story

Coming of Age: Part 3

A Spanking Romance

This is the final part of three part story, part one is here, part two is here.

You ambushed me as I was leaving the shower, as I was still dripping steadily onto the
terracotta tiles.

“Surprise!”

I didn’t resist as you confiscated my towel, posing provocatively as you looked me up and
down. Your glance lingering salaciously at my waist. You can’t deny it. I saw how your eyes
sparkled. You produced a couple of pairs of old tights, and I compliantly allowed you to loop
them around my wrists. This could be fun, I remember thinking. You grasped my cock, like it
was my tether, and led me towards the bed.

I laid down as you instructed, raising my arms so you could bind them to the headboard. My
last glimpse was you looming over me, smirking deviously before you bandaged another
pair of tights around my forehead to serve as an impromptu blindfold.

“You’ll never make me your sex slave!” I asserted, half-seriously. Yet, there were worse fates.

You didn’t reply. I just heard you undress, your footsteps recede, and then just the distant
trickling of the shower. All I could do was lie where you’d left me, the droplets on my bare
skin evaporating into the humid evening air. Immobile, I listened intently to the faraway
sprinkle and regular splash of falling water, I imagined myself reclining on a lush riverbank,
waiting for you to emerge from bathing under a waterfall. On my lap, I could feel my
erection swelling.

The sprinkling stopped, and soon I heard wet footsteps padding closer. You returned to the
bed without saying a word, I could feel your steamy body-heat as you climbed onto the
mattress and knelt over me. You smelt of summer rain, of fragrant exotic fruits, and sex.

You pressed yourself into my face, waiting for my lips to rove across the firm fleshy wall of
your tummy. I licked the creases at the tops of your thighs before my lips began to explore
the little bump of your mound. You’d shaved yourself smooth in the shower, and I heard
you sigh softly as my tongue wandered over your exquisitely sensitive bare skin, before
entering the little dimple at the top of your cleft.

A shuffle of movement, you must have turned around, bending over, allowing – nay
encouraging – me to kiss the unseen folds of your beautiful pussy. All too soon you moved
away from my nibbling lips, straddling my thighs, rubbing over me so I felt the miniature
kisses of your intimate lips as you moved across my legs.

“You’re such a tease!” I warned, tugging at my bonds, “I’m going to give you a long hard
spanking when I get out…”

But you just giggled, beginning to run your ticklishly smooth hands over my hairless crotch,
occasionally tugging and pulling my stiff pole. I kept myself bare, another habit instilled in
me long ago by my mentor.

“Just like a little boy…” you teased, running your fingers across the drum-tight skin of my
scrotum.

“Were you… a naughty… boy?” you asked, slowly and curiously.

“My headmistress used to put me over her knee regularly to teach me a lesson.”

“Oh! Really?”

The candidness of my answer seemed to catch you by surprise.

“And how long did it take for you to learn your lesson?” you inquired sceptically.

“Hmm…” I pondered, “… at least a couple of years.”

I heard you laughing aloud, even though I wasn’t joking.

There was a pause, but seeing nothing, I perceived only our breathing.

“Tell me about her…” you asked eventually.

I felt pillows being rearranged. You took a seat astride my leg, settling down, making
yourself comfortable. Keen to hear a tale from your captive blind storyteller. The
salaciousness of my exploits did not disappoint, and soon you were rocking your pussy
against my kneecap as I recounted my experiences. At times you amused yourself by
fiddling with my cock, sometimes with your hands, sometimes leaning over to take me in
your mouth. But your skillful manipulations meant I never got close to coming.

It took me a while to tell my story, I’ve told you most of it by now.

The book of memories that is my life begins with a chapter about a boy. In subsequent
chapters he grows into a man under the guidance of a wise woman’s hand. And then, in that
long hot summer when I first went travelling, came a chance encounter that would
transform that man into a lover.

Yet I did not recognise My Goddess when I first encountered her. She was invisible to me.
But that is as it should be. A Goddess should need no halo, no radiant shafts of light to
capture your gaze. She is a secret treasure, hiding in plain sight, waiting for the one who
truly sees.

