Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears



The Island of Bones


Trigger Warning: This is a Halloween horror. A gothic ghost story set amid the Age of Pirates, readers may encounter taboos of a violent past, like rape, hangings and gory death.

Here be monsters, sensitive souls should proceed no further.




The night the tempest hit. I dreamt of an island made of bones. 

Beside its idyllic turquoise waters, just beneath its strands of golden sand, lay bones. An endless stack of ivory white skeletons. Skulls and femurs, ribs and vertebrae, heaped high on top of each other, stretching all the way down to the abyssal darkness of the ocean deep. They were the mortal remains of all who’d ever been lost at sea, gathered and brought here by the ocean sweeping currents. Deposited together to form a grotesque pile of bones, disguised with palm trees and the trappings of paradise.

In my hubris, I thought I could outrun the hurricane. I had always loved storms, the astonishing violence of air and water. I loved to lie in my bunk, hearing the gales howl through the rigging and feel the boat lurch and tumble on a rollercoaster of swells. But this storm was different, a massive monstrous force of nature. As night fell, and I was plunged into a frightening darkness, I realised with horror that I had made a terrible mistake.

The hurricane tossed my yacht like a bath toy for several terrifying hours. I had to brace myself as my cabin repeatedly tumbled. Sometimes everything went almost vertical, producing a sickening moment of weightlessness before everything dropped, the whole vessel hurtling downwards into the trough of the wave, smashing back into the water in a shattering crash.

Until one time, my luck ran out. It must have been an enormous wave, enough to topple my entire world upside down, I felt myself go vertical, then fall backwards and the boat capsized. Something thwacked against my head, and everything went black. 

I woke lying dazed on the ceiling of my cabin. The emergency lights shed just enough light to see that beneath me was a dark pit of churning seawater. My precious sanctuary had flooded, my boat was likely only moments away from being dragged beneath the mountainous waves.

I kicked the hatch open with the fury of someone utterly desperate to survive, and escaped into the tumultuous seas, gambling that the waters of the Caribbean would be warm enough to keep me alive. Only my life jacket kept me above the surface, as mountains of water crashed down relentlessly, pummelling me into unconsciousness.

But somehow I woke to see the dawn. Miraculously, the sea had spared me.




* * 1 * * 

I lay on the sandy beach, choking as I struggled to clear my raw airways of salty water. My whole body was battered and aching, my head still throbbing from the accident. But I had just enough energy to crawl upwards through the surging surf, to reach the high water line. I lay sprawled amongst the seaweed watching the sky glow as the sun rose, the departing purple stormclouds illuminated with a golden light. 

Hunger drove my initial explorations, and I found sufficient fruits and berries to replenish my energy. I discovered I‘d been washed up on a small deserted island. It seemed like a coral cay, fringed by golden sand, and covered with tropical trees. It did not take me long to walk around its perimeter, an hour at most. It was essentially flat, I could see its highest point was a slight rise on its southern flank. That would provide the best lookout, so that was where I made my home. 

I spent my early days building SOS signs from driftwood, laying them on the beaches in the hope they’d be spotted by some passing vessel. I had been attempting to cross the Atlantic solo, and hadn’t even had time to send a Mayday call before I’d fled from my boat. I had no idea if anyone even knew I was missing yet. Let alone where to look for me.  

But I knew I couldn’t afford to lapse into despondency. Survival and self-sufficiency were my immediate priorities. I discovered additional sources of food, teeming shoals of fish that were prolific enough in the shallow waters to grab with my hands and then dry in the sun. I constructed rain traps to harvest fresh water. I created a rudimentary shelter from palm fronds, where I could escape the maddening solitude and find solace and company amid the theatre of my dreams. 

When alone, one takes comfort from such simple pleasures. I remember my joy when I discovered the tree with the paper-like bark. I was able to fashion my own quill from seabird feathers, and create a crude ink from ground fragments of coral, mixed with the blood of fish I’d caught. 

What keeps me going is the hope that one day, someone else will read these strange scarlet scrolls. Writing keeps me sane, the blank page provides an audience, it gives me someone to talk to, to describe my thoughts and confess my fears. I hope I’ll survive long enough to be rescued. But if not, I hope these words will outlive me. After all, I have such a strange and unnatural story to tell.

It began as I was exploring my tiny new realm. That was when I discovered the bones. I found them scattered beneath a tree. Initially I thought they were the remains of a seal or a washed-up dolphin. But then I saw the unmistakable curve of a human skull, now denuded of flesh and bleached white by the scorching sun. Amid the bones were a few items of jewellery, which glinted as I rubbed the grimy residue of age away, several elegantly thin gold rings and gem-encrusted ear piercings. This seemed to be the remains of a lady, and an affluent lady at that.

It seems crazy to write this. But later, in the darkness, I met her myself.

That night, I was lying beneath the stars, listening to the waves break on the beach, surrounded by utter blackness. I was suddenly startled when I thought I heard someone talking to me. It was the first voice I’d heard since I’d left port, several weeks previously. I jumped up from my improvised mattress of foliage, but saw nothing around me but the dark.

It felt like I was hearing the bones talking to me. Beckoning me. 

I walked under the pale light of the moon to where the bones still lay, undisturbed. She was waiting for me. The lady who must have died here. 

She appeared as a ghostly apparition, as ephemeral as whispers. She glowed like wan moonlight, her eyes mournful, as if afflicted by deep melancholy. She was barefoot, and what remained of her clothes were ragged and dishevelled, barely covering her chest and her waist.   

She spoke without moving her lips, yet her intense voice resonated profoundly through my own head, drowning out my own inner voice, displacing my own ability to think.

I AM HANNAH, the voice inside my head announced. 


I recognised her voice as having an English accent, prim and aristocratic. It was somewhat archaic sounding too, like the kind of voice in vintage archive recordings.

The dim pools of moonlight where her eyes used to be glowered in my direction, but did not look at me. I felt the unsettling sensation that this visitor was only dimly aware of my presence, that she couldn’t really see me, like we were neighbours separated by some kind of wall.

What… happened to you? I thought instinctively. 

The apparition answered, without me even having to vocalise my question.


What! Who? How? I stuttered.

And then, under the moonlight, I began to learn her story.

* * *

I sat on a fallen trunk, and closed my eyes, and she showed me everything.

Hannah de Chésery was born during the reign of William III. A descendent of minor Swiss nobility, she received a cosmopolitan education from a series of fine European teachers as she grew up in England. I got the impression she was a headstrong young lady who had soon learned to get what she wanted. She had discovered the joys of a bare bottom flogging through her youthful misadventures, and actually enjoyed teasing her tutors into producing the cane. Her family mistook her secret appetite for discipline as wilful naughtiness. 

