sticky excitement dripping down the inside of my thighs. My aunt then took a few minutes to carefully examine the marks she’d inflicted, and tug our sore cheeks open to see how our bottoms had been stretched by the bedknobs.

She whispered two words into my ear before she left. Clever girl. Praise that made my clit throb. Before informing us both that we could stay mounted where we were for half an hour. Then she left us on the bedposts to contemplate our misdemeanours.

When I was sure she’d gone downstairs, I whispered conspiratorially to my partner in crime. Do you want to see me come?

He nodded eagerly. I’d never masturbated in front of anyone before, but I’d always fantasised about it, having an audience sitting in respectful silence, like in music recital, whilst I performed for them, skillfully manipulating my instrument, dancing, gyrating and writhing with pleasure.

I reached down and began rubbing my clit, which by now was swollen and throbbing with an almost uncomfortable intensity. My performance was more of a minuet than a concerto, I was so aroused, it only took a few firm rubs until I was bucking wildly on the bedpost, as my bottom clenched and quivered around it.

But girls, that wasn’t The Naughtiest Thing I’ve Ever Done.

The Naughtiest Thing was that I’d planned it all.


I had invited my poor boy here, knowing full well what would happen to us. I had dressed up in my bikini, and had encouraged him to undress with me, in the very place I knew my aunt would come to find us. I knew she’d send us to the punishment room and spank us both. I planned it all because I wanted to see him get spanked, I wanted to see how big and thick his cock got, I wanted to see if he could control himself or lose it and spurt. But I wanted to see it from a safe distance, I didn’t want things to get out of hand, and for his glistening heat-seeking erection to somehow find itself within my hot needy crevice.

So I had contrived everything about our encounter at my aunt’s house. Timing it meticulously to ensure we were caught. But I could only be sure of how she’d react because I knew all about my aunt’s kinky secrets.

A few years earlier, when I was a brash wilful teenager, I’d once spent a dismal rainy afternoon in my aunt’s house when she’d left me alone for the day. My boredom prompted me to roam, and my insatiable curiosity soon drew me to her grand bedroom. I’m embarrassed to say I had little respect for her privacy, and after examining the contents of her lingerie drawer, made the intriguing discovery that only one of her bedside drawers was locked. So I began to search for the key. I soon found that under the mattress.

Now I could begin rummaging through her most personal possessions. At the top was a pile of colourful magazines. My heart almost jumped out of my chest when I flicked through them. The pattern was always the same, a photo of pouting young woman (or sometimes more), each being told off by a stern female authority figure. A headmistress, a nurse, a policewoman, a nun, a mother, an aunt or even a grandmother.

Some images had text beside them, which I read in rapt fascination as they described how the young protagonist had been caught doing The Naughtiest Thing. And in this particular fantasy world, they would, of course, have to severely punished.

My eyes drank in pages and pages of intoxicating imagery. Frowny, pouting girls being led by the hand, bending over to have their skirts lifted and their panties pulled down. And then, punishment was delivered – and it was always a good hard spanking, always administered on a pretty pert bare bottom.

Absolutely no detail was was spared. The beautiful colour photographs showed the pink blushes on the miscreants’ cheeks, at both ends of their bodies. As the sequence continued, their bottoms got pinker, and their expressions more pained and contrite. I could read the writhing in their body language, even though every picture was still, as if my mind could interpolate the absent frames, intuitively knowing just what was missing. Finally, by the end of each sequence, justice had been done, and all was forgiven. Although she still might be pouting as she was sent to stand in the corner with her hands on her head.

I could barely believe my eyes. I laid on my aunt’s big soft bed, eagerly consuming the illicit stories I’d found. It didn’t take long for my hands to wander into my jeans, and then for my jeans to be pulled down completely. I stacked pillows beneath my hips, raising my bottom into the cool air, imagining I’d been caught red-handed by my aunt’s unexpectedly sudden return, and immediately dragged across her knee.

But the magazines weren’t all I found. I found what I later realised were dildos, strap-on harnesses and butt plugs. And several straps and paddles.

I rubbed my throbbing clit as I fantasised about her spanking me, then reached over to pick up one of her paddles, now eager to experience what a smack on the bottom actually felt like.

I reached back and spanked myself firmly, it didn’t hurt, it just felt warm and tingly, as if I’d just sat down heavily onto a hot radiator. So I tried a harder smack, then a harder one, until the heat began to be accompanied by a stinging sensation. And I liked it, I could feel the echo of each smack in my pussy. I began to wonder why anyone would consider this sensation a punishment, why there wasn’t a queue of girls outside the headmistress’ office, her best-behaved girls, each waiting their turn for this special treat.

Before the afternoon was out I was a spanking convert. I had stumbled across an incredible discovery, a true treasure trove – and one, I realised later, that might also explain the absence of boyfriends in my aunt’s life. This had always puzzled me, my aunt was pretty, and seemed to have such an active social life, always surrounded by a cadre of beautiful, elegant friends. It seemed she just preferred the company of women, and liked putting them across her knee too.

Further investigations revealed several adult-sized school uniforms in the wardrobe, what looked like a black headmistress’ gown, a cane, and surely more slippers than any one individual could hope to wear.

I had stumbled my aunt’s thrilling little secret, that she liked spanking naughty girls. That was what planted the seed, when I started thinking: what was The Naughtiest Thing I could do to provoke her into smacking my bottom?

Slowly, in the subsequent months, a plan formed in my mind. I would lure my boyfriend here, and I would ensure we were caught naked, ideally with his fingers deep in my pussy. Then it wouldn’t just be me getting spanked, he would too, and I would get to watch everything.

Positioning ourselves on top of the bedposts was a gamble, but one I thought my aunt would greatly appreciate, especially given what I’d discovered of her penchant for anal discipline.

Was that so naughty of me?

I looked around for an answer. But my three friends clearly had other things on their minds, they already had their toys beneath their posh frocks. I could hear the squelches amid their hurried gasps.

I hope they remember the stakes we’re playing for. Very high stakes indeed.

But my story was too strong to resist, too resonant with my friends’ own desires. One by one. They came for me.

I think that means I’ve won our little new year game.


Well, girls. That means I get to choose your forfeits.

So, you’ll all going to accompany me on my next visit to my lovely strict aunt.

I know what you’re thinking. Yes, she still has the bed. I rode it again on my last visit, the perfectly carved bedknob stretching and filling my hungry cunt. I made such a mess as I came, but didn’t wipe it clean. I left my creamy residue for her to discover. Next time we meet, I want her to deal with me. I want her to be so strict with us.

I’m sure she’d just love to meet you all, and then escort us all to her punishment room. I expect she’ll want to undress us all with her own hands, bend each of us all, and rub a slippy lube all around our bottom holes. Then she’ll lead each of us into position, so we’re all on our tiptoes straddling a bedknob, its cold round tip teasing our tight little rings. How she’ll delight in hearing the gasps and pleas from your pretty faces.

Yes, girls. Put your sticky dildos against your bottom holes now. I know you’re eager to discover just how that will feel. How as your calves tire, you’ll sink deeper onto your bedknob. Each slip making our poor bottoms stretch. That’s it, keep pushing, slow and deep.

But that will only be the start of our ordeal. My aunt will fetch her wicked strap, and tell us to place our hands on top of our heads. Then she’ll begin to dander slowly around the bed, smacking every bottom that she passes, forehand and backhand, on our buttocks and thighs.

She does like to stop and inspect, be prepared for her to spread your slit apart and scrutinise the slick pink flesh within. She likes to tell those who are dripping to pull back their hoods and expose their little glistening bumps. As all the while your sore smacked bottom stings and throbs.

Yes, that’s it, girls. Tug your little hoods back for Miss.

Are you going to come again, girls?

Tsk. Tsk.

Without permission?

Don’t dare come until my dear auntie says, unless you all want to go home with the burning heat of a ginger root in your bum, and the marks of her school cane striping your cheeks.

Oh! I’m so glad you’re looking forward to our little visit, girls.

I promise, it will be The Naughtiest Thing

.

.

.

@spankingtheatre 2018

Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.

You’re welcome to reblog and share.

He is very, very strict.

A serious-minded, austere individual.
One might even describe him as grave. He controls me, he does not
tolerate my silly nonsense. He ensures my obedience.

He applies two stinging smacks to each cheek, but that only intensifies my dampness.

Then he stops.

His
punishments are never whimsical. Each whacking carefully considered to
send a message. I’ve become expert at interpreting them. These smacks
clearly mean: he knows I am disgracefully aroused, and I should not be
on the edge of orgasm.

I shouldn’t be, but I am. I’m holding it inside of me. I feel as though I’m about to burst.

I’m
bent over a cold, unforgiving but exquisitely carved slab of granite,
clenching my loins, desperately trying not to disgrace myself.

As
so often happens, when I’m at the edge, my mind empties. Vivid memories
from long ago, rush in to fill the vacuum. Like the very first time I
was spanked by my godfather…

From my recent story Grave

Verso, Recto – part 2

This is the second part of a two-part story, you can read the first part here.


You put me to bed with a sore bottom, in one of the old convent’s austere intimidating cells. Where the fiery glow beneath me contrived to conjure such extraordinary dreams.

Somehow I saw those who’d inhabited these very rooms and corridors long ago, with such vivid lucidity I could have sworn they were my own memories. As I walked amongst the convent’s ghosts, every detail felt so real.

“I saw behind your portrait,” I told her.

“I know,” she replied.

I dreamt I was one of the novice nuns. An experience so vicarious I could feel my knees ache from kneeling on the cold hard floor, as I offered my thanks for the gift of a brand new day. A act of gratitude not only for the dawn, but also the daily morning ritual that was about to occur. Outside our dormitory, someone rang a hand-bell, a signal for my fellow novices and I to conclude our prayers and file out of our shared sleeping quarters to the bathroom.

After queuing for the toilet, we would undress, and enter the tiled corner where the showers steamed and spluttered. The water is warm, but never luxuriously hot. We ablute as best we can with the mediocre soap, and then – still dripping – cloak ourselves with a scrawny towel and take our place in line.

There are three girls in front of me, then two, then it’s my turn. I drop my towel, and I’m standing naked in front of one of the senior sisters. I clasp my hands in prayer across my chest as the sister dabs a foamy cream into my mound. Then she places a crucifix over my crotch, and with a fearsome-looking straight-edge razor, shaves the stubble in the four corners, leaving a cross-shaped tuft of pubic hair behind.

In this institution, it was easy to tell who were the well-behaved girls. As any who misbehaved would be sent to see a senior nun, and immediately shaved completely bare, before being severely spanked. Her candid bareness would serve as a lingering reminder of her sinful immaturity. The slow regrowth of her hair would represent the incremental progress towards her eventual forgiveness.

Somehow I knew all of the convent’s petty rules, and all the consequences. How the most serious infractions, such as the illicit touching of ourselves – or even worse, the touching of others – would result in being sent to the Mother Superior to be shaved and caned, and then being put in the dreaded chastity pants for several weeks, until the miscreant’s crucifix patch had fully regrown.

Chastity Pants were long-johns made of a thick uncomfortable calico fabric, with tough leather panels sewn into the gusset to guard against any external rubbing. Whilst their long ankle length leggings would prevent any fingers from straying inside. They were secured around the waist with cord that was narrower than the wearer’s hips, the two ends being secured with a lockable clasp that prevented them from being lowered once they were pulled up and fixed.