Waiting for me…

* * 7 * *

There was an elephant in the room. It was a room with rows upon row of plush seats,
bordered on both sides by huge windows that revealed mountain views of staggering
beauty. Through them, neck-straining dioramas of snow-frosted granite and alpine
meadows receded as far as the eye could see. It was a room with few occupants, whose
background ambience was a continual rhythmic rumbling, punctuated by regular clicks and
clacks. It was a room on wheels, a train carriage.

The elephant had always been in the room, but I’d ignored him completely up until now. A
corpulent middle-aged man in a loose-fitting double-breasted suit, whose saggy grey wool
had wrinkled like pachyderm skin. He had the accoutrements of a businessman,
polished shoes, a briefcase on the seat beside him, a copy of today’s Frankfurter Allgemeine
lying crudely folded on the table in front of him. He was sitting in the aisle opposite me, his
head slumped against the window, and now, he was snoring.

The distraction was proving increasingly difficult to ignore. First a guttural, rasping intake of
breath, then a moment’s silence, followed by a flamboyant spluttering exhalation. I thought of
reaching across, nudging him, saying something – but what exactly? In my pigeon German?
Bitte mumble mumble something. I could already imagine his response, he’d smile politely
and think I was asking to borrow his newspaper.

It was then I happened to catch sight of another passenger, looking back at us both, a young lady with a serious face, her forehead crinkled by the deepest frown. She was sitting
a few rows in front of the elephant and me, craning her neck to try to locate the source of
this infernal disturbance. As we were both sitting, I could only see her when I peered
through the gap in the seats in front of me.

Weirdly, I felt myself shiver; peeping can get you
into all kinds of trouble.

Once a upon a time, I might have spied on her. Trying to discern her story from a thousand
little glimpses, cursing fate that the train hadn’t been more crowded, wishfully imagining an
alternate reality where the only free seat was the one beside me, and she’d simply sit down
beside me. But my teacher had taught me better than that, a gentleman does not sneak
around or blame his circumstances. A gentleman is brave, a gentleman acts.

Up until now I’d been sitting beside the window, gazing at the spectacular valleys our train
was traversing, and the magnificent white-tipped Alps that formed the backdrop. Now I
sidled into the empty aisle seat beside me. And at that moment, she glimpsed me for the
first time. Our eyes met, hers immediately widening in surprise, caught as they were in the
act of peeping. Her mouth melted into an awkward smile. I felt my insides quiver. She was
so beautiful.

My own face was only moments away from freezing into a stupefied rictus, but I managed to
wrestle back control of my muscles, just in time. Oh! Guten Tag! I mouthed, nodding
respectfully. She nodded back.

I looked pointedly at The Elephant, still snoring loudly just across the aisle from me, then
back again at her. She shrugged and mimed putting her fingers in her ears.

Playfully, I jabbed my index finger in the air towards him, acting out a particularly aggressive
poke, but she shook her head sceptically at my suggestion. It seemed we had just struck up
a silent pantomime conversation.

I pondered some alternatives, before pointing to the man and miming a few slaps against
my own cheeks, complete with my head lolling back and forth, recoiling from each
simulated slap. That made her smile, but she waved her hands over each other in what must
be the universal gesture of discouragement.

So I rummaged in my bag, bringing out a packet of unopened nuts, displaying it to her
showily from several angles like it was some kind of magician’s prop. I pretended to reach
inside, miming plucking out a nut before flicking it towards the sleeping man. To that
suggestion she shook her head in vigorous disagreement, which even without words
seemed to say: Nein! Nein! Nein! We don’t do that here!

I shrugged my shoulders disappointedly, nodding my understanding, and put the nuts back
into my backpack. I took out a more suitable item, the only book in my possession, the thousand page paperback travel guide that had become my gospel. My mime exaggerated
its weight as I prepared to heave it in the direction of the snoring businessman.

For a moment, I saw her eyes widen in astonishment, it might even have been in horror. For
a split-second I wondered if my suggestion to clobber our fellow traveller with a heavy tome
had actually crossed the line of bad taste and gone too far. Then my lone viewer burst out
giggling, just for a moment, before she self-consciously stifled her mirth by clamping her hand across her mouth. This was the first sound I ever heard from her, and it was entrancing.