Hannah was pretty and smart enough to become sought-after company in London society. She was married off to a dashing young man named Jonathan Fitzgerald, a London Judge and rising star in the Government’s Colonial Office. But the pair seemed to share a genuine affection. Soon, he was offered a prestigious overseas assignment, as the new Governor of a small Caribbean island. 

She told me her husband discussed the prospective posting, and eager for adventure, she had readily agreed. She was remarkably candid with me, telling me she had elected not to bear children, and that they had practised martial relations in what polite society knew as “the Greek Way”. I presumed that meant he fucked her in her bottom. Quite possibly a spanked bottom too.

They left England to cross the Atlantic in 1720. 

If I remember my history of this region correctly, the War of the Spanish Succession would have recently ended. I’d visited enough local museums to know these were turbulent times, with navies recalled and deployed, the Caribbean colonies became increasingly lawless. Pirates were raiding and plundering anyone without the means of defending themselves. Scared people flocked to port settlements, seeking the sanctuary that only the Royal Navy could provide. Stone walls in towns here often date from this period, those without them burned, those towns don’t exist anymore.



I am in a wood-panelled courtroom, on private benches reserved for dignitaries. I can see Hannah’s husband sitting on the highest seat, dominating the room in his full legal regalia. He will be judging this case, responsible for dispensing justice.

A dozen ragged individuals stand in the dock. Manacled in heavy iron chains.  

A white-wigged clerk is reading out the circumstances of the case. It seems the Navy, after a fierce battle, had just captured a Lady Pirate, the infamous Dread Pirate Penelope. My eyes scan the dock, one of the defendants is indeed a woman, she’s dressed in male clothes, breeches and a frock coat embroidered with gold. She’s the only one of the prisoners without her head bowed. She seems to regard the charges being read as a valediction, not an admonishment.

I watch the trial progress through Hannah’s eyes. Skipping forward between her memories, the moments of greatest emotional intensity. I feel her heart thumping with suspense as the verdict is announced. I feel the heat between her legs, and how her clit goes stiff and swollen as she watches her husband don his black cap, and sentence all the pirates to be hanged.

The next memory I see was Hannah visiting his private chambers after the court had adjourned. Immediately, I could see the bulge beneath his ermine-trim robe. He says nothing to us, and my point-of-view abruptly changes, as he pushes us unceremoniously over his sprawling desk.

I feel him grab our dress, urgently dragging the copious fabric upwards until our split bloomers are exposed. I feel his hand reach between our legs, gripping our crotch, and spreading our wetness around our tightest hole. I feel the swollen knob of his stiff cock pressing into us. Astonishingly, I feel everything, the pain and exhilaration as he enters and plunges deep inside.

I see the room as Hannah once saw it, peering over the edge of the desk, her view shaking violently with every thrust of her husband’s hips. He was a tall man, with a physique more befitting a soldier than a bureaucrat. He had been assigned to this lawless land because he could take care of himself. And he could take care of others. I feel him reach underneath me, pinching my hood moments before we both…

I awoke, lying on the ground, with a start. And I found that I was soaked. 

It had been so long since I’d felt such intimate sensations their intensity shocked me. But an instant after waking, they were gone, and my cunt had never felt so empty. 

I cried, sobbing, yearning to dream the same dream again.

But nothing happened. No voice spoke to me, only the silence of utter loneliness enveloped me. I looked at Hannah’s sorry bones pleadingly, desperate to see her ghostly presence. But she was nowhere to be seen.

When at last I did fall asleep, I dreamt not of fuckings, but of a mountainous heap of bones, stretching a mile deep beneath my bed of leaves.




* * 2 * *

The next night, as I stared at the waning moon, Hannah visited me again. My heart soared to see her, despite her eerie phantasmal appearance. When she finally spoke, her prim voice shattered the silence, booming through my mind.



I wanted to shout out: No! To reassure her that anal sex was nothing to be ashamed of, that over the past three centuries our world had moved on to more enlightened times. But it turned out that wasn’t what she meant at all.


The dark vanished, and everything was brilliantly bright. I was within Hannah’s memories again, staring at a sky of vibrant Caribbean blue. Hannah’s point-of-view is from a high window, which I guess is the uppermost floor of the Governor’s Mansion. Beneath us a crowd has gathered, their shouts and yells echoing within my mind. It is a noisy, excitable mob, corralled by red-shirted soldiers, razor-sharp bayonets glinting atop their muskets.

Then I realise where we actually are. This is the town square, and the soldiers are ringing a tall timber frame, from which an ominous-looking rope is dangling from the high crossbeam. This is a gallows, and this crowd has come to watch a hanging.

Through the seething crowd, I can see a cart drawn by two mules slowly approaching, its escorting troops pushing throngs of people out of its way. I can see a lone figure standing defiantly in the cart, hands behind his back and chains around his ankles.

I hear the Governor whisper into my ear. This will be the first of Pirate Penelope’s crew to hang, he tells me, the sadistic First Mate. The courtroom testimony of witnesses who’d survived this brute’s barbarity had been particularly harrowing. How he’d raped and slain an entire family. Slitting their throats and desecrating their mortal remains. And there seemed little doubt there had been many other heinous crimes that had left no witnesses.

Surveying the angry mob, I realise many in this crowd would have fled the pirates’ reign of terror. It was quite likely that some would have personally known his many victims. This isn’t mockery I can feel, but raw hatred; objects were being hurled at this prisoner, not just insults. 

Now amid the jeers of the angry crowd I can hear the mournful beat of the execution drums, like a slow funeral march. 

To anyone looking up at our window, I suspect Hannah would appear to be seated, with the Governor standing behind her. But unbeknownst to the crowds gathered below, she is bending over in front of him, her chest resting atop a high stool, a cushion providing some padding. She is naked beneath the waist. Her hands are tied behind her back, just like the condemned pirate. 

I feel what Hannah must once have felt. A sharp ache beneath the tummy. I feel damp and very tender. I look down between Hannah’s legs. Her cunt is bare and red, wet with her own blood. Her husband is naked below the waist, his cock already stiff, poking between her open thighs.

I see the cart is now trundling beneath the gallows. The beat of the drums is getting louder, the abuse of the crowd ever more vociferous, as if they have so much more abuse to hurl, and their target is fast running out of their range.