As a consequence, every morning, afternoon and evening any unfortunate girl wearing such underwear would have to report to a sister to be unlocked before she could visit the toilet – with the door left open, of course. And when time in chastity coincided with a girl’s period, it was also a chance to change to the cloth rags used for hygiene.

Whilst her bottom was bare, she’d demonstrate her own contrition by bending over and giving herself a brief spanking with her own discipline whip in front of the watching sister, who would often add some smacks of her own. Then the chastity garment would pulled up again and locked shut above her hips, leaving the poor girl’s bottom to throb inconsolably beneath her habit.

But, eventually, at the end of the offender’s sentence, she would be granted her redemption. She would have the cross once again shaved into her mound. and all her sins would be considered forgiven. After all, wasn’t that the Christian message?

In my dream, I hadn’t done anything naughty enough to be put in chastity. But I had been given demerit slip for whispering silliness to a friend in Latin class, and so had been sent to my house mistress Sister Juliet to have my bottom smacked.

Each nun in the convent had their own preferred means of spanking. Mother Superior believed in the corrective effect of naked canings, so any unfortunates sent to her would expect to find themselves completely undressed before being bent over the trestle for a whacking from her terrible cane. The dour Sister Anna made girls touch their toes, before administering their punishment with her favoured long thick wooden ruler.

Strict Sister Maria, on the other hand, preferred to use the strap on kneeling girls whose heads were pressed to the floor, with their bare bums raised high into the air. Whilst pretty Sister Constance had naughty novices lift their gowns and lie on their backs, before raising their legs and whacking with her paddle.

Lovely Sister Juliet had a more intimate spanking style, those sent to see her would be made to stand beside the spanking chair and lift their skirts. When the good sister took her seat, she’d put the naughty girl across her knee, and spank her bare bottom with the sole of her leather slipper. Soles saving souls, so to speak.

I had reached the door of Sister Juliet’s room, and was taking a moment to compose myself before I knocked, when I heard some giggling behind the door. This outbreak of jollity was so unexpected I found myself consumed by curiosity, like when you’re desperate to be let in on the secret joke. Something made me kneel and peep through the waist-high spyhole. None of the doors in the convent had locks or latches, whyever would they need them? Certainly only sin would flourish behind a locked door. Just as the Good Lord could see all, every door in the convent had a spyhole, so there were few secrets in this establishment. Or so I thought.

I held my breath, and peeked…

Instinctively, my hand flew my mouth to suppress a gasp. I could see lovely Sister Juliet lying naked on her bed, whilst above, a naked Sister Constance was straddling her. Their heads were between each other’s legs, in what my modern self would readily recognise as the classic 69 position, but somehow I also knew the mind I was inhabiting would find this revelation profoundly shocking.

I could see the sisters’ habits and underclothes strewn across the floor, as if they’d both undressed hurriedly. I watched in silent fascination as the two women pleasured each other. They were trying to be quiet, but every now and they’d let a slip a moan or a giggle, each only serving to stoke my own desire to join them.

“This is so naughty!” I heard Juliet whisper. “You know what would happen if we were caught…”

With that, she lightly smacked the bum of her partner several times by way of illustration. In reality, the sanctions would be far more painful than a light spanking on the bare bottom. They’d both be shaved bare and caned naked by Mother Superior. How I’d love to witness that.

As I spied, I could feel my own arousal growing, but I knew I mustn’t touch myself, not out here in the corridor especially. I did consider sneaking off to the toilets to take care of myself, if this place had taught me anything, it was it was easier to pray to forgiveness than ask for permission.

Beautiful Sister Constance had responded to Juliet’s tease by raising her head from between her legs, straightening herself before grasping her partner’s ankles and lifting her legs upright.

“This is how I spank, young lady! Constance hissed, with as much threat as her hushed voice could convey. “Next time you can report to my room and I’ll paddle your bare bottom like a naughty little girl!”

Oh goodness. How I would love to witness that, the sister who’d put me over her knee so many times getting a sore bottom of her own. I found myself staring at Juliet’s pretty pink slit, now exposed as her legs were held in the air. A cross of ginger hair clearly visible on her own mound.

Absent-mindedly, my hand had drifted inside the hem of my tunic, and upwards until it reached the tingling region between my own legs. I brushed the cross on my own mound, following it down to the throbbing bead just below it. I was not surprised to find my slit hot and sticky to the touch.

I began to wonder, was this a divine test? Had the Lord put me in this situation? Was this a temptation to resist? Or a reward for my virtue?

I stroked as watched the two Sisters licking each other, imagining the sensation I was giving myself was administered by Juliet’s cute little tongue, or Constance’s long nimble fingers. I was soon approaching climax, lurching beyond the point it was possible to stop. The squelching of my own impaling fingers mingling with the stifled moans from the other side of the door.

And then, a hand painfully pinched my shoulder.

“Wicked child!”

I had been discovered by Sister Anna, with my hand still up my gown.

She tugged my earlobe, raising me painfully to my feet and intercepting my sticky hand before I could wipe away the evidence of my shame. She lifted my fingers to her nose, inhaling like a connoisseur might assess a fine wine, an expertise that suggested that in her time she had caught a great deal of young ladies masturbating.

“You disgraceful, filthy urchin!”

The commotion outside the door must have alerted the occupants, as by the time Sister Anna had knocked on the door, Juliet’s voice calmly replied, “One moment sister, I’m just getting dressed…”

This response only seemed to darken Sister Anna’s countenance, to her it was perfectly obvious what she had interrupted: I had been caught wanking whilst watching pretty Sister Juliet getting dressed.So Sister Anna didn’t wait for the door to open, she intensified her pinch of my ear and dragged me down the corridor to Mother Superior’s office.

The mistress of our realm was a formidable woman; a stern, middle-aged lady, a domineering presence born from an absolute conviction in what was right and what was wrong. My cheeks burned with embarrassment as Sister Anna explained her version of events, what she had caught me doing.

I was intimidated into silence, and decided not to contradict Sister Anna’s interpretation, part of me didn’t want to get the two Sisters into trouble, and part of me felt guilty for what I’d done. I had been caught spying and masturbating, and what had inspired it made little difference to my sins. My crime was unequivocal, and my sentence never in any doubt. Our Mother decreed that I would be put into chastity pants until the end of my next period, which was about 2 or 3 weeks away.

I was told to undress immediately, which I did without complaint, lifting my garments over my head and folding them up respectfully. Sister Anna then gripped my ear and dragged me into our Mother’s private bathroom, where she ran a bath of tepid water, and ordered me into it. There, the sin – the sticky mess between my legs, and the sweat that clung to my body – was roughly scrubbed away from me.

Once cleansed, Sister Anna applied a frothy shaving cream to my mound, spread my legs and shaved me bare. The cross I wore so intimately was scraped and swept away, as if my sins made me undeserving of it.

Once shaved, I was told to stand and step out of the bath, and given a towel to dry myself. I noticed those used by the senior nuns were far softer than the coarse flannels we novices were given. I was then instructed to use the loo, Sister Anna was to afford me no privacy, watching me dispassionately as I sat down naked to pee, then insisting I bend over to be wiped and inspected once I’d finished.

When I was finally led back to Mother Superior’s office, the caning trestle was already waiting for me. A waist high beam, with two A-shaped stanchions on either side, with little loops of leather at each corner.

I was told to spread my legs to the nearest corners and bend over, whereupon our Mother knelt beside me and fixed the belts firmly around my wrists and ankles. Once I was immobilised, she inspected me thoroughly, tugging my buttocks open to check I was clean, then running her fingers across my mound to check I was smooth.

Then she left me to wait, helpless and exposed for what seemed like an eternity, until at last I felt her cane tapping against my bottom.

A dread swish accompanied the first eruption of pain across my cheeks. I had received too many canings to remember, but abruptly realised for the mind I inhabited, this was her first. I could feel her fear, the thundering of her heartbeat, the sweat dripping from her armpits. The tears dripping down her face. And to be honest, that just excited me even more.

I felt like a rider on bucking colt as the body I shared trembled and convulsed with every stinging whack. Our Mother would pause after every couple of strokes, kneeling behind me to examine the lines she’d inflicted, occasionally also cupping my crotch consolingly with her hand. I’m certain she could feel my wetness on her palm. Part of me wanted to shout out, to implore her to just shift her fingertips to the one spot that longed for it most. But my host was sobbing too much to form any recognisable words.

In total, our Mother gave us twenty searing whacks, inflicting lines of welts that would continue to throb and ache for several days. She left us sobbing over the trestle with our red bottom on display for another hour, until there was a little puddle of our dribble beneath our face on the carpet. And just behind, if you looked closely, was the little sticky dot that had seeped from our slit.

That was because whilst my host had spent the hour weeping, I had spent it imagining Mother Superior had penetrated our bum with a prayer candle, before lighting it and letting the hot wax dribble down between our throbbing buttocks, until it solidified as little white rivulets that flowed as far as our inner thighs. I could almost feel the heat growing as the imagined flame got ever closer to our poor bottom hole, the jeopardy only serving to amplify my excitement.

When I was untied, I had to use the support of the trestle to steady my wobbly legs. Sister Anna had my chastity pants ready for me, placing them on the floor for me to step into, then pulling them abruptly to my waist. I could see her smirk cruelly as she secured the cord above my hips.

The only mercy I was shown was being able to eat my dinner standing up. Sister Anna had taken great pleasure in announcing to all assembled that I’d been caught playing with myself, and had suffered the consequences. I could see my friends looking at my pitifully, many had experienced the same punishment themselves, so there was no sneering or teasing.

When we were taken back to our dorm, I had to undress as they watched with rapt fascination, as I revealed my cruel chastity pants before pulling on my nightgown. I was briefly released to pee, before being put to bed. Needless to say, I slept on my front, sobbing quietly into my pillow with my pain and misfortunate.


The next day, my morning ritual was uncomfortably different. It was Stern Sister Maria who unlocked my clasp, and those of the other two girls currently in a similar predicament, and escorted us to the toilet. Then she took us to the shower, watching us closely as we cleaned ourselves, ensuring we the warm flannel didn’t linger too long between our legs. I could see one of the girls had clearly visible stubble now, indicating her time in chastity was almost over. I could feel the swollen welts on my bottom as I gingerly washed.

But my soreness didn’t spare me from Sister Maria’s strap. After showering, we had to kneel with our bottoms up, and were spanked six times as we said our prayers, acknowledging our sins and asking for forgiveness.

By mid-afternoon, I needed to pee again, but this time, I sought out Sister Juliet. She led me to the bathroom in silence and closed the door behind us.

“You saw, didn’t you?” she asked quietly.

“I saw everything, Sister. But I said nothing.”

I looked her in the eye, recognising her expression of surprise.

“That is… very… charitable… of you. Thank you.”

I nodded in acknowledgement.

“I saw behind your portrait.”

Sister Juliet considered my last statement in a long tense silence. Her unblinking eyes surveying me, as if attempting to discern my trustworthiness.

“I know,” she replied at last.

“… but you know you still need to be punished for spying and touching yourself.”

I nodded again.