Emboldened by the reaction from my audience I stowed the book back in my bag, and
posed thoughtfully, like a philosophical sculpture considering comedic possibilities. But
what happened next I didn’t think through, it just came naturally, somehow improvised.

I had looked down at the little shelf table in front of me, and seen my miniDisc player.
Putting on my earphones seemed the natural thing to do, and then I began miming listening
to music, suddenly indifferent to the sounds around me. She reacted with mock outrage,
pointing to her chest as if to say: Hey! But what about me?!

I shrugged, smiling apologetically and pressed the play button. Music flooded into my ears,
as I nodded my appreciation, mouthing: Oh yeah! I love this one! Her eyes widened with the
hankering look of someone who’d been denied entry to a party, and was now peering
through a window at what they were missing.

I picked up the plastic spoon that had come with my tea, gripping the handle vertically and
raising its head to my lips like an impromptu microphone. Suddenly I was on stage, the lead
singer of my favourite band. I sang along silently to what was playing in my ears, pointing to
her, encouraging her to play along too. I was nodding to the beat, and she matched me,
moshing her head, swaying her black shoulder-length hair. And when the instrumental
break came, I took up my air guitar, whilst my crowd of one rhythmically jutted her fist into
the air in encouragement.

As the track ended, I strummed the final chords on my imaginary guitar, closing my eyes, basking in
the moment as the music faded away in my ears. When I opened them again I saw her
beaming, she gave me a rapturous round of silent applause.

Something made me get up, and walk the few metres down the aisle to where she was
sitting.

“Hi!” I said before introducing myself by name, completely forgetting she might not even
speak English, “Do you like tea?”

She extended her hand and in German-accented English, introduced herself as Elise.

And yes, you said, you’d love some tea.

Sometimes it’s best to just let sleeping elephants lie. We gathered our possessions, and
adjourned to the buffet car.

And that, was how we met.

Do you remember our first cup of tea together, my dear?

That thrilling first hour when we just seemed to open our souls to each other and connect.

We got to know each other in the midst of Swiss mountains, over a couple of steaming cups
of Assam tea. I’d been travelling south and west from Berlin, jumping on and off trains using
my InterRail pass, planning to see the lakes and glaciers of Switzerland before heading East
to Vienna. But I hadn’t planned to stay here long, it was an expensive country and I intended
to stretch my meagre budget.

We chatted and talked and conversed. I told you I’d travelled from Britain, and you told me
you were from Germany, I didn’t recognise the town you called home, only it was
somewhere southerly, somewhere near the Black Forest. I was immensely relieved your
English was so good, it would have been agonising to try and communicate through mime,
numbers and elementary grocery nouns.

Every time our eyes locked, I remember thinking, you were so beautiful. Part of me
wondered what on earth you were doing talking to me at all. But I chatted like my mentor
had taught me, with honest curiosity rather than self-aggrandising bravado, with the respect
due to another human being.

We shared our stories. We had both left school this summer, and were enjoying a month of
exploring Europe before attending our chosen universities. You told me all about the school
you’d just left – a convent school. Somehow my nervousness seemed to embolden me, I
began gently teasing you, telling you that you must be very innocent indeed, and playfully
explaining what happens when “a man loves a woman very much”.

I still remember that volley of punches you rained down on my upper arm as you tried to
halt my impromptu sex education lesson.

But I noticed how you didn’t attempt change the subject. Your verbal retaliation was subtle,
almost encouraging. You said you knew all about the reputation of English schools. I didn’t refute your accusation, simply adding with a wry smile, “Actually, I went to a school with
girls and boys.”

I escalated the intrigue by telling you I’d heard stories all about about German convent
schools. How strict they were. How the nuns must have had sore arms from all the spanking
they had to do. You immediately protested that convent girls weren’t spanked often at all.
That statement made my eyes widen. I couldn’t let that statement go unexplored.

“Have you ever been spanked?” I asked.
To my surprise, you nodded coyly.

“Did you secretly enjoy it?”