The drums suddenly fall silent, and the crowd hushes for a moment. The town crier stands before the cart, unfurling a scroll. Hannah blushes as she realises she has seen this document before. 

I witness her recollection, Hannah is sitting on her husband’s lap. He has a quill in his right hand, his cock deep in her bottom, and his left hand reaching around her waist to grip the hood of her clitoris. Ah yes, the Greek Way.

She rides him slowly, letting her thighs relax so her own weight lets her sink deeper. Her husband appreciates her initiative, having important matters of state to attend to. He is about to sign the first pirate’s death warrant. He pauses, asking Hannah when she next expects to bleed. She answers, and inadvertently sets the date of the pirate’s doom.

The original scene returns. A smartly dressed soldier has now climbed into the cart, he looks like an officer. He offers the pirate a blindfold, but he shakes his head to refuse it. The crier is reading out the long list of crimes for which the pirate has been condemned. Murder. Rape. Arson of several towns. Attacks on dozens of named ships. Piracy. I can feel the crowd’s anger building, their jeers now reaching fever-pitch. 

The officer places the noose over the pirate’s head, tightening it around his neck, the thick knot of coiled rope behind his ear. He nudges the convict forward, until he’s standing on the very edge of the open cart.

The drums begin beating again. This time it’s a fast, urgent tempo, like a countdown to something climactic. 

We feel the Governor shuffle forward, his cock pushing against her bloody entrance. He puts his hand past our ear, and out of the open window. I hear the drums rattle to a crescendo, and Hannah’s rapid heartbeat thundering in my ears. This feels both tremendously exciting and deeply horrifying. I can’t help wondering, is this justice – or is it theatre? Is the crowd here for restitution and closure, or revenge and entertainment?

I feel the hard potency of his authority, poised between my legs. His power over life and death. It excites me, disgracefully. His other hand slaps her bare bottom hard, several rapid smacks to the drums’ beat, hard enough to make Hannah yelp.

In front of my face, I see him clench his fist, at the very same moment his cock drives deep inside my cunt. Beneath us, a soldier whips the mules and the cart lurches forward. The rope goes tight, and I see the pirate fall.

I feel him thrust his stiff cock into Hannah’s bloody cunt. We writhe as he fucks us, as we watch the condemned pirate dance at the end of the rope. I sense Hannah’s thoughts, a deep visceral fear of losing her shield, her precious husband. How without him, she would be prey for the pirates, how her dying memory might be a brute’s cock stretching her bleeding hole, the cold sharp edge of a dagger scraping her throat as she pleads.

I can feel Hannah’s building excitement, as she watches the pirate dangle. My mind reels. How could she find a scene so horrible so arousing?

Hannah’s husband is now grasping her throat, tenderly tightening his grip as he thrusts deeper and deeper. I can feel Hannah gasping for breath, her eyes fixed on the dangling pirate, his legs still kicking in thin air.

Now I see something else. An earlier, even more terrible vision. Hannah is lying on a patch of grass beside a rutted muddy track. Her clothes have been torn from her, and her hands are tied behind her. There is a carriage nearby. Her driver is lying slumped on the ground, motionless, the breast of his ruffled white shirt now stained scarlet with his own blood. Above her, an unkempt brigand is leering at her nakedness. He has already pulled down his breeches, so his thick cock is pointing at her, threateningly.

The highwayman descends on her, his large strong hands grasping her throat, throttling her resistance away. His violation is bloody and excruciatingly painful, robbing her of not just her virginity but her dignity. But she does not show me all of this, some memories are just too agonising to remember.

The brigand left her for dead, in a bloodied heap by the side of the road. But he didn’t squeeze her throat quite tightly enough. She awoke in the rain, reborn as an avenging angel, yelling furious oaths as she swore that she would find him.

A sequence of more memories follow, tinted by a burning fury. Of the handsome young judge who defended her honour. He was the man who brought her violator to justice. Who led the troop of soldiers who captured him, and who sentenced him to hang. He was standing beside her as they watched him dragged to the gallows. He had his hand on the small of her back, reassuring her, as the trapdoor fell and the wretched bastard choked in the noose.

He was her guardian, her protector, her lover, and her husband. The only one who didn’t see her as tainted, but blessed by God. She had been given breath to live again, and been anointed with a righteous mission. To protect the weak, and bring justice to those who might prey on them.

Now I realise it’s the highwayman who Hannah is imagining dangling beneath her. That the hand around her throat symbolises all the formative forces in her life. Violence, violation, retribution, revenge, justice, arousal, excitement, protection, security, and love.

It takes several minutes for the pirate to cease kicking. The tender pressure on Hannah’s throat squeezing ever tighter, his cock pushing ever deeper. Until Hannah and I both experience an ecstatic climax, we go limp at the same time as the dangling pirate.

In that moment, I remember an old folk-legend I’d heard once at a Halloween party, as we’d been discussing the icky gross-out ingredients of witches’ cauldrons. One of those present was a girl who was most interested in crystals, mythology and arcane lore. She told us that when a man was hanged, he comes. That his semen drips beneath the gallows, and from it, the witch-root mandrake grows. But beware, any who dare pull this dread plant from the earth would be slain by its terrifying deathly shriek.

As I came I feel his seed dripping, then all goes black.




* * 3 * *

In the days and nights that follow, I meditate on all the gruesome horrors I’ve seen.

I try to make sense of it, reasoning that perhaps we eroticise what we fear. Even situations that might otherwise be socially or physically painful. Maybe that’s why the most common sexual fantasies feature authority and punishment, nudity and humiliation. By fantasising about violation, perhaps Hannah is seeking to control her fear, to bottle the lightning, to channel her powerful visceral anxieties into pleasure instead.

Yet I also needed to consider the possibility that these visions originated from my own mind, one driven mad by my isolation and the trauma of my shipwreck. They could be manifestations of my own unconscious fantasies, or intimations of my own mortality.

But if I was not imagining this, the implications were truly astonishing, It meant there was an existence after death. That some essence of us could survive, and return to this realm as ghostly apparitions. 

I found myself wondering why had Hannah been condemned to remain on this desolate island? Was she not a victim of violence herself? Why had her soul been denied peace? Was it because she took such pleasure in the torment and demise of others? And if so, I shivered at what hideous Hell her husband might be suffering.

Or has Hannah become some kind of warning, of the fate that lies in store for me, if I give up hope, and die in despair on this island of bones?