With that, I lifted my tunic, allowing her to crouch and unlock my belt. She helped the cruel chastity garment fall to my ankles, revealing my bare slit to her gaze. She stayed on her haunches whilst she caressed the smooth skin of my mound, cupping me with her palm, until the warmth of her hand on my full bladder made me begin to fear I’d lose control and pee all over her.

Sensing my discomfort, as I hopped from foot to foot, she eventually permitted me to use the toilet. With my legs open, of course. Juliet watched as I gushed, then insisted I bend over so she could dry my slit herself.

She finished with a firm slap to my bare bottom, which was just a hint of what was yet to come. She edged past me to sit on the toilet seat, and sensing her intention, I bent over her lap without being asked. Mercifully Juliet spanked me with her palm rather than her slipper, but her two dozen smacks still left my poor bottom smarting.

Yet afterwards, once she’d pulled up and relocked my chastity pants, and just as I was about to turn and leave, she reached forward and held my head tenderly, and kissed me.

The next day, I visited pretty Sister Constance, and apologised for spying on her too. She also thanked me for my discretion, before putting me on my back and lifting my legs. She made me put a hand on my bare mound and tug the hood of my clitoris back as she spanked me, so I was exquisitely sensitive to every smack. But frustratingly, she did not allow me to rub myself.

This was my disciplinary regime for the next fortnight, visiting the two sisters alternately, to be spanked and inspected, morning, noon and night. So the only time my bottom wasn’t throbbing were in those delicious few moments when I woke, before we were roused out of bed, before I reported to have my first spanking of the day.

I could feel the heat in my smacked bottom throughout the day, like a perpetual spanking whose sting never faded. I could feel it as I sat on the hard unforgiving chairs in my classes, and when I ate, and whenever I knelt to pray. A continuing hot ache that made my slit tingle, and my little button throb, cruelly locked away, and out of reach.


On the day my period ended, I reported to Sister Juliet for the final time.

After taking me to the toilet and unlocking me, she took me back to her room and told me to undress. Completely.

I knelt on the cold hard floor as she placed her wooden crucifix against my bush, whilst she used the fierce-looking razor to shave away its corners, restoring the cross that cruel Sister Anna had taken away from me several weeks ago.

“All is forgiven, child.”

I nodded, and accepted her hand as she graciously helped me to my feet.

And then, to my considerable surprise, Juliet lifted her own habit above her head. She was not wearing anything underneath. She took my hand again, and led me to her bed. As I lay on my back, Juliet straddled my face, revealing the ginger cross on her own mound, a thin vertical strip with short cross bars. Beneath, the lips of her pretty slit were swollen, pink and wet.

“It is a sin to touch ourselves, but is not the message of the Gospels is that our love should touch others?”

I did not resist as she bent over me, burying her head between my legs, slowly licking the sensitive skin where I’d just been shaved, tracing the cruciform shape with her tongue, brushing my clit on on each visit to the base of the cross. Soon she was using her fingers to open me, tugging back my hood, and folding back my lips.

I had never thought of the Christian message like this before. But it made perfect sense, Jesus wasn’t a bully or an austere tyrant. An ascetic disciplinarian, undoubtedly. But one who preached a message of love.

My host had never licked another woman, but I took the initiative. Exploring Juliet’s folds with an expertise that seemed to take her by surprise. She mewed with delight, redoubling her efforts to pleasure me. Pinching my slit, rubbing and stroking, fingers straying and intruding.

It seems every portrait does have a reverse side. A hidden side. Who would have thought that innocent Sister Juliet was so lustful. So feminine, so sensual.

She took me to the very brink. Until I was mere moments away from the climax I’d been craving ever since I’d spied on her.

And then, suddenly, she stopped.

Sister Juliet rose from straddling me, stepping down from the bed, pulling on my hand and tugging me upright, until I was standing on the floor beside her. She positioned me deliberately so I was facing the wall, a few footsteps away from it, gently smacking the insides of my thighs until I’d opened my legs to her satisfaction.

I could feel the wetness of her saliva on my open slit, slowing dripping, the heat of my arousal cooled by the tickling breeze of the room’s chill air.

Was her intention to let me come, or would denial be my final lesson?

I was surprised when she took her place beside me. Now we were standing side-by-side, and she grasped my hand, holding it tight. It was an encouraging, comforting grip, with all the warmth of a lifelong friend.

I could feel her beginning to lend forwards.

“Bend over.”

I followed her lead, and tipping towards the floor until both our bottoms were high in the air – and facing the door. I wondered if anyone was watching us through the spyhole, whether we were moments away from being caught. Would Sister Juliet share my fate? Would I get to watch her being shaved? And then watch her being caned? Would we go to have our chastity panties lowered together? I delighted in the thought of being spanked together, every day for a whole month.

I felt a powerful emotion surge through me. A feeling of wanting to be close to Juliet. A fierce protectiveness. An intense affection that made me throb and my tummy tumble.

I did not resist as she dragged my hand backwards, between her own legs. She made me close all my fingers except for the middle one, and used it to enter her vagina, which seemed to suck on my finger like the tightest tiniest mouth. I wanted to push it deep, to masturbate her, to thrust it in and out until I made my beautiful new friend climax, to bestow such a gift of pleasure that a smile would beam from her mouth that would never fade.

But her grip on my hand didn’t let me. She used my finger to collect her sticky wetness, and then moved it upwards, rubbing it around the crinkled dimple of her bottom hole. Then, slowly and steadily, she pushed my finger inside. When I was all the way in she clenched, gripping me tighter than a grasping hand. Now I couldn’t move, even if I’d wanted to, my wrist fixed between her legs in the most erotic kind of armlock.

Then I could feel her arm beneath mine, straying between my own legs. Her middle finger stroked my own slick folds, frustratingly avoiding my swollen clitoris, before briefly dipping inside my vagina. How I wanted her to linger there, slowly pumping in and out, until she found the spot that felt just right.

But she didn’t. Instead, her finger moved upward, rubbing my own excitement into my bottom hole, her wet fingertip probing, then pushing, as if testing my resistance. It didn’t take long before I began to admit her, my heart thumping in my chest as I was violated so filthily. And when her finger was all the way in it felt so good when I clenched around her.

After a while I felt Juliet’s warm breath tickle my ear as she whispered conspiratorially.

“I have something to confess…”

I relaxed, then clenched again, gripped her finger even tighter.

“… Sister Constance will be along shortly, to spank our bare bottoms.”

She would open the door to find us giggling and gasping, bent over with our arms trapped between each other’s legs – with our fingers deep within each other’s bums.

We would feel her strap stroke our bare buttocks as she admonished us.

She would make us keep our fingers in each other’s bottoms as we were spanked. Our captured fingers gripped and squeezed tighter with every smack.

Our longings intensifying as she brought us ever closer to the edge.

And then

When I waked

I cried to dream again.

.

.

.

@spankingtheatre 2018

Verso, Recto

A spanking story

We are alone in the grand old
convent. Walking among the ghosts of the chaste and the pious. Their
home was an edifice of lichen-encrusted granite, nestling in the woods
like a miniature gothic castle, a secluded haven that did not wish to be
discovered. But years ago you found it, you rescued it and restored it,
like you’ve done with so many wayward girls. You made it your own home,
and now, you’ve invited me to visit.

You promised me a tour, to
show me its secrets. You explain how the spacious open-plan kitchen was
once the main dormitory, where dozens of young ladies would bunk
together. The biggest classroom has been transformed into your home
office, and the cavernous assembly hall is now a magnificent
timber-beamed living room.

I trail along gawking admiringly. You
escort me upstairs, our ascending footsteps muffled by the opulently
plush carpet. The rooms on either side of the long hallway were the
nuns’ private quarters it seems. You point to the door furthest away,
explaining that it was where Mother Superior dwelt. The ultimate
authority in this place, well, secondary to God I suppose.  

We pause at the top of the stairs, and you point to the ominous door at the end of the corridor.

“Go inside. You’ll find your instructions painted on the wall.”

That
comment was most unexpected, almost shocking. I found it difficult to
imagine anyone would deface such a beautiful old building by scrawling
on its walls.

I hesitated, but you sent me on my way with an
encouraging smack to my bottom. I began dawdling towards the
destination, looking over my shoulder, looking for confirmation of your
satisfaction. Reassurance that I was doing as I’d been told.

You
remained at the top of the stairs, watching silently and sternly, until I
reached the door. Then, to my surprise, you turned and left me,
descending out of my sight down the grand old staircase. Leaving me
alone to carry out your command. Trusting in my obedience.

I
gripped the little brass doorknob, twisting it until I heard the latch
click. I pushed the door open, trembling with anticipation, wondering if
we were really alone here, or whether I’d be interrupting someone
inside. Too late, I realised I hadn’t even knocked.

To my relief,
the room I entered seemed unoccupied. It was large, but surprising
austere, the plush carpet of the hallway giving way to exposed wooden
floorboards, its bare walls coated with an aged, off-white plaster. The
only decoration was a painting, seemingly a portrait of a young nun.
Contrary to my expectations, there was no writing on any of the walls.
If my instructions had been painted, I was clearly looking at it now.

The
only furniture was an elegantly carved wooden plinth that barely
exceeded the height of my knees, nearly identical to the one depicted in
the painting. Lying on top of it were what seemed like a pile of folded
clothes, predominantly black and white.

I realised this was a
test of my initiative. A test of my obedience. The garments looked like a
nun’s habit, a coarse black serge tunic, a white linen coif, a white
cotton undershirt.

I eased the door shut and began to undress,
folding up the outfit I’d chosen with such meticulous care in a vain
attempt to impress you. I placed my clothes in a neat little pile in the
corner, finishing by removing my panties, I suspected few nuns would
wear lingerie under their habits, and I strongly suspected you’d like to
check.

I pulled on the cotton undershirt first, realising this
was as close as my new outfit would come to underwear. The coif, the
tunic and stockings followed. The latter were authentically archaic,
without elastic they had to be tied around my calves by bright red
ribbons, the sole splash of colour in my monochrome garb.

Once
dressed, I knew you’d expect to find me in the same position as the
portrait, kneeling by the plinth, fingers arched. I mimicked the
position of the young lady in the picture, pondering the nature of her
prayers. Was she pleading with her God, imploring Him to forgive her
nocturnal transgressions? Those wandering fingers? Or the embraces with
her sisters that had escalated into kisses and rubbings?

How
strange this religion of love had become a global sexual denial cult.
Surely if we are made in the image of God, the Creator would want us to
pleasure ourselves, to glorify his creations by elevating each to state
of ecstatic bliss.

Despite the thick tunic, I could already feel a
faint draught between my legs. A subtle breeze teasing my slit, as my
undershirt tempted me further, rubbing across the exquisitely sensitive
skin of my newly waxed mound, in a continuous trial of my faith.

I
clasped my hands and prayed. My knees and elbows aching against the
hard unforgiving wood of the floorboards and the plinth. I found myself
praying you’d join me. Wishing you’d lift my robes and help satisfy me.

After
a while, I began to appreciate why prayers were made with clasped
hands. Had I not been clasping them so tightly, one of both would surely
have wandered beneath my thick scratchy gown and into my warm, wet,
aching cranny.

And then, suddenly, my prayers were answered.

The door creaked open, and you returned.