It was a question I’d never thought I’d dare ask a beautiful stranger, let alone one I’d only
just met. In fact, it was a question that never even would have occurred to me had it not
been for the tutoring of my wonderful headmistress. Time seemed to slow down as I
awaited her answer. Her eyes widened, her pale blue irises sparkling in the sunlight like
bewitching, magic pools. And with a coy smile she whispered:

“Of course…”

After that our conversation became increasingly flirtatious and intoxicating. I started
thinking of ways we might prolong our journey. I didn’t want to have to say goodbye. You
had been heading south to Milan, whilst I was heading vaguely eastwards towards Austria.
But we were both essentially improvising how we got to our destinations, and neither of us
had firm plans. So I rummaged in my jacket pocket for the little railway route map I’d picked
up, tracing where we were going, and all the places that were coming up next.

“Why don’t we get off at Interlaken?”

I noticed the inadvertent double entendre as soon as the words left my mouth, but
fortunately your English wasn’t quite good enough to spot it.

“Yes! We can explore!” you agreed enthusiastically.

A few words was all it took, and that’s how you became my travel buddy.

About half an hour later, we arrived at the town of Interlaken, disembarking from the train together with
a mischievous giggle, giddy at our sudden act of spontaneity. We left our bags at the train
station – in the same locker – and wandered into the town square to find a café, to talk
travels, hopes and dreams over waffles and hot chocolate.

By the time we’d eventually dandered back to the station, you were holding my hand, and I
felt as if I was walking on air. The connecting inter-regional trains were by now long gone, but
neither one of us was in the least concerned. We fetched our bags and walked back into
town, and began looking for somewhere to stay the night.

* * 8 * *

Do you remember our little chalet? That first night we spent together?

Not too far from the town centre, we’d found a chalet to stay for a day or two. It was a
simple wooden cabin, two separate beds, a simple shower en-suite, and a small veranda
with a view overlooking Lake Thun that was so spectacularly awesome it seemed
incongruous for the price.

You were quite adamant about which of the two beds you wanted, so I let you have it, and
then gently teased you about the state of the rafters on your side of the room. But also
generously promised to come to your rescue should the ceiling above you turn out to be
home to any massive, abseiling spiders. You’re always so cute when you scowl.

It was still light when we walked into town for dinner. Nothing fancy for our tiny budgets,
just a giant shared pizza in a little Italian Pizzeria we stumbled across by following the scent
of dough and woodsmoke down an inauspiciously narrow lane. The food was delicious, and
their strong black coffee kept us buzzing for hours.

Afterwards, you still had tomato sauce on your lips when we kissed for the first time.

We walked back to our little cabin, as the sun set over the mountains, momentarily turning
the lakes into vast pools of vivid pink.

We spent the dusk hours sitting outside on our little veranda with cups of tea warming our
hands. We talked and laughed until the early hours, watching the boats float through the
darkness on the lake below like immense lugubrious fireflies.

The room we’d rented had separate beds, so when we did eventually retire inside, we both
sat on your bed. But just talking. I told myself I was being gentlemanly, that I was giving you
space, showing you the respect you deserved.

But in truth, I wanted you. I’d wanted you since the moment we first held hands, since I felt
your soft palm press into mine. I remember staring at the outline of your bra through your T-shirt, imagining unfastening it.

But I think I might have been too exhausted anyway. Eventually I kissed you goodnight and
got into my own bed, falling into a deep and utterly contented sleep.

The next day, we went for a hike in the nearby mountains, and on our return bathed our
aching limbs in the chalet park’s communal hot tub, chomping the fresh waffles we’d bought
from the cafe-bakery on the way back.

I turned up in trunks. You had left the hut wrapped in a towel, which you let fall to the
ground without a trace of embarrassment.

“Where I come from, we bathe without clothes.”

I had covered myself in an attempt to seem gentlemanly, but your tease made me feel
childishly prudish, like a silly little boy. So I slipped off my trunks and slid into the steaming
water beside you. We washed each other, nothing naughty, as there were others nearby in
the other tubs.

When we were adequately simmered we clambered out of the tub, wrapped ourselves in
our towels and returned to our room. Almost as soon as I’d closed the door, I heard your
towel flop to the floor and you had climbed onto your bed, lying on your front, your hands
by your sides. I just stared, gawping at the pert white mounds of your beautiful bottom.