Or perhaps fate is now teaching me a lesson in humility. Here I am, alone in the middle of nowhere, at the mercy of forces far greater than myself. I am trapped and weak. I have no guardian to protect me. But like Hannah, despite all the odds, I had managed to survive and breathe again.

For a month, Hannah did not return. Every night I prayed she’d come back to me. I began to regret judging her so severely. I had been given glimpses of cruel and savage times, and to my modern eyes, they were barbaric. 

But in time I came to realise that the passage of time had made me a child of privilege. I did not grow up in Hannah’s world. I did not know what it was like to feel fragile, to live in mortal fear of rape and murder, to suffer such wretched violatation and be left for dead. To live beyond the cover of protective sanctuary that laws provide, to live in a world without a guardian to keep me safe at night. 

It made me think about authority, why some respect it and others rebel. Here I was, utterly free, ruler of my own realm, at liberty to do anything I wanted. But my freedom felt like a curse. I realised what I craved was the certainty of authority, I wanted to be told what to do. I began to fantasise about discipline and punishment. Imagining what it would be like to be trapped on this island with a man like Hannah’s husband. Someone who could protect as well as punish, who’d cup my crotch with his big warm palm to make me feel safe, and place the same firm strict hand on my bare bottom to make me feel grateful.

Maybe the predilection to spank – or be spanked – was a manifestation of a basic human need. The desire for direction, for order, for certainty. After all, spanking was a measured, almost ritualised application of force, rather than an act of indiscriminate violence. A good spanking was impactful, but transient, just hard enough for authority to be demonstrated and obedience earned, with no lasting damage done.

And of all the regions of the body that could be smacked, spankings happened to be delivered through the very same nerves that transmitted sexual pleasure, and were delivered when the recipient’s most intimate regions were exposed. Spankings were corrective nudges, of stinging pain, inseparably intertwined with the tingle of pleasure. 

Crucially, standing in the corner with a sore bottom afterwards was an opportunity for enlightenment. A chance for the spankee to admit to their behavior was improper and that rules existed for a reason. Those who had been spanked soon discovered something quite unexpected: that acceptance diminishes their discomfort, whilst resentment only exacerbates it. 

Our minds seemed hardwired to regard legitimate discipline as pleasurable. Perhaps that quirk of our psychology helped civilise our species. Social order required good leadership and consensual obedience. Our need for structure and discipline was as fundamental as our need for companionship. Spankings were reminders that being good would bring its own rewards.

It was only after that moment of clarity, that I heard Hannah’s voice again.

I was lying on the warm sand of the beach one night, staring into the infinity of space, at stars whose light had started its journey across the cosmos whilst Hannah had once walked these very shores. Small waves lapped soothingly on the beach, their foam catching the weak moonlight. Until a voice in my head ruptured the quietness. 


I jumped to my feet. Hannah was several metres away, a faint glow, indistinct, like an almost forgotten memory. She was not looking at me, but out over the horizon, to where the countless pin-points of starlight were abruptly swallowed by the vast inky expanse of the ocean.


I did not understand her question at the time. It seemed beyond my power to answer. But in retrospect, it was the most important thing she ever said. It took me months to realise she wasn’t even talking to me, but to another audience entirely. 


Memories began to wash over me again, like tumbling waves. I find myself watching through Hannah’s eyes from the high window once more. Bending over, with her hands bound behind her back, her husband’s thick cock is pressing against her tight little bottom hole. Another pirate is standing beneath the gallows, and the drums are rattling towards their fatal crescendo.

I see his fist clench, and he pushes into us both as the pirate topples, and dangles. I feel Hannah’s bottom stretch as the rope squeezes tight. He fucks in slow firm thrusts, his hand around his precious wife’s throat. It takes several minutes before the rogue ends his dance, time enough for him to take them both to the edge, and gasp climatically together.




* * 4 * *

It took weeks to hang the remainder of Penelope’s captured crew. They scheduled one public execution every other day, so the crowd wouldn’t get too blasé, and Hannah and her husband wouldn’t get too sore from their own secret macabre game of sexual satisfaction as they watched.

Hannah evidently didn’t remember much of these deaths, or at least she spared me the ordeal of watching them. Eventually though, there was only one sentence still outstanding, the execution of the Dread Pirate Penelope herself. The couple had debated what would be a fitting finale. It was actually Hannah who had suggested it, and to her surprise, her husband had agreed to it.

Now I was seeing something different through Hannah’s eyes, not the familiar view from their window over the square, but the white glazed tiles of a Georgian bathroom. 

I wonder if Captain Penelope was surprised when, on the night before she was due to hang, she was taken from her cell in chains, and brought to the Governor’s Mansion. I witness Hannah’s memories as she tells the guards to wait outside, and takes her prisoner into the bathroom to take care of her ablutions. 

Penelope is still manacled as she is undressed, bathed, shaved bare and given an enema. Despite all this, and her imminent fate, Penelope maintains her wise-cracking defiance, a strength of character I could tell Hannah was finding most alluring. She could sense the aura of leadership, her authority, and why the crew had followed her to their deaths. Penelope was beautiful, but I could tell she was a siren, as dangerous and treacherous as any Odysseus might have encountered.

Yet I could sense Hannah was beginning to be drawn towards treacherous rocks, how fascinated she was by the other woman’s slit, as her cut-throat razor slid across her mound and skirted around her more intimate places. Their conversation had become increasingly flirtatious.

“Do you shave every pirate you send to the rope? Or only those you wish to fuck?”

“You have a sharp tongue, Captain,” Hannah had observed coyly.

“All the better to lick you with, M’lady.”

I feel Hannah’s tummy flutter, and notice how she surreptitiously glanced at Penelope’s bare cleft. There was something about her awkwardness that suggested Hannah had never made love to a woman, but thought of it regularly. In that moment, it felt like a seed had just been planted, one that would grow to fascinate her.

Hannah wraps a cloak around her prisoner, and calls for the soldiers, who make sure the captive does not attempt to flee as we move upstairs to the Governor’s apartments. The guards remain at the bottom of the staircase, as Hannah guides Penelope through the door to their bedchamber. The room is large, its windows now shuttered against the night. It smells civilized, of clean linen and coconut oil lanterns. 

“I have a gift for you, my love,” announces Hannah, removing the cloak of modesty from Penelope’s shoulders, and letting it fall to the ground.

The captain doesn’t flinch as she is exposed, but remains standing proudly upright, naked apart from her manacles. Her wrists are cuffed behind her back, her ankle cuffs connected by a short chain.