“Do you like my painting?”

I nod my head enthusiastically.

“It’s
a Martin van Meytens. An 18th century studio copy, admittedly. The
original is in the national gallery in Stockholm. Such a lovely place.”

“It’s beautiful,” I reply.

“What do you see?”

“Humility, grace, and piety.”

“And chastity?”

“Yes…” I gulp nervously, earnestly hoping that wasn’t your actual intention.

“Submissiveness?”

“Oh yes.”

“Innocence?”

“Oh, very.”

“And yet, sometimes appearances can be deceptive…”

I stare back, puzzled, not quite sure to what you’re referring. The canvas? Or me?

“Did
you know some paintings have two sides? Collectors call them Verso and
Recto, rather than front and back – because sometimes it’s hard to say
which side deserves the honour of being displayed, and which side should
be hidden…”

I watch in quiet fascination as you reverently turn
over the portrait, surprised that it reveals another complete picture,
painted on the reverse of the canvas. It is a scene of startling
candour, its explicitness making my clit throb even before my mind has
fully deciphered what I’m seeing.

[Image filtered by Tumblr – you can see it here]

She
must be the same subject, but this time depicted from behind. Perhaps
her innocence was just a front. Perhaps all innocence is just a front.
This angle reveals a different side of her, naked flesh in place of her
religious habit. This is a woman depicted as a sexual being. Curvaceous
and alluring. The glory of the Creator’s vision manifested, no long
hidden, but celebrated.

“Now, what do you think of your chaste and innocent nun?”

I’m
speechless. Not because I’m embarrassed by seeing nakedness, but
because I so crave the sensuality of what the image represents.

And
it seems our desires are aligned, because you reach down and lift the
hem of my own tunic, dragging it upwards until it gathers on the small
of my back, until my own buttocks are as bare as those in the painting
above me.

“What do you see in this painting? Voyeurism? Shame? Humiliation? Punishment?”

I find myself nodding, all of those, and more.

“Did you know Sisters were flogged in the position you now find yourself?”

I shook my head. I did not.

And now I see you’re dangling something in front of my face.

“This
little whip is called a Discipline. Notice how there’s seven leather
fronds, one for each of the deadly sins. Every nun here would carry one,
hanging from the belt of her habit, a continuing reminder of her oath
of obedience. And every one of them would be expected to spank her own
bottom every night, after confessing her sins in her bedtime prayers.”

You place it in my hand, and guide my right arm backwards until I can feel the whip’s cool thin straps sway against my bottom.

“But…! For what sins am I to be punished?” I ask indignantly.

By
way of response, you reach down, dragging your fingers between my legs,
before smearing my lips with the salty goo of my own excitement.

“The Almighty sees everything, Child.”

A flush of heat sears my face, I feel my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

“Forgive me.”

I begin whipping myself.

“Harder.”

Despite
the short backswing, I can hear the tails of the whip whistle through
the air before they strike. The seven thick flanges at the end of each
frond landing in a simultaneous, stinging eruption.

“Harder.”

I
reach back as far as I can, swinging the whip with all my strength. I
know this is how a nun would feel, knowing she was being overseen at all
times, watched by the Almighty.

I grimace as each whack lands,
knowing you’re not interested in my pitiful whimpering. This is my
penitence. My spanking, my absolution.

I look up at the painting,
and her beautiful buttocks. Is that a hint of pink I see? Or is she
whispering her confession prayer, the moment of righteous retribution
just moments away.  

Please, forgive my obscene excitement.

Let me atone for the sins of my flesh…


You put me to bed with a sore bottom, in one of the old convent’s austere intimidating cells. Where the fiery glow beneath me contrived to conjure such extraordinary dreams.

Somehow I saw those who’d inhabited these very rooms and corridors long ago, with such vivid lucidity I could have sworn they were my own memories. As I walked amongst the convent’s ghosts, every detail felt so real.

“I saw behind your portrait,” I told her.

“I know,” she replied.

I dreamt I was one of the novice nuns. An experience so vicarious I could feel my knees ache from kneeling on the cold hard floor, as I offered my thanks for the gift of a brand new day. A act of gratitude not only for the dawn, but also the daily morning ritual that was about to occur. Outside our dormitory, someone rang a hand-bell, a signal for my fellow novices and I to conclude our prayers and file out of our shared sleeping quarters to the bathroom.

After queuing for the toilet, we would undress, and enter the tiled corner where the showers steamed and spluttered. The water is warm, but never luxuriously hot. We ablute as best we can with the mediocre soap, and then – still dripping – cloak ourselves with a scrawny towel and take our place in line.

There are three girls in front of me, then two, then it’s my turn. I drop my towel, and I’m standing naked in front of one of the senior sisters. I clasp my hands in prayer across my chest as the sister dabs a foamy cream into my mound. Then she places a crucifix over my crotch, and with a fearsome-looking straight-edge razor, shaves the stubble in the four corners, leaving a cross-shaped tuft of pubic hair behind.

In this institution, it was easy to tell who were the well-behaved girls. As any who misbehaved would be sent to see a senior nun, and immediately shaved completely bare, before being severely spanked. Her candid bareness would serve as a lingering reminder of her sinful immaturity. The slow regrowth of her hair would represent the incremental progress towards her eventual forgiveness.

Somehow I knew all of the convent’s petty rules, and all the consequences. How the most serious infractions, such as the illicit touching of ourselves – or even worse, the touching of others – would result in being sent to the Mother Superior to be shaved and caned, and then being put in the dreaded chastity pants for several weeks, until the miscreant’s crucifix patch had fully regrown.

Chastity Pants were long-johns made of a thick uncomfortable calico fabric, with tough leather panels sewn into the gusset to guard against any external rubbing. Whilst their long ankle length leggings would prevent any fingers from straying inside. They were secured around the waist with cord that was narrower than the wearer’s hips, the two ends being secured with a lockable clasp that prevented them from being lowered once they were pulled up and fixed.

As a consequence, every morning, afternoon and evening any unfortunate girl wearing such underwear would have to report to a sister to be unlocked before she could visit the toilet – with the door left open, of course. And when time in chastity coincided with a girl’s period, it was also a chance to change to the cloth rags used for hygiene.

Whilst her bottom was bare, she’d demonstrate her own contrition by bending over and giving herself a brief spanking with her own discipline whip in front of the watching sister, who would often add some smacks of her own. Then the chastity garment would pulled up again and locked shut above her hips, leaving the poor girl’s bottom to throb inconsolably beneath her habit.

But, eventually, at the end of the offender’s sentence, she would be granted her redemption. She would have the cross once again shaved into her mound. and all her sins would be considered forgiven. After all, wasn’t that the Christian message?

In my dream, I hadn’t done anything naughty enough to be put in chastity. But I had been given demerit slip for whispering silliness to a friend in Latin class, and so had been sent to my house mistress Sister Juliet to have my bottom smacked.

Each nun in the convent had their own preferred means of spanking. Mother Superior believed in the corrective effect of naked canings, so any unfortunates sent to her would expect to find themselves completely undressed before being bent over the trestle for a whacking from her terrible cane. The dour Sister Anna made girls touch their toes, before administering their punishment with her favoured long thick wooden ruler.

Strict Sister Maria, on the other hand, preferred to use the strap on kneeling girls whose heads were pressed to the floor, with their bare bums raised high into the air. Whilst pretty Sister Constance had naughty novices lift their gowns and lie on their backs, before raising their legs and whacking with her paddle.

Lovely Sister Juliet had a more intimate spanking style, those sent to see her would be made to stand beside the spanking chair and lift their skirts. When the good sister took her seat, she’d put the naughty girl across her knee, and spank her bare bottom with the sole of her leather slipper. Soles saving souls, so to speak.

I had reached the door of Sister Juliet’s room, and was taking a moment to compose myself before I knocked, when I heard some giggling behind the door. This outbreak of jollity was so unexpected I found myself consumed by curiosity, like when you’re desperate to be let in on the secret joke. Something made me kneel and peep through the waist-high spyhole. None of the doors in the convent had locks or latches, whyever would they need them? Certainly only sin would flourish behind a locked door. Just as the Good Lord could see all, every door in the convent had a spyhole, so there were few secrets in this establishment. Or so I thought.

I held my breath, and peeked…

Instinctively, my hand flew my mouth to suppress a gasp. I could see lovely Sister Juliet lying naked on her bed, whilst above, a naked Sister Constance was straddling her. Their heads were between each other’s legs, in what my modern self would readily recognise as the classic 69 position, but somehow I also knew the mind I was inhabiting would find this revelation profoundly shocking.

I could see the sisters’ habits and underclothes strewn across the floor, as if they’d both undressed hurriedly. I watched in silent fascination as the two women pleasured each other. They were trying to be quiet, but every now and they’d let a slip a moan or a giggle, each only serving to stoke my own desire to join them.

“This is so naughty!” I heard Juliet whisper. “You know what would happen if we were caught…”

With that, she lightly smacked the bum of her partner several times by way of illustration. In reality, the sanctions would be far more painful than a light spanking on the bare bottom. They’d both be shaved bare and caned naked by Mother Superior. How I’d love to witness that.

As I spied, I could feel my own arousal growing, but I knew I mustn’t touch myself, not out here in the corridor especially. I did consider sneaking off to the toilets to take care of myself, if this place had taught me anything, it was it was easier to pray to forgiveness than ask for permission.

Beautiful Sister Constance had responded to Juliet’s tease by raising her head from between her legs, straightening herself before grasping her partner’s ankles and lifting her legs upright.

“This is how I spank, young lady! Constance hissed, with as much threat as her hushed voice could convey. “Next time you can report to my room and I’ll paddle your bare bottom like a naughty little girl!”

Oh goodness. How I would love to witness that, the sister who’d put me over her knee so many times getting a sore bottom of her own. I found myself staring at Juliet’s pretty pink slit, now exposed as her legs were held in the air. A cross of ginger hair clearly visible on her own mound.

Absent-mindedly, my hand had drifted inside the hem of my tunic, and upwards until it reached the tingling region between my own legs. I brushed the cross on my own mound, following it down to the throbbing bead just below it. I was not surprised to find my slit hot and sticky to the touch.

I began to wonder, was this a divine test? Had the Lord put me in this situation? Was this a temptation to resist? Or a reward for my virtue?

I stroked as watched the two Sisters licking each other, imagining the sensation I was giving myself was administered by Juliet’s cute little tongue, or Constance’s long nimble fingers. I was soon approaching climax, lurching beyond the point it was possible to stop. The squelching of my own impaling fingers mingling with the stifled moans from the other side of the door.

And then, a hand painfully pinched my shoulder.

“Wicked child!”

I had been discovered by Sister Anna, with my hand still up my gown.

She tugged my earlobe, raising me painfully to my feet and intercepting my sticky hand before I could wipe away the evidence of my shame. She lifted my fingers to her nose, inhaling like a connoisseur might assess a fine wine, an expertise that suggested that in her time she had caught a great deal of young ladies masturbating.

“You disgraceful, filthy urchin!”

The commotion outside the door must have alerted the occupants, as by the time Sister Anna had knocked on the door, Juliet’s voice calmly replied, “One moment sister, I’m just getting dressed…”

This response only seemed to darken Sister Anna’s countenance, to her it was perfectly obvious what she had interrupted: I had been caught wanking whilst watching pretty Sister Juliet getting dressed.So Sister Anna didn’t wait for the door to open, she intensified her pinch of my ear and dragged me down the corridor to Mother Superior’s office.