You broke the silence without lifting your head from the pillow.
“Massage me, please.”

I edged towards your bed nervously, afraid I might somehow break the spell of this magic
moment, by being too eager, too crass or too clumsy.

I sat on the side of your bed, still wrapped in my own towel. It helped hide the erection I’d
developed. I placed my hands on your shoulders, and began to rub in slow lazy circles. You
mewed encouragement.

As I rubbed you, I thought back to the conversations I’d had with my headmistress about
touching, and how a woman likes to be touched. She had told me her intention was not to
teach me how to masturbate a woman, since anyone I might be intimate with would be all too eager to explain those details herself. Instead she’d taught me the sensuality of touch,
about all those areas beyond the breasts and the crotch.

My warm hands caressed every part of your back, every muscle in your legs, and every nook
and cranny of your feet. I think you liked it.

I concluded your massage by gently cupping your buttocks with my hands, they were a
perfect fit, as if they belonged together. You sighed contentedly, shifting your position,
parting your legs slightly, revealing the glistening pink ridge of your slit. I couldn’t help but
stare.

And then you sat up, your kiss to my lips taking me by surprise. I remember your sly smile
when you saw the bulge under my towel, and how you unwrapped me, like I was a
christmas present.

Once free of the towel, my cock immediately sprang forward, pointing lewdly and
provocatively into your face. I felt myself tremble, suddenly afraid of what you might think
of me, that you’d think I was just another horny, sex-obsessed teenage boy, without
self-control, whose true brain really lurked below his waist.

Yet the expression on your face wasn’t contempt, or disgust. It was hunger.

You clambered off the bed, dragging me by the hand so I took your place, then knelt over
me, your mouth hovering over the head of my rigid shaft.

What was it you said? My German isn’t great.
“Ich will dich schmecken, Englischer Junge.”

Something like that. Filthy talk in a gothic script.

And then your lips surrounded the tip of my cock, and I felt your tongue tease my foreskin.
You took me deeper and deeper into your mouth, ahh’ing and mmm’ing as if some luxurious
Swiss confection was melting on your palette. You cupped my balls with one hand, gently
massaging me as you supported your weight on the other.

I laid back as casually as I could manage, trying to pretend that this kind of thing happened
to me all the time. It didn’t. I could feel myself getting close. I tried to hold back. What was
the etiquette in these situations? To shout “Stand clear!” or “Look out!”? But you withdrew
your lips just in time, pointing my cock at your chest so I spurted all over your cute little
mounds.

For a while afterwards, I lay on the bed in a daze; so whilst I recovered my senses, you popped to the shower to clean up.

On my return from the shower I found you lying on your bed, still naked by now on your
back. Silently and seductively, you began to draw your legs apart in what seemed like slow
motion.

I’d seen women undressed before, but not like this, not erotically naked. Nudity was a
familiar enough sight, of course, in films, in porn mags, even a few real-world glimpses on
beaches. But this was different, another human being exposing herself to me in the most
intimate way, and doing it because she wanted to.

My eyes were drawn, almost magnetically, to the triangular patch of fine dark hair, its apex
pointing downwards between your thighs, as if there was ever any doubt which direction my
gaze would follow.

I moved to the bottom of your bed, kneeling on the floor in an act of almost religious
reverence, as your thighs slowly parted, and I looked upon the face of God.

It was as if the world around me had suddenly dissipated, and all that remained was what
lay before my eyes. Two hairless fleshy skin-toned ridges lay either side of your thin pink slit,
itself composed of what looked like the most delicate gossamer folds, converging to a peak
at the top like some miniature gothic archway.

I rose from my knees to sit on the bottom of the bed, and laid my hands upon your thighs.
You cooed encouragement, so I began to stroke upwards, skirting around your mound and
up your sides until I reached your breasts. I cupped them gently in each hand, each nestling
perfectly within my palm. I can still remember the feel of your skin, so smooth and velvety
soft, how firm your flesh felt.

I bent over to kiss you, first your lips, and then the pretty pink buds of your nipples. My
kisses became licks, and soon, full-blown suckling. I could see your breath quickening, your
chest rising and falling ever faster, your hot breath blowing through my hair as you panted