I notice how, as the couple’s eyes are roving across her, Penelope is scanning her surroundings. As if she was checking to see if any guards are present, or identifying potential weapons or routes of escape. She instinctively knew that anything that could be improvised in furtherance of her own survival. A motivation that became even more vital when she sees the noose hanging from one of the ceiling beams, and the wooden bench just beneath it.

“We are just planning to hang out this evening?” asks Penelope, nonchalantly. 

“Your sentence will be executed here, tonight,” the Governor informs her.

“Shame. The crowd will be robbed of the show they’ve been waiting for, all this time…” she counters, in a deadpan tone that belies her predicament.

“You flatter yourself, pirate. You’re just another murderous bandit in a boat.”

“But such an exceptional one,” she reminds him.

“Besides, it’s better this way,” the Governor explains, “The townsfolk will awake to news that the Coward Pirate Penelope took the easy way out. That she was too afraid to face justice in public, and hanged herself in her cell.”

I could see Penelope scowl at the implication. She gave me the impression that she was an inveterate narcissist, one who’d rather been looking forward to a glorious finale in the public square tomorrow. A chance to be the centre of attention one last time, to become an anti-establishment martyr, to die a rebel’s death, and inspire dozens of ballads that would ensure her immortality forever. 

“Do I get a last request?”

“Within reason.”

“I’d like to lick your wife’s cunt, and die with her taste on my lips.”

I could feel Hannah’s cheeks blush hot, and her skin prickle into goosebumps. She looks at him, and I see her husband smiling, lasciviously. 

“What do you say, my love?”

I sense Hannah grinning, and in lieu of an answer, she begins to undress. 


Penelope’s chains rattle as she folds to the floor, before looking upwards, open-eyed, obediently and expectantly. 

The Governor turns to face us, placing his hand between Hannah’s legs. I can feel his fingers slip through her slick lips. 

“Minx!” he cries, delivering a succession of hard slaps to her bare bottom.

“So keen to dance on a pirate’s tongue!”

The hot sting is still radiating through Hannah’s backside as her husband grasps her wrist and leads her towards where Penelope is kneeling. 

Penelope’s nimble tongue licks Hannah’s bare slit like her life depended on it. Skillfully exploring every fold as an expert navigator would, sailing into every secret cove, surveying every landmark with tender kisses. Criss-crossing the island, climbing the little hill and circling the hidden hollow. Until a sudden storm breaks, and Hannah drenches Penelope’s pretty face with a sticky gush.

Hannah staggers backwards on trembling legs, sitting down on the edge of their bed. Penelope remains kneeling, with her hands bound behind her, she has no way to wipe her face, and wears the glistening mess proudly on her face, like a badge of honour.

Out of sight, I know the Governor is watching us. When he comes into view again he has undressed, and his cock is hard.

“It’s time.”

He drags his captive off her knees by her arm, towards the bench beneath the rope. 

I’m surprised when he then sits down, pulling Penelope across his one of his knees, so she straddles his thigh, splaying her legs wide apart, exposing everything in between. He begins to spank her, with hard slow heavy slaps. As each smack lands, he scolds her as if she was a naughty little girl, for all the sailors her crew had drowned, and all the villagers they’d so cruelly robbed and murdered. 

“Harder, please Sir! I’ve been such a very bad girl.”

He is smacking with considerable force, each impact making her chains clink and rattle, his large strong hands leaving bright pink patches wherever they land. Occasionally he pauses, dragging his finger between her open cheeks, pushing his fingers into her holes, rebuking her for being so soaking wet.

“Oh Sir! I wish you’d been there to discipline me in my formative years. I would never have been led astray!”

He reaffirms her sentence as he spanks her, guilty of piracy and murder. 

“It is the sentence of this court you be taken to a place of lawful execution, and hanged by the neck until you are dead.”

He pronounces the dread sentence with a flurry of forceful whacks, as if he was rapping his gavel on the court bench, trying to restore order to a tumultuous court.

“No Sir! Please, I’ll be so good for you!”

I sense something new, something I haven’t felt from Hannah before. An empathy, a feeling that those spanked deserve forgiveness. It might even be pity. It is a feeling that intensifies as she watches her husband lift Penelope to her feet, and makes her step up onto the low bench. Then he reaches upwards, places the noose over her head, and tightens it around her neck.

“Come hither, my love!” he looks back to us encouragingly, “We shall enjoy this criminal before she strangles.”

Hannah is moving more hesitantly now, but takes her place before the standing pirate, bending forward so her face is in front of her bare cleft. She places her own tongue on Penelope’s swollen slit. The taste is so intoxicating she begins to wonder if this is the flavour of fear, of mortal jeopardy. 

Perhaps her husband will allow her to choose another pirate to hang here, dangling as she keeps his hard cock in her mouth. Hannah had heard the Mandrake legend of hanged men’s seed too, and found herself pondering: whatever would happen if you swallowed it? And did women squirt with their final kick too?

As Hannah licks, I can see her husband between Penelope’s thighs. I see him placing his long stiff penis against her bottom hole, close enough for Hannah to push her tongue forward, and lick his shaft. We watch as he pushes slowly into our captive’s bottom.

Hannah continues to run the tip of her tongue up and down Penelope’s slit as her husband fucks her bottom. I notice how her legs, still manacled at the ankles, are trembling now, as she strives to keep her balance. What an end that would be, if she was to suddenly topple, she would dangle with the hangman’s cock in her arse, squeezing him tighter and tighter as she danced, milking him dry, and only releasing him from her grip when she fell still.

In between her moans, Penelope pleads for her life, trying to convince her captors she could bring them so much pleasure. And with a ship, a lot of treasure too.

Hannah curtails her pleas by pushing the tip of her tongue into the little bump of her clit. She sucks it eagerly, pushing her hood back with her lips, until Penelope’s staccato pleas are replaced by delirious moans. Then her knees buckle slightly, causing the rope to tighten and her voice to squawk. As Penelope begins to come, she grips his cock tight, which prompts Hannah to open her mouth and take her lover’s bare sac into her mouth. She sucks his balls tenderly,  until our lips feel his spasms as he empties himself deep inside the pirate’s bottom.

“Spare me, Sir! M’lady! I’ll do anything for you. Make me your slave. You know how appreciative I can be.”

The Governor ignored her pleas, withdrawing from her, and walking over to a small basin of water to clean his member.

“No, pirate. When I am hard again, you will hang.”

Hannah looks up at Penelope, whose calm demeanour is slipping, she looks increasingly desperate. I can feel him moving behind us, and his limp member already swelling between Hannah’s thighs. 