The mistress of our realm was a formidable woman; a stern, middle-aged lady, a domineering presence born from an absolute conviction in what was right and what was wrong. My cheeks burned with embarrassment as Sister Anna explained her version of events, what she had caught me doing.

I was intimidated into silence, and decided not to contradict Sister Anna’s interpretation, part of me didn’t want to get the two Sisters into trouble, and part of me felt guilty for what I’d done. I had been caught spying and masturbating, and what had inspired it made little difference to my sins. My crime was unequivocal, and my sentence never in any doubt. Our Mother decreed that I would be put into chastity pants until the end of my next period, which was about 2 or 3 weeks away.

I was told to undress immediately, which I did without complaint, lifting my garments over my head and folding them up respectfully. Sister Anna then gripped my ear and dragged me into our Mother’s private bathroom, where she ran a bath of tepid water, and ordered me into it. There, the sin – the sticky mess between my legs, and the sweat that clung to my body – was roughly scrubbed away from me.

Once cleansed, Sister Anna applied a frothy shaving cream to my mound, spread my legs and shaved me bare. The cross I wore so intimately was scraped and swept away, as if my sins made me undeserving of it.

Once shaved, I was told to stand and step out of the bath, and given a towel to dry myself. I noticed those used by the senior nuns were far softer than the coarse flannels we novices were given. I was then instructed to use the loo, Sister Anna was to afford me no privacy, watching me dispassionately as I sat down naked to pee, then insisting I bend over to be wiped and inspected once I’d finished.

When I was finally led back to Mother Superior’s office, the caning trestle was already waiting for me. A waist high beam, with two A-shaped stanchions on either side, with little loops of leather at each corner.

I was told to spread my legs to the nearest corners and bend over, whereupon our Mother knelt beside me and fixed the belts firmly around my wrists and ankles. Once I was immobilised, she inspected me thoroughly, tugging my buttocks open to check I was clean, then running her fingers across my mound to check I was smooth.

Then she left me to wait, helpless and exposed for what seemed like an eternity, until at last I felt her cane tapping against my bottom.

A dread swish accompanied the first eruption of pain across my cheeks. I had received too many canings to remember, but abruptly realised for the mind I inhabited, this was her first. I could feel her fear, the thundering of her heartbeat, the sweat dripping from her armpits. The tears dripping down her face. And to be honest, that just excited me even more.

I felt like a rider on bucking colt as the body I shared trembled and convulsed with every stinging whack. Our Mother would pause after every couple of strokes, kneeling behind me to examine the lines she’d inflicted, occasionally also cupping my crotch consolingly with her hand. I’m certain she could feel my wetness on her palm. Part of me wanted to shout out, to implore her to just shift her fingertips to the one spot that longed for it most. But my host was sobbing too much to form any recognisable words.

In total, our Mother gave us twenty searing whacks, inflicting lines of welts that would continue to throb and ache for several days. She left us sobbing over the trestle with our red bottom on display for another hour, until there was a little puddle of our dribble beneath our face on the carpet. And just behind, if you looked closely, was the little sticky dot that had seeped from our slit.

That was because whilst my host had spent the hour weeping, I had spent it imagining Mother Superior had penetrated our bum with a prayer candle, before lighting it and letting the hot wax dribble down between our throbbing buttocks, until it solidified as little white rivulets that flowed as far as our inner thighs. I could almost feel the heat growing as the imagined flame got ever closer to our poor bottom hole, the jeopardy only serving to amplify my excitement.

When I was untied, I had to use the support of the trestle to steady my wobbly legs. Sister Anna had my chastity pants ready for me, placing them on the floor for me to step into, then pulling them abruptly to my waist. I could see her smirk cruelly as she secured the cord above my hips.

The only mercy I was shown was being able to eat my dinner standing up. Sister Anna had taken great pleasure in announcing to all assembled that I’d been caught playing with myself, and had suffered the consequences. I could see my friends looking at my pitifully, many had experienced the same punishment themselves, so there was no sneering or teasing.

When we were taken back to our dorm, I had to undress as they watched with rapt fascination, as I revealed my cruel chastity pants before pulling on my nightgown. I was briefly released to pee, before being put to bed. Needless to say, I slept on my front, sobbing quietly into my pillow with my pain and misfortunate.


The next day, my morning ritual was uncomfortably different. It was Stern Sister Maria who unlocked my clasp, and those of the other two girls currently in a similar predicament, and escorted us to the toilet. Then she took us to the shower, watching us closely as we cleaned ourselves, ensuring we the warm flannel didn’t linger too long between our legs. I could see one of the girls had clearly visible stubble now, indicating her time in chastity was almost over. I could feel the swollen welts on my bottom as I gingerly washed.

But my soreness didn’t spare me from Sister Maria’s strap. After showering, we had to kneel with our bottoms up, and were spanked six times as we said our prayers, acknowledging our sins and asking for forgiveness.

By mid-afternoon, I needed to pee again, but this time, I sought out Sister Juliet. She led me to the bathroom in silence and closed the door behind us.

“You saw, didn’t you?” she asked quietly.

“I saw everything, Sister. But I said nothing.”

I looked her in the eye, recognising her expression of surprise.

“That is… very… charitable… of you. Thank you.”

I nodded in acknowledgement.

“I saw behind your portrait.”

Sister Juliet considered my last statement in a long tense silence. Her unblinking eyes surveying me, as if attempting to discern my trustworthiness.

“I know,” she replied at last.

“… but you know you still need to be punished for spying and touching yourself.”

I nodded again.

With that, I lifted my tunic, allowing her to crouch and unlock my belt. She helped the cruel chastity garment fall to my ankles, revealing my bare slit to her gaze. She stayed on her haunches whilst she caressed the smooth skin of my mound, cupping me with her palm, until the warmth of her hand on my full bladder made me begin to fear I’d lose control and pee all over her.

Sensing my discomfort, as I hopped from foot to foot, she eventually permitted me to use the toilet. With my legs open, of course. Juliet watched as I gushed, then insisted I bend over so she could dry my slit herself.

She finished with a firm slap to my bare bottom, which was just a hint of what was yet to come. She edged past me to sit on the toilet seat, and sensing her intention, I bent over her lap without being asked. Mercifully Juliet spanked me with her palm rather than her slipper, but her two dozen smacks still left my poor bottom smarting.

Yet afterwards, once she’d pulled up and relocked my chastity pants, and just as I was about to turn and leave, she reached forward and held my head tenderly, and kissed me.

The next day, I visited pretty Sister Constance, and apologised for spying on her too. She also thanked me for my discretion, before putting me on my back and lifting my legs. She made me put a hand on my bare mound and tug the hood of my clitoris back as she spanked me, so I was exquisitely sensitive to every smack. But frustratingly, she did not allow me to rub myself.

This was my disciplinary regime for the next fortnight, visiting the two sisters alternately, to be spanked and inspected, morning, noon and night. So the only time my bottom wasn’t throbbing were in those delicious few moments when I woke, before we were roused out of bed, before I reported to have my first spanking of the day.

I could feel the heat in my smacked bottom throughout the day, like a perpetual spanking whose sting never faded. I could feel it as I sat on the hard unforgiving chairs in my classes, and when I ate, and whenever I knelt to pray. A continuing hot ache that made my slit tingle, and my little button throb, cruelly locked away, and out of reach.


On the day my period ended, I reported to Sister Juliet for the final time.

After taking me to the toilet and unlocking me, she took me back to her room and told me to undress. Completely.

I knelt on the cold hard floor as she placed her wooden crucifix against my bush, whilst she used the fierce-looking razor to shave away its corners, restoring the cross that cruel Sister Anna had taken away from me several weeks ago.

“All is forgiven, child.”

I nodded, and accepted her hand as she graciously helped me to my feet.

And then, to my considerable surprise, Juliet lifted her own habit above her head. She was not wearing anything underneath. She took my hand again, and led me to her bed. As I lay on my back, Juliet straddled my face, revealing the ginger cross on her own mound, a thin vertical strip with short cross bars. Beneath, the lips of her pretty slit were swollen, pink and wet.

“It is a sin to touch ourselves, but is not the message of the Gospels is that our love should touch others?”

I did not resist as she bent over me, burying her head between my legs, slowly licking the sensitive skin where I’d just been shaved, tracing the cruciform shape with her tongue, brushing my clit on on each visit to the base of the cross. Soon she was using her fingers to open me, tugging back my hood, and folding back my lips.

I had never thought of the Christian message like this before. But it made perfect sense, Jesus wasn’t a bully or an austere tyrant. An ascetic disciplinarian, undoubtedly. But one who preached a message of love.

My host had never licked another woman, but I took the initiative. Exploring Juliet’s folds with an expertise that seemed to take her by surprise. She mewed with delight, redoubling her efforts to pleasure me. Pinching my slit, rubbing and stroking, fingers straying and intruding.

It seems every portrait does have a reverse side. A hidden side. Who would have thought that innocent Sister Juliet was so lustful. So feminine, so sensual.

She took me to the very brink. Until I was mere moments away from the climax I’d been craving ever since I’d spied on her.

And then, suddenly, she stopped.

Sister Juliet rose from straddling me, stepping down from the bed, pulling on my hand and tugging me upright, until I was standing on the floor beside her. She positioned me deliberately so I was facing the wall, a few footsteps away from it, gently smacking the insides of my thighs until I’d opened my legs to her satisfaction.

I could feel the wetness of her saliva on my open slit, slowing dripping, the heat of my arousal cooled by the tickling breeze of the room’s chill air.

Was her intention to let me come, or would denial be my final lesson?

I was surprised when she took her place beside me. Now we were standing side-by-side, and she grasped my hand, holding it tight. It was an encouraging, comforting grip, with all the warmth of a lifelong friend.

I could feel her beginning to lend forwards.

“Bend over.”

I followed her lead, and tipping towards the floor until both our bottoms were high in the air – and facing the door. I wondered if anyone was watching us through the spyhole, whether we were moments away from being caught. Would Sister Juliet share my fate? Would I get to watch her being shaved? And then watch her being caned? Would we go to have our chastity panties lowered together? I delighted in the thought of being spanked together, every day for a whole month.

I felt a powerful emotion surge through me. A feeling of wanting to be close to Juliet. A fierce protectiveness. An intense affection that made me throb and my tummy tumble.

I did not resist as she dragged my hand backwards, between her own legs. She made me close all my fingers except for the middle one, and used it to enter her vagina, which seemed to suck on my finger like the tightest tiniest mouth. I wanted to push it deep, to masturbate her, to thrust it in and out until I made my beautiful new friend climax, to bestow such a gift of pleasure that a smile would beam from her mouth that would never fade.

But her grip on my hand didn’t let me. She used my finger to collect her sticky wetness, and then moved it upwards, rubbing it around the crinkled dimple of her bottom hole. Then, slowly and steadily, she pushed my finger inside. When I was all the way in she clenched, gripping me tighter than a grasping hand. Now I couldn’t move, even if I’d wanted to, my wrist fixed between her legs in the most erotic kind of armlock.