“We watched from our window as your crew of brutes were hanged. We fucked as the wretches danced, and now we shall do the same as we watch you,” he tells her nonchalantly.  

“Please! No!”

I feel him hard between Hannah’s bottom, rubbing her wetness around her tight little hole. He begins to push inside us, stretching a leg forward until one of his feet is resting on the low bench on which Penelope is standing. He pauses, then pushes deeper, I feel Hannah’s bottom stretch, and her legs grow weak. 

And then, a sudden thrust, and he topples the bench with his foot. I see Penelope fall, and hear the rope creak. Just in front of us, I can see her feet kicking frantically as the noose around her throat pulls tight

Hannah presses her tongue into her slit, eager to taste her final issue. He fucks us deeply as we watch Penelope’s desperate final dance. Her chains clinking as her fettered ankles kick and her hands struggle behind her back.

But then something quite unexpected happens. 

Hannah abruptly comes, her body overwhelmed by waves of intoxicating sensations, and her legs suddenly buckle.

My view swims for a moment, as Hannah sways and slumps to the floor, just in front of Penelope’s desperate kicking feet. Then I feel the scratch of toenails on her back, and a moment later, a heavy weight pushing down on top of her, as the gasping pirate finds somewhere to stand just before it’s too late.

Quite unexpectedly, Hannah now had Penelope’s fate literally on her shoulders.

“Please…” croaks Penelope, teetering precariously.

Beneath her, Hannah is still panting. I sense her thinking, collecting her thoughts. 

“I like this one. She has an eager tongue,” Hannah says at last, 

Hannah looks over her shoulder to her husband, and then suggests: “Let’s keep her, my love. At least for another night…”

He pauses, contemplating his wife’s proposal. And then to my surprise, he reaches up to loosen the rope from around Penelope’s throat. She jumps down from Hannah’s back, then collapses to  the floor beside her, planting a single kiss on her forehead. 

Afterwards, the Governor had Penelope returned to her cell. His expectation was that he’d fuck her again tomorrow night, and watch her swing. But Penelope’s lithe beauty masked a devious and dangerous mind. She had returned the following evening with a plan to seduce the Governor and his wife. And as it happened, she escaped the noose that night too.

Through Hannah’s memories, I witnessed Penelope’s skilful transformation into a sexual Scheherazade, repeatedly delaying her execution, insinuating herself into their lives, until she became not an inconvenience to be rid of, but their willing and irreplaceable fucktoy. Penelope had survived, just like she always did, whether it was a tumultuous storm or a ferocious battle, Captain Penelope always came through. A born survivor.

After winning her life, Penelope set about winning her captors’ trust. She was given her own room in the Governor’s mansion. She was still kept in chains, of course, as any sex slave would expect to be. They kept her naked, as clothes might conceal things, but the hot sultry climate meant she had little need of them anyway.

Eventually, Penelope became a collaborator. The Governor began to use her skills to plan raids against pirate strongholds. He even granted her the privilege of watching from the upper window as her one-time rivals were hanged in the town square below. She enjoyed watching the bulge in the condemned men’s breeches as the noose was fitted, and the wet patch that appeared between their kicking legs at the end of their dance, just as the Governor’s own seed filled her bottom. 

It was ironic that the restoration of the rule of law to the high seas owed so much to a pirate. But then again, Governor did believe in the redemptive power of discipline, he would regularly spank, strap, or cane Penelope, and she was always so gratefully appreciative for his generous correction.

Hannah also enjoyed putting Penelope over her own knee too. She liked to imagine that she was a strict governess, and her charge was just a silly little girl who enjoyed getting into scrapes with boys and playing pirates. A silly girl who needed to be spanked until her pretty little bum turned pink.

In time, Penelope was permitted to sail again, across the deep blue sea she’d missed so much. The Governor had her sent under guard on a raiding voyage to prove herself, it was a spectacular success, with the voyage returning heavy with plundered Spanish gold. Soon, she’d earned her own ship, albeit one manned with spies who’d slit her throat if she betrayed her duty. But still she remained loyal, returning without fail, often laden with treasure, to share Hannah’s bed.

Until, one month, she sailed, her ship did not return.

The seas could be so cruel. Hannah was heartbroken.




* * 5 * *

After she showed me the painful memories of Penelope’s shocking disappearance, I did not see Hannah again for several weeks. I was left alone with my thoughts, and all she had shown me. 

I began to see Penelope in my own dreams. Walking naked out of the surf, as beautiful as Hannah remembered her, to seduce me. I would be powerless, kneeling obediently before her, eager not just for her approval, but her tongue.

Until one night, I heard Hannah’s voice again. Not booming through my mind this time, but distantly singing a lament so wistful I felt my heart might break. She sang in a language I could not understand. Perhaps it was a plea for mercy, for deliverance from bitter tears and the desolation of a vanished love. I wept at her despair, as her sweet voice faded in silence.

When she appeared to me again, it was to be the last time I ever saw her. 



I am looking through Hannah’s eyes again. This time I’m surrounded by an expanse of radiantly blue water. My heart leaps when I realise I am at sea again. 

Strangely, Hannah appears to be entangled, I can feel the rough scraping of rope around her wrists. She is standing on a spar beam, several metres above the deck on a large frigate, its vast sails cluttered with rigging. Her back is flat against a thick mast, she seems to be tied to it. Her clothes are tattered and torn, and stained with what looks like soot and blood.

Beneath her a rowdy crowd of sailors are jeering at a manacled prisoner. A wooden plank is jutting out from the deck, and one of the crew has just walked carefully along it, to throw the yucky contents of a galley barrel into the water below. A red stain blooms in the still waters beside the ship, which is suddenly bisected by the unmistakable triangular fins of huge sharks. 

I sense Hannah’s fear and desperation. The man below is her husband, captive and at the mercy of these pirates. Hannah looks beseechingly towards the quarterdeck, and I recognise the captain of this ship: it’s Penelope.

Now I see what Hannah remembers. How she and her husband left the island colony to return to England, only to be intercepted by a fleet of pirates led by Penelope. It seems some never change, underneath her beautiful face, she would always be a scorpion, duplicitous and treacherous.

Penelope had waited years for the chance to avenge her hanged crew, to finally break the shackles that had bound her. She had kept back a portion of what she had plundered, and used it to buy allegiances. When the pieces were in place, she contrived her disappearance in a storm. 

And then she had waited, until the Governor and Hannah were due to return to England. Her fleet had ambushed the Governor’s lone vessel. She had instructed her crew to take him and his wife alive. After a fierce struggle, they were now the only survivors from their ship. 