Then I could feel her arm beneath mine, straying between my own legs. Her middle finger stroked my own slick folds, frustratingly avoiding my swollen clitoris, before briefly dipping inside my vagina. How I wanted her to linger there, slowly pumping in and out, until she found the spot that felt just right.

But she didn’t. Instead, her finger moved upward, rubbing my own excitement into my bottom hole, her wet fingertip probing, then pushing, as if testing my resistance. It didn’t take long before I began to admit her, my heart thumping in my chest as I was violated so filthily. And when her finger was all the way in it felt so good when I clenched around her.

After a while I felt Juliet’s warm breath tickle my ear as she whispered conspiratorially.

“I have something to confess…”

I relaxed, then clenched again, gripped her finger even tighter.

“… Sister Constance will be along shortly, to spank our bare bottoms.”

She would open the door to find us giggling and gasping, bent over with our arms trapped between each other’s legs – with our fingers deep within each other’s bums.

We would feel her strap stroke our bare buttocks as she admonished us.

She would make us keep our fingers in each other’s bottoms as we were spanked. Our captured fingers gripped and squeezed tighter with every smack.

Our longings intensifying as she brought us ever closer to the edge.

And then

When I waked

I cried to dream again.

.

.

.

@spankingtheatre 2018

Sandalwood and Ginger

spankingtheatre:

A spanking story, for Christmas

Do you know what it’s like to be spanked in public?

You might think the bystanders would interrupt, outraged at the indecency.
But they don’t.
They stay.
They lurk.
And they watch.

They are mesmerised by my nudity, their gaze ensnared by the curves of my cheeks, fascinated by the bright pink patches that suddenly appear.
They are captivated by the sound, that slow one-handed clap, that erotic rhythm, underlaid by my plaintive little moans. Because the sound of a bottom smacking is unique, and as seductive as a siren’s song.

I know this because I’ve been spanked in public countless times. In library aisles. In gloomy bars. On golden beaches. On garden lawns and under trees in parks. Often on the bare, always in front of disbelieving eyes.
But you never forget your first time.

Ah, now you’re curious, aren’t you?
Are you imagining me?
Bending over and exposed, about to get what naughty girls deserve.
Say it with me, under your breath.
I deserve a good spanking.
It feels good, doesn’t it?
I deserve a long, hard spanking.
Say it like you mean it.
And I’ll tell you my story…

Keep reading

It may have a Christmas setting, but Sandalwood and Ginger is really a story about masks we wear, about the secret desires we keep hidden, and what might happen if someone appeared in your life to make them real.

The Ginger part of the title, as you might expect, refers to figging, the exquisite torment of a burning heat inside a spanked bottom. The Sandalwood is more Proustian, a sweet aromatic scent that invokes memories, a trigger for latent carnal cravings.

So, for those yet to read it, I do hope you’ll enjoy this tale of masked balls, gyno inspections, panty-gags, public spankings, ginger plugging and good old-fashioned slipperings. Whatever the time of year.

Your ticket to the masked ball awaits

Verso, Recto – part 1

A spanking story

We are alone in the grand old convent. Walking among the ghosts of the chaste and the pious. Their home was an edifice of lichen-encrusted granite, nestling in the woods like a miniature gothic castle, a secluded haven that did not wish to be discovered. But years ago you found it, you rescued it and restored it, like you’ve done with so many wayward girls. You made it your own home, and now, you’ve invited me to visit.

You promised me a tour, to show me its secrets. You explain how the spacious open-plan kitchen was once the main dormitory, where dozens of young ladies would bunk together. The biggest classroom has been transformed into your home office, and the cavernous assembly hall is now a magnificent timber-beamed living room.

I trail along gawking admiringly. You escort me upstairs, our ascending footsteps muffled by the opulently plush carpet. The rooms on either side of the long hallway were the nuns’ private quarters it seems. You point to the door furthest away, explaining that it was where Mother Superior dwelt. The ultimate authority in this place, well, secondary to God I suppose.  

We pause at the top of the stairs, and you point to the ominous door at the end of the corridor.

“Go inside. You’ll find your instructions painted on the wall.”

That comment was most unexpected, almost shocking. I found it difficult to imagine anyone would deface such a beautiful old building by scrawling on its walls.

I hesitated, but you sent me on my way with an encouraging smack to my bottom. I began dawdling towards the destination, looking over my shoulder, looking for confirmation of your satisfaction. Reassurance that I was doing as I’d been told.

You remained at the top of the stairs, watching silently and sternly, until I reached the door. Then, to my surprise, you turned and left me, descending out of my sight down the grand old staircase. Leaving me alone to carry out your command. Trusting in my obedience.

I gripped the little brass doorknob, twisting it until I heard the latch click. I pushed the door open, trembling with anticipation, wondering if we were really alone here, or whether I’d be interrupting someone inside. Too late, I realised I hadn’t even knocked.

To my relief, the room I entered seemed unoccupied. It was large, but surprising austere, the plush carpet of the hallway giving way to exposed wooden floorboards, its bare walls coated with an aged, off-white plaster. The only decoration was a painting, seemingly a portrait of a young nun. Contrary to my expectations, there was no writing on any of the walls. If my instructions had been painted, I was clearly looking at it now.

image

The only furniture was an elegantly carved wooden plinth that barely exceeded the height of my knees, nearly identical to the one depicted in the painting. Lying on top of it were what seemed like a pile of folded clothes, predominantly black and white.

I realised this was a test of my initiative. A test of my obedience. The garments looked like a nun’s habit, a coarse black serge tunic, a white linen coif, a white cotton undershirt.

I eased the door shut and began to undress, folding up the outfit I’d chosen with such meticulous care in a vain attempt to impress you. I placed my clothes in a neat little pile in the corner, finishing by removing my panties, I suspected few nuns would wear lingerie under their habits, and I strongly suspected you’d like to check.

I pulled on the cotton undershirt first, realising this was as close as my new outfit would come to underwear. The coif, the tunic and stockings followed. The latter were authentically archaic, without elastic they had to be tied around my calves by bright red ribbons, the sole splash of colour in my monochrome garb.

Once dressed, I knew you’d expect to find me in the same position as the portrait, kneeling by the plinth, fingers arched. I mimicked the position of the young lady in the picture, pondering the nature of her prayers. Was she pleading with her God, imploring Him to forgive her nocturnal transgressions? Those wandering fingers? Or the embraces with her sisters that had escalated into kisses and rubbings?

How strange this religion of love had become a global sexual denial cult. Surely if we are made in the image of God, the Creator would want us to pleasure ourselves, to glorify his creations by elevating each to state of ecstatic bliss.

Despite the thick tunic, I could already feel a faint draught between my legs. A subtle breeze teasing my slit, as my undershirt tempted me further, rubbing across the exquisitely sensitive skin of my newly waxed mound, in a continuous trial of my faith.

I clasped my hands and prayed. My knees and elbows aching against the hard unforgiving wood of the floorboards and the plinth. I found myself praying you’d join me. Wishing you’d lift my robes and help satisfy me.

After a while, I began to appreciate why prayers were made with clasped hands. Had I not been clasping them so tightly, one of both would surely have wandered beneath my thick scratchy gown and into my warm, wet, aching cranny.

And then, suddenly, my prayers were answered.

The door creaked open, and you returned.


“Do you like my painting?”

I nod my head enthusiastically.

“It’s a Martin van Meytens. An 18th century studio copy, admittedly. The original is in the national gallery in Stockholm. Such a lovely place.”

“It’s beautiful,” I reply.

“What do you see?”

“Humility, grace, and piety.”

“And chastity?”

“Yes…” I gulp nervously, earnestly hoping that wasn’t your actual intention.

“Submissiveness?”

“Oh yes.”

“Innocence?”

“Oh, very.”

“And yet, sometimes appearances can be deceptive…”

I stare back, puzzled, not quite sure to what you’re referring. The canvas? Or me?

“Did you know some paintings have two sides? Collectors call them Verso and Recto, rather than front and back – because sometimes it’s hard to say which side deserves the honour of being displayed, and which side should be hidden…”

I watch in quiet fascination as you reverently turn over the portrait, surprised that it reveals another complete picture, painted on the reverse of the canvas. It is a scene of startling candour, its explicitness making my clit throb even before my mind has fully deciphered what I’m seeing.

image

She must be the same subject, but this time depicted from behind. Perhaps her innocence was just a front. Perhaps all innocence is just a front. This angle reveals a different side of her, naked flesh in place of her religious habit. This is a woman depicted as a sexual being. Curvaceous and alluring. The glory of the Creator’s vision manifested, no long hidden, but celebrated.

“Now, what do you think of your chaste and innocent nun?”

I’m speechless. Not because I’m embarrassed by seeing nakedness, but because I so crave the sensuality of what the image represents.

And it seems our desires are aligned, because you reach down and lift the hem of my own tunic, dragging it upwards until it gathers on the small of my back, until my own buttocks are as bare as those in the painting above me.

“What do you see in this painting? Voyeurism? Shame? Humiliation? Punishment?”

I find myself nodding, all of those, and more.

“Did you know Sisters were flogged in the position you now find yourself?”

I shook my head. I did not.

And now I see you’re dangling something in front of my face.

“This little whip is called a Discipline. Notice how there’s seven leather fronds, one for each of the deadly sins. Every nun here would carry one, hanging from the belt of her habit, a continuing reminder of her oath of obedience. And every one of them would be expected to spank her own bottom every night, after confessing her sins in her bedtime prayers.”

You place it in my hand, and guide my right arm backwards until I can feel the whip’s cool thin straps sway against my bottom.

“But…! For what sins am I to be punished?” I ask indignantly.

By way of response, you reach down, dragging your fingers between my legs, before smearing my lips with the salty goo of my own excitement.

“The Almighty sees everything, Child.”

A flush of heat sears my face, I feel my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

“Forgive me.”

I begin whipping myself.

“Harder.”

Despite the short backswing, I can hear the tails of the whip whistle through the air before they strike. The seven thick flanges at the end of each frond landing in a simultaneous, stinging eruption.

“Harder.”

I reach back as far as I can, swinging the whip with all my strength. I know this is how a nun would feel, knowing she was being overseen at all times, watched by the Almighty.

I grimace as each whack lands, knowing you’re not interested in my pitiful whimpering. This is my penitence. My spanking, my absolution.

I look up at the painting, and her beautiful buttocks. Is that a hint of pink I see? Or is she whispering her confession prayer, the moment of righteous retribution just moments away.   

Please, forgive my obscene excitement.

Let me atone for the sins of my flesh…


Continued in part two

Rape-punzel

A filthy fairytale

image

Fair Rapunzel had lived the entirety of her young life pleasantly confined in a vertiginous tower, secreted away in the depths of a dense foreboding forest. Her bedchamber, perched at the very of top of the thin lighthouse-shaped spire, was ringed by a balcony from which she could look out in every direction over a spectacular green ocean of treetops. But as far as the horizon, she could see no other buildings. And no one except her Guardian ever came to visit. Aside from the little birds who sat chirping on the balcony rail to keep her company, she was quite alone.

Yet, scattered around her living space, countless luxuries compensated her confinement so completely that she’d long stopped wondering what lay in the world outside. In fact, as she’d got older and her teenage wilfulness had mellowed, the world beyond began to seem ever more sinister and dangerous in comparison to her predictable little haven.