I have had time enough on my little island to contemplate the nature of fear, of what might be the worst horror a human being can experience. My primal mind has ancient fears, of becoming prey of something grotesque and overwhelming. Like being enveloped by the sticky rubbery tentacles of a giant Kraken, or having my blood sucked dry by an enormous hairy spider. 

But my higher mind can imagine far worse terrors. Such as the horror of seeing a loved one die.

I realise that is what I’m about to watch. The pirates are laughing as they chain a small wooden keg around the Governor’s chest. A dribble of viscous red blood dripping from one side. They push him to the end of the plank with their cutlasses. His last glance is upwards, towards his darling wife. His everything. 

That last glimpse is the most heartbreaking single moment I’ve ever witnessed.

And then he falls into the water. The keg of leaking chum keeping him afloat as he is torn apart by thrashing sharks. 

Hannah screams so loud, everything goes black. As I finally understand what she has been trying to tell me.

* * *

Hannah’s subsequent recollections are joyless and bleak. Monotone memories, in bitter contrast to the vivid sensual experiences she once shared with me. 

Penelope had kept Hannah alive, but for a different fate. She was brought here, to this very island, and marooned. I watch through her eyes as she stares mutely at Penelope’s receding ship, as it sails westward, into a golden sunset of sublime beauty. Alone and utterly abandoned. For social beings, no greater torment exists.

As a mercy, Penelope left her with a small net to catch fish, a small knife to gut them, and two buckets to catch rainwater. And then she threw a noose over the branch of a nearby tree, for when her isolation became too much. 

I witness Hannah’s crushing solitude, alone on this tiny God-forsaken speck, disconsolate with bitterness and grief. She wakes every morning in hope of seeing the sails of a rescuing ship on the horizon, and ends the day wracked by guilt and sorrow. I feel her hope evaporating, as she begins to regard the island not as her prison, but as her purgatory. That she’d been put here to suffer for all the death she’d witnessed.

On the trunk of the tree where they’d left the noose, she’d scratched tally marks each morning, Until, eventually, there was no more space for her marks. That was when Hannah finally used the rope they’d left for her. She undressed, and stood on the bucket. Knowing one more footstep and she’d topple and fall – and for one glorious moment, she’d feel her husband’s loving hand gripping her throat one last time. Before everything went black.

Except she didn’t. 

Rage had overtaken her. She refused to give wretched Penelope the satisfaction of victory. Her survival would be her triumph. She’d stay alive long enough to be rescued, to bear witness to the murder of her husband. She’d survive to see her violator hang, just as she’d seen the highwayman choke. She loosened the rope and elected to fight on.

I do not know Hannah’s final fate, whether she succumbed to hunger, or grief, or ill-health. Death did eventually find her, but it finds us all, no matter how far away we try to hide.

I am looking through my own eyes now. 

Hannah’s apparition is staring through me, as if distracted by some infinite sadness. I want to console her, to hug her, but she seems barely aware of me. She continues to stare into the black starless night, as if surveying an unseeable horizon. Then she slowly fades away, until I’m left all alone again, in the dark.

When I finally realise the sin that condemned Hannah’s soul. It knocks me backwards, like a cannonball between my eyes. 

I understand everything now, how Hannah is wracked by self-hate. How she has condemned herself, because her actions set in motion a train of events that caused the death of her one true love. Three centuries later, she has still not forgiven herself.

Her lust had kept Penelope alive. She had perverted the course of justice. Saving the pirate from the noose that night, when she should have pushed her off her shoulders, and left her to strangle. 

I wonder, did Hannah ever escape this island? Part of me hopes she did, that she tracked down Penelope and had her revenge. Yet another part of me realises the futility of that fate, such retribution would never fully redeem the sorrow that wracks her soul.

My mind is swamped by questions. 

What is this place? Why am I here? And whose bones did I really stumble across? 

Are they Hannah? Or Penelope? Or some other castaway? Am I looking down upon the remains of my own corpse?

* * *

I am alone on a deserted island, surrounded by deep tempestuous seas. My reality is becoming slippery, often I awake cloaked in a misty haze. I am no longer sure who I am anymore. Did I live Hannah’s life once, or just experience moments of it?

My yacht, the storm, how I got here, it all seems so nebulous, as if all were figments of a story I’d once overheard. Did I really survive that hurricane? It now seems so unlikely, being lost like that in the middle of the deep blue sea. Perhaps I was dragged beneath the tumultuous waters, and into the yawning abyss below, disintegrating into bones, until I was gathered by the ocean, and became part of this mysterious island.

Yet my memories of Hannah and Penelope are still so vivid. I cling to them like a wrecked sailor hugs flotsam, they bring me such pleasure to recall in every intimate detail.

But I don’t think I sleep anymore. I can’t remember the last time I ate. I may have become eternal. Something beyond death. I may now be a mere vessel of memories, drifting languidly amid the doldrums of time. But perhaps that’s all that ghosts really are.

From my beach, I stare at the horizon, and watch a trillion dawns. 

Time is accelerating, the sun streaking repeatedly across the sky like a searing meteor. Aeons pass, and I perceive the orb in the sky glow redder. Yet still no one has rescued me, because there’s no-one left on Planet Earth. I’m utterly alone, marooned beneath a dying, swelling sun. 

I watch the sea begin to steam, then bubble and boil. Its waters receding, finally exposing the heap of bones beneath me, the bones I always knew were there. I witness the sand and ash of this scorched island trickling away, seeping into the eye sockets of ancient skulls. Until I’m left standing on the summit of a towering mountain of bones. High above what once was seabed, now sun-baked plains miles below,.

The doomed sun looms overhead, a giant incinerating ruby. No clouds exist anymore, just a colossal red furnace in a dazzlingly bright sky.

I find myself longing for companionship, the warmth of human touch. 

The simple pleasure of a firm hand on my bare bottom. 

Or at the very least, the company of ghosts.

And so here I wait, in the silence. 

Alone on a mountain of bones.

Staring beyond an empty horizon. 

Yearning for Hannah to return. 

To whisk me away from here.

Into her sordidly beautiful dreams.






@spankingtheatre 2020

Originally posted at

can you write more scenarios about wetting? having your partner spank you or restraining you in some way and forbidding you from making a mess in your panties and the consequences of that?

To those with little imagination, panties are shields of personal modesty. Little triangles of fabric that cover bodily regions our polite society has told us to regard as dirty, and must not be shown.

Readers of this blog, however, will know different.

Panties can be so many things.

They can be a means of obedience.

Or a means of control and discipline.

Or even a means of excruciating pleasure.

Or they can behaviour recording devices, collecting the evidence of their wearer’s sexual excitement throughout the day, to be examined when she returns home.

She would be expected to have her panties inspected as soon as she entered the front door, lest she be tempted to sneak off to her room to put on a clean pair.

Any failure of self-control would be immediately obvious, as a creamy mess or dried-on stains.

Her disciplinarian would have made the consequences of being found in shamefully messy panties perfectly clear.

Messy panties mean a good hard spanking, on the bare bottom.

Now, pull down your panties.

Choose Spanking

Choose spanking.

Choose a slipper. Choose a cane. Choose a ruler. Choose a uniform. Choose a big whacking hairbrush.

strictness. Choose submission. Choose one of a thousand different disciplinary fantasies.

Choose a disciplinarian to put you over
their knee and pull down your panties. Choose to get excited, by the developing soreness in your hot pink cheeks. Choose to squirm and moan and gasp, as you get a good hard spanking on your naughty bare bottom.

Choose to stand in
the corner afterwards, aching with arousal, imagining just what might
happen next. Choose walking down the street with a hot glow radiating
beneath your skirt, your panties in another’s pocket, your erotic secret barely hidden in plain sight.

Then choose to do it all again.

Choose hot, stinging, throbbing pleasure.

Choose spanking.

Share the joy of the written word


Here’s the master list of all my stories, with latest stories added, ranked by popularity.

Or there’s this list categorised by theme for those seeking a particular genre.

Updated with a brand new story, part one of Head Girl!

Head Girl – part 1

A spanking story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


She knew she had to stop. 

She had to stop before… 


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

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

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

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

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

“What a very naughty girl you are.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her tummy lurched, what had she done? 

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

* * * 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


* * 2 * *


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“2 o’clock.”

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door slid open, silently and ominously.




To be continued…






@spankingtheatre 2020

Originally posted at

With heartfelt thanks to a partner in crime.

Are spankees with a certain physique (big butt lol) more pleasurable for the spanker? Most of the vids I see feature spankees with a certain body type and it makes me wonder if my less curvaceous frame is as fun for the partner..

No one should make themselves feel inadequate from watching erotic videos. They are merely entertainment, not the reality of a kinky relationship.

The truth is, kinky folk who love spankings love bottoms of any size. Not just because diversity is the true spice of life, but because every body shape has its own unique magic.

I find petite bottoms tremendously alluring. I love how my palm can cup and completely cover a small round buttock. I love how cute they look in tight panties. I love how pink they can become after just a few smacks. I love the unique sound they make, that thrilling sharp smack of an open palm on pert bare cheeks.

But more important than any of this is what is at the top of her spine, not the bottom. What makes a great spankee is the richness of her erotic imagination, her desire, her willingness to play along and improvise amazing adventures.

Those are the secret ingredients that really make spanking fun.

Is it normal to find the idea of aftercare as, if not more, appealing as the spanking itself?

Not at all.

I wrote a post on the joy of aftercare a few years ago.

A spanking might be over in a minute – but a good spanking lingers long after the final smack.

A good spanking is felt across the entire body, and the entire mind.

It’s not just a sore patch on the bottom, it is a shift in mind-state. Endorphins replace adrenaline. Bringing order where once was chaos, replacing anxiety and apprehension with lust and longing.

Afterwards, all is forgiven. The spanker’s goal should be to send their partner into a state of blissful calm. They might acknowledge and empathise with their discomfort, perhaps commending their stoicism. Perhaps reminding them of the importance of strict discipline, and how they will always be taken care of. It’s a chance to lift up their partner, to make them feel wonderful again.

So yes, it’s perfectly normal to look forward to aftercare. Sometimes, a spanking is just a prelude, and with a skilled conductor, there’s the prospect of a whole concert still to come…




When clouds above are dark and heavy

And the soggy air a smothering fug

When the first low rumbles echo in our ears

And tremble deep inside our tums

That’s when we share it

Just a glance, then without a word

We drop our clothes right where we stand

A puddle of garments left behind

As if we’d melted in the sultry heat

Hips sashaying as you recede

Just as the first raindrops splatter down

Bursting joyously on your naked skin

How I want to stay and stand and stare

At my cherished porcelain beauty

Now so vibrantly luminous

Under these drab battleship skies

But, I must go, and fetch the cane

Heavier drops patter on my head

As all around, the treetops writhe

Following footsteps in the cool lush grass

Until I find you waiting at the garden’s end

Already bent over the gazebo rail

Your slender legs spread so expectantly

Staring out across the golden fields

Glowing still under glowering skies

Witness the tempest’s dark stain spread

Across the sky, amid the clouds

As milk might spill into a pond

Feel the prickle of expectation

Your lover’s breath upon your neck

My fingers wet, despite our shelter

I know you love to be caned in thunderstorms

To yell your soul at the angry skies

Keep reading

I was reading a naughty game and wondering how does one specifically keep ones bottom hole clean?

A sample procedure is explained in the Bottom Wiping post.

First, fetch a tissue, it might be a dry one, or a wet wipe, or a thick paper tissue with a squirt of lotion in it. For increased sensations from wet wipes, try putting them in the fridge first.

Perhaps the act of wiping is as simple as circling the subject’s bottom hole until it is clean and smelling fresh.

But experienced disciplinarians know that excited young ladies require more thorough wipings, as their bottoms can become messy and sticky by what leaks from their slits.

Hence it is not uncommon for a girl who is due to be spanked, to first need to be cleaned, when her panties are lowered and the creamy mess of her anticipation is revealed.

In this case, after fully removing her soiled underwear, her disciplinarian would wrap a clean tissue around their fingers, then reach between her thighs until the tissue was resting against her smooth bare mound.

They would begin to slide the tissue backwards, following the swollen folds of her slit. Its passage lubricated by her own excitement. Her arousal is obvious, but quite natural, as all girls glisten before their bottoms are smacked.

They would feel her warm dampness as their fingertips pass over her vagina, pausing and lingering, then rubbing in subtle circles to soak up her stickiness. Before letting the moist tissue slip easily down to her bottom hole, circling it several times, enough to collect any incriminating evidence. Woe betide a girl who reported for a caning with a dirty bottom.

Finally, pressing firmly, they would let the tissue glide upwards between the fissure of her buttocks, whereupon her mess would be thoroughly examined.

I do hope that answers your question.

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