And the very worst aspect of the outside world, were men.

Even though she’d never actually met a man, that is, talked to one, she’d read all about them in her books. Sometimes she’d even occasionally see them passing by, drawn here by curiosity, stopping to stare at her towering home. But then, when she appeared on her balcony to greet them, they’d leer and shout obscenities. What crass obnoxious brutes!

During the long hot summer months, Rapunzel had become used to wearing nothing, wandering around her little domain naked. She liked how her long golden hair felt as it tumbled down her bare skin, and how she could swish it around herself like a gossamer cloak. How was she to know it was the sight of her own body that was provoking such boorishness?

How she’d laugh as the tiny figures scuttled around the base of her tower, frantically looking for a doorway and a way inside. The poor fools, there was no door, and certainly no stairs to ascend. Because only her Guardian ever came to visit her, and she flew up to her chambers on a broomstick, alighting elegantly on the balcony. It was a means of arrival that was quite unremarkable to Rapunzel, ever since she could remember, she’d always flown in this way.

Her keeper was a beautiful woman, with a strict authoritative demeanour that belied her youthful appearance. How strange that in all the years she’d known her, even as Rapunzel got older, her Guardian never seemed to change. If anything, she seemed to be getting younger. She never failed to ask if there was anything Rapunzel desired. Food, books, new musical instruments or manuscripts, Rapunzel only need mention it, and somehow her Guardian would reach behind her back and produce exactly that.

They would dine by candlelight as the last golden rays of the sun streamed through the panoramic windows. They’d feast on the most sumptuous luxuries, as her Guardian related the latest news, which seemed to be almost universally terrible, the kingdom beset by all manner of awful calamities and disturbing unrest. It always made Rapunzel quite grateful to be hidden away, safe in her high sturdy haven.

Later, after dessert, they always played out their little bedtime ritual. Her Guardian would lead Rapunzel by the fingertips to her bed – and, if she’d bothered to wear any clothes all, undress her. Carefully removing every fold of silk until she was completely bare. Then she’d lay Rapunzel on the bed, and lift up her legs, so the slit between her thighs was gaping.

Then she’d ask a single question, the same question she always asked.

Have you been a good girl, Rapunzel?

Her Guardian knew the answer already, the little spy she left behind made certain of that. But she always asked anyway.

If Rapunzel had been naughty, she would have to confess to it. Being naughty meant Rapunzel had broken The Golden Rule. That she had touched the only place in her luxurious little world that was out of bounds. The little slit between her own legs, from the little button beneath the fleshy arch down to the tight wet hole between those soft velvety lips. From an early age, her Guardian had warned Rapunzel that this area was strictly out of bounds.

Upon her bedchamber wall was a conspicuous reminder of the painful fate awaiting naughty girls. A harbinger of the consequences should Rapunzel ever give into temptation, and touch herself. The wicked cane.

This enchanted rod kept watch on her from its ornate brass cradle, sizzling and glowing as if about to catch fire should it ever witness any transgressions. Then, when her Guardian arrived, if there was naughtiness to report, it would lie smouldering with expectation, waiting for the moment when it would soon be fetched and wielded.

Have you been a good girl, Rapunzel?

Her Guardian knew, of course. Her cane had already told her so.

If Rapunzel had something to confess, her Guardian would tsk dismissively, and retrieve the cane from the wall. The rod would respond euphorically, sprouting a dozen candlewick-sized flames, its whole length seeming to sizzle with delight.

Rapunzel’s subsequent spanking would be meticulous, painful and humiliating. She would be flogged until the stripes on her burning bottom merged into a single blaze of rosy pink. The enchanted fire smouldering on the edges of the rod only compounding the burning heat of every searing stroke.

She would be whacked until she was seeping from every orifice, tears streaming, nostrils dripping and mouth dribbling. And until the region that was the source of her temptation leaked a messy, musky goo.

As a result, Rapunzel hardly ever masturbated now. So when her Guardian visited, she‘d almost always discover her charge had been a very good girl indeed. Whereupon her Guardian would herself disrobe and lie naked on the bed beside her, before telling Rapunzel to rise and straddle her face.

Her Guardian’s skillful tongue would make her seep so copiously, that by the time Rapunzel collapsed, exhausted and spent, her juices would be smeared across every patch of her Guardian’s nubile body.

Some speak of legends where witches have stayed forever young, by anointing themselves with the excited secretions of a virtuous virgin. But only one whose tight haven had yet to be contaminated by a man’s tainted member.

Such was the treasure that Rapunzel’s Guardian kept hidden in the tower, faraway, deep in the wooded wilderness. Safe from the foul cocks that would ruin her precious prize…


One sunny day, as she lay basking naked on her balcony, Rapunzel heard rustling in the bushes below. She looked over, to see a man tying his horse to a branch. His face was concealed by a handkerchief, giving him a highly dubious appearance. His clothes were rough and dirty, he looked common, and dangerous. Like a thief, a brigand or highwayman.

The wretch was probably on the run from the King’s Men. They’d hunt him down eventually, they always did in the end. They’d capture him and take him back to the castle gallows to dangle and kick. She could feel a warm rush between her legs as she imagined him so helpless, his strong hands tied behind his back. No! She mustn’t think that! She wanted to be a good girl, and that was almost impossible once the throbbing got started.

She leaned on the balcony watching intently as he fumbled with the front of his pantaloons. The bucolic silence was then broken by her squeal of shock.

The brigand had opened the front of his trousers, and a long fleshy appendage had flopped out. Rapunzel gawked disbelievingly – and quite indignantly – as a stream of water spewed from his member, splashing against the base of the tower, running off to pool in a little puddle in the parched earth between his feet.

Rapunzel wasn’t entirely naive, her books and pictures had taught her that men and women had anatomical differences. But she’d never seen a penis in the flesh, so to speak. Its sheer size shocked her, far in excess of the tiny tubes she’d seen in artworks, and the little bumps on cherub boys that didn’t look all that different from her own.

Somehow, seeing his penis made her own slit throb. Something intuitively told her the two illicit places had a connection, some icky kind of shared purpose.

Her shriek had alerted him to her presence, and now he was looking up at her, admiring what he could see of her naked torso, the long streams of her hair barely covering her breasts, coquettishly teasing him. Had it not been for the base of the balcony, he would have been able to stare upwards unimpeded into her most intimate places.

They observed each other in silence, he stroking his member as she looked down on him. She watched, fascinated, as it appeared to grow between his magic fingers. Swelling, thickening, solidifying, until it stuck out rigidly beyond his clothes like an accusing finger. He seemed to be tugging at it now, wringing it with ever more increasing vigor until it suddenly spat a creamy stream of – something!? – onto the ground below.

She could see the brigand leering at her as he cleaned the dripping mess from his member on the cuff of his shirt. Then he buttoned his trousers shut, untied his horse and clambered onto the saddle. Before he rode off, he saluted her with a mocking half-bow, then disappeared into the undergrowth.

Obnoxious brute! thought Rapunzel.


To her surprise, the brigand reappeared a few days later. This time, he didn’t leer at her or fiddle with that thing in his trousers, but took a hammer and small sack from his saddle and approached the base of the tower. He took what looked like a long nail from the sack, which might have been the kind blacksmith’s used for horseshoes, and began to hammer it into the mortar between the tower’s big sandstone blocks.

Rapunzel was outraged by the racket, an awful metallic clunking and tinging. When the stranger had finished with the first nail he drove another one in just beside it, allowing him to step up onto his improvised stair.

Then, he started to hammer another nail in, at about knee-height, just to the side of where he stood. He repeated this process a dozen times, until his bag of nails was exhausted,  creating a glinting spiral staircase that reached several metres off the ground. Using the claw end of the hammer to steady himself against the rugged wall, he climbed back down to the base of the tower.

Rapunzel could see him looking up with quiet satisfaction on his hour’s work. His face was still concealed by his mask, but it was unable to to hide his lascivious intent. Even though brilliant balmy sunshine was warming her all over, that parting look as he rode rode off made her shiver.

He would be back. He meant to scale the tower. She would be powerless to stop him. He would reach her sanctuary. And then…

That night, Rapunzel barely slept. Images of the masked intruder dominated her thoughts. That thing, that penis. She imagined it growing, the closer it got to her. Until it burst through the brigand’s trousers, big and stiff and hard.

The most shocking realisation was that ‘thing’ was in the perfect position and just the right size to be pushed into the tight little hole between her own legs. That was surely his intention, to continue to scale her tower, until he was standing over her as she lay naked across her bed. His rough dirty hands covering her mouth, stifling her scream.

Have you been a good girl, Rapunzel?

Would he spank her if she told him she’d been a bad girl?

Or would he just grab her legs, loom over her, and push his stiff penis into her forbidden hole?

What would that be like? Would it be like when she’d pushed her own fingers deep inside? That had earned her such a sore bottom she hadn’t done that again in years. But being filled had felt so, so good.

I mustn’t.

I mustn’t.

But then, her fingers strayed.

That night, Rapunzel was a very naughty girl.

And in the darkness, the watching cane glowed and smouldered.


A few days later, the brigand returned, and as expected, he brought another bag of nails. He glowered at her, his face still mostly hidden by the handkerchief mask, revealing only his eyes, which glinted with a hungry, almost primal, intent.

He resumed his progress, stepping up the impromptu stairs with considerable agility. No doubt he was practiced, thought Rapunzel, probably a professional burglar. Her room did contain luxuries of considerable value, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was the most precious possession in the tower.

It wasn’t long before his spiral of iron had wrapped around the tower twice, and all Rapunzel could do was watch in growing horror as the masked assailant crept towards her private sanctum.

She began to await his visits with considerable trepidation. Sometimes he’d come back after 3 days, other times it might take 5 or 6. Each delay made her hope she’d seen the last of him, that he’d been caught, shot by the King’s archers, or was awaiting the noose in a dank and fetid dungeon. But inevitably, he’d return with a new sack of enormous nails, and her cherished silence would again be wrecked by the lout’s incessant hammering.

And the following night, Rapunzel would fall into lucid, lurid, disturbing dreams.

With every visit, the top of the brigand’s nail staircase edged ever closer. Soon, it circled the tower 3 times. Then 4. By the time it had reached halfway up the tower, it circled it 5 times.

Who would reach her first, she wondered? Rapunzel’s growing anxiety had been assuaged by the prospect of her Guardian’s impending return. Surely she would save her, she’d use her arcane powers to make the nails crumble to dust, just before he reached the top, letting him fall screaming to his doom. Or maybe she’d enjoy the irony of transforming this impetuous outlaw into something small, cute, fluffy and timid – and Rapunzel would be allowed to keep him in a cage.

But her Guardian never came. As summer wore on, the little iron staircase crept ever closer to invading her world. Until one day, when Rapunzel realised that it would only take one more visit before the intruder would finally reach her balcony.

That night, her dreams grew ever more vivid, wretched and obscene.

And the cane on her wall glowed red as it spat and smoked and sizzled.

The next morning, Rapunzel was woken by the familiar sound of nails chipping into the stonework just beyond her open balcony. He was so close now, she could feel the vibrations of each hammer blow trembling in her clit.

Her Guardian had indeed forgotten her. She had nowhere to flee. Ever since she could remember she’d accepted that this tower was inescapable, even if she’d wanted to.

How should she wait for him, on her bed, naked and helpless?

Or standing by the balcony, arms folded, proud and indignant?

Or perhaps bending over, the wicked smouldering cane gripped between her bottom cheeks?

She could hear his grunting now, his hands scrabbling against the edge of the balcony. A coarse, expletive-filled voice. And a faint stench of ale, horses and musty sweat.

Heavy boots thumped onto the floor of the balcony, then approached ominously. Threateningly.

Her sanctuary was about to be invaded.

Desecrated.

Violated.

Have you been a good girl, Rapunzel?

.

.

.

@spankingtheatre 2018

The Booth

A spanking story

Naughty Girl

said the text message, almost accusingly.

She stared at his response. She’d thought her misdemeanour was trivial, worthy of a playful light-hearted scolding at the very worst. But the abruptness of his reply made her realise how seriously he took her disobedience.

In the mall, crowds of busy shoppers milled around her, quite oblivious to her predicament, as she stared meekly at her phone, awaiting his judgement. She felt the phone vibrate in her sweaty palm.

You must be punished.

She stared at the little glowing words.

A good hard spanking, on your bare bottom.

She could feel a warm, clammy wetness seeping from her slit, and sticking to her panties. A good hard spanking meant being spanked until her bottom burned, until its sore persistent sting overwhelmed every other sensation. Then obediently standing in the corner until the glowing ache consumed her, dominating her mind.

Go to the 5th floor of the shopping centre. To the atrium with the waterfall.

She acknowledged his instructions, stepping onto the escalator, and was carried away.

The atrium was filled with the hubbub of passing voices, and the gurgle of water tumbling down the mound of mossy rocks into the surrounding faux marble pool. The cool stone felt nice against her skin through her thin dress. She waited and wondered why he’d sent her here, why he hadn’t just ordered her home, to be put over his knee.

She felt her phone vibrate again.

Booth 1. The keypad code is 1212

She scanned her surroundings, spotting three nondescript white cubes against a nearby wall. Each was about 2 metres high, and unremarkable enough to be completely ignored by the crowds hurrying past. Each booth had a big foam letter above it, each sinking into the cloud-like fluff that covered the top of each booth. An N, an A and a P.

The booths were nap pods, available to rent to subscribers for half-hour periods. A quiet space about a metre square, little oases of calm amid the din of the big city. There was a chair to lie back in, and a charging point for your phone, which displayed the countdown until your 30 minutes expired, and the booth was unlocked. All one needed was the app and an account. Her disciplinarian had become a regular customer.

After punching in the code with somewhat shaky fingers, the keypad beeped agreeably in response as the magnetic latch disengaged. She tugged the door open and stepped into the tiny space beyond, closing it circumspectly behind her.

Inside the booth was a reclining chair, if she’d sat on it, she’d be facing back the way she’d entered.

She placed her phone in the charging cradle at the back of the booth, leaning over the chair to do so, and activated video calling. It connected moments later, though his face didn’t appear, leaving her disappointed that he didn’t greet her with a smile, but he seemed not to have activated his own camera. His voice, when he finally spoke, was stern and authoritative.

“Take it all off,” he instructed. “Everything.”

There was something in what he said, an edge, that could only have meant he was referring to her clothes. She complied rapidly, not wanting to displease her disciplinarian further, loosening her shoes before lifting her white summer dress over her head. Having a relatively small bust, she hadn’t worn a bra, so only needed to pull down her damp panties to be standing naked before him. She widened her stance, parting her legs, folding her arms behind her back, presenting herself for his approval…

She waited in silence as he examined her.

“Turn around. Straddle the chair. Open your cheeks.”

She did as she was told, lifting one leg over the chair, and turning so her bare bottom was now facing her phone. Splaying herself open revealed just how excited she’d become.

“… you’re soaking wet.”

She felt her face burn, as simultaneously, her clit throbbed.

“Take out your paddle.”

She had a paddle in her handbag, she carried his paddle everywhere, a lingering reminder of her submission to his discipline. His rule was if she ever misbehaved in his company, she would take out the paddle, present it to him, and ask to be spanked. Then he’d lead her by the hand somewhere quiet, have her take off her panties and deposit them in his pocket, before he lifted her skirt and spanked her hard.

If she misbehaved alone, she was expected to confess her misdemeanours, and he would instruct her to spank herself. But sometimes she’d also use it on her own initiative, giving herself six quick spanks in the ladies toilets if she ever found herself the only one there. Lavatories with squeaky doors were the best, because they would serve to warn her of intruders, cruelly robbing her of the chance to be alone.

The Voice Memo facility on her phone was particularly useful for recording the sound of her smacking, allowing her to send him the evidence so he could hear for himself: that she was an obedient girl who understood the importance of self-discipline.

Sometimes she would lie back in bed with her earphones on and listened to the sounds of her own spankings. Stroking herself as she remembered the episode she was listening to.

He pronounced her sentence with a strictness that made her legs quake and her heart thump.

“You deserve a good hard spanking, young lady. On your bare bottom.”

As usual, he was right. She did deserve it. She craved it.

“Bend over.”

She leant forward, placing one hand on the seat of the chair she was straddling, so she could reach back and smack her own bottom with her paddle.

“6 smacks on each cheek.”

She followed his command, spanking hard so he couldn’t fail to hear her repentance in the severity of her whacks.

“6 more.”

Her bottom tingled.

“And again.”

Oh Sir. Yes.

“8 more for being such a naughty, naughty girl.”

She smacked her bottom hard, eager to demonstrate her contrition. Each stinging impact a reminder of how lucky she was to have a disciplinarian who was so strict with her.

“10 more. Nice and hard.”

The booth was supposed to be soundproof, its occupants came here for a peace and quiet after all. But she couldn’t help wondering if the sounds of her smacking were audible outside. Whether a small crowd might be gathering just beyond the thin door, curious and puzzled. Would they recognise it? How many would realise the faint clapping as the sound of a young woman having her bare bottom smacked? And if they did, would they snigger, or secretly wish to be behind the door themselves?

“12 more. Harder.”

Her bottom was now smouldering painfully. She could feel her dew dribbling from her lips, and smell the musky scent of her arousal filling the confined space. Had he not been be watching, she knew she’d have her fingers in her slit by now, savouring the pain, yet also rubbing the ache away.

“That’s enough. Corner time, girl. Step forward, and stand up straight in front of the door.”

She shuffled forward, clearing the chair, so she was standing naked in front of the booth’s thin opaque fibreglass door. She still had her back to her camera, so her spanked bottom remained prominently on display. She obediently put her hands on her head, just like he’d taught her to, and waited.

There was a small numeric display on the door latch, counting down the minutes and seconds until the booth was unlocked. She realised that if she remained in this position, whoever had booked the subsequent slot would open the door to the shock of their lives, a beautiful young woman standing naked with her hands on her head, her wetness dribbling from her bare puffy slit, her clothes folded neatly on the chair behind her.

The thought of being discovered thrilled her, in an almost visceral way. An excitement that only intensified as the time ticked away.

Soon, just five minutes remained.

The jeopardy of being caught had made her clit swell, so it know felt like a hard little button between her legs. A hard little button that needed to be repeatedly pressed. Filthy thoughts began to gatecrash her fevered mind.

Now, there were just two minutes to go. Still the phone behind her was silent. She longed to hear his voice. Anything.

She could feel her own juices dribbling down the inside of her thighs.

A sudden knock on the door interrupted her reverie.

She almost jumped out of her skin in shock. The true precariousness of her position made suddenly obvious, in less than 100 seconds the thin partition that separated her from the outside world would disappear, and she would be exposed. Utterly.

She could get dressed, of course. Disobey him. Again. Prove she couldn’t be trusted. Again.

She could turn around and show her weakness, earnestly covering herself like a shy little ingenue at the beach as she heard the disappointment in his voice.

Her tummy churned as the final minute disappeared from the counter, as it started counting down the remaining seconds. She knew the next customer would be watching on the other side, tired and tetchy, waiting impatiently for their turn.

Silence roared in her ears as she strained to hear his voice, the rustle of his clothes, the whisper of his breathing. Any clue that would signify he hadn’t forgotten about her plight, that he was an intake of breath away from releasing her from her torment.

She wanted to open her mouth, to plead. But she knew that wasn’t what spanked girls did in the corner. Spanked girls stood up straight with their sore pink bottoms on display, in silence, for as long as their disciplinarians deemed necessary. Spanked girls never turned around, or whined or begged, or dropped their hands to rub their bottoms. It didn’t matter if they were being watched, or left in the room all alone. Spanked girls stayed in place, on display, immobile. Wordlessly. Until they were told.

Her heart was now hammering in her chest. She could almost feel the outside world, pressing against the door of the booth, straining to get in. Did she trust him? Really trust him? Even if he’d decided her punishment was to be public humiliation?

30 seconds left.

She begged him silently under her breath, for his mercy, for his indulgence. She knew opening her mouth to speak without permission would be massively disrespectful, one that would surely condemn her to the most excruciating embarrassment.

20 seconds.

Oh Sir, please.

10… 9… 8…

There’d still be time, if only he’d give the order, just time enough to throw her dress over her head and preserve at least a shred of her modesty.

7… 6… 5… 4…

She felt her legs trembling, having to clench her pelvic muscles with all her might just to prevent peeing herself. She forced herself to keep her hands on her head. What a way to be discovered, standing in a little puddle, as your hot pee streams uncontrollably between your desperate fingers.

3… 2… 1…

The door opens, as she clenches her eyes tight.

As a solitary tear trickles down her cheek.


The hubbub of the world outside assaults her ears.

Yet something makes her open her weeping eyes.

His face looms in front of her, and she feels a euphoric surge. A rush better than any orgasm.

He envelops her in a hug, concealing her nakedness.

His mouth whispers into her ear. What a good girl. What a wonderful girl.

He tugs the door closed behind him.

She notices the timer on the latch has been reset. It seems they have another 30 minutes.

He embraces her, kissing her deeply, one arm around her shoulders, his free hand cupping her soaking slit.

He spins her around, lifting her forward until she’s straddling the chair.

She feels his hands grasp her hot stinging cheeks, splaying her buttocks apart, exposing her holes.

Inspections followed spankings. Always.

She can feel his hot breath between her legs. Then his rough tongue intruding between her slit, scraping upwards until it circles her bottom hole, tasting her obedience.

She hears his belt unbuckle, and his trousers sliding down his legs.

He reaches past her, tapping her phone screen a few times to activate the voice memo app.

I want you to keep this recording safe, he growls. Next time I put you in the corner, you can listen to me fucking you as you hold your sore bum apart.

She feels his stiffness against her wet entrance. He enters so easily.

The first sounds she’ll hear when she listens to this back will be the rustle of his trousers lowering, his deep voice talking about fucking, her own needy moans, and the sudden squelch of penetration.

She can see the little booth timer reflected on her phone screen. Twenty-six minutes and four seconds until the door unlocked. He’d last that long easily. She felt hands grip her breasts and the roar of hot breathing on her neck.

Her last rational thought before his deep thrusts switch off her mind is:

I do hope we can extend our stay.

.

.

.

@spankingtheatre 2018

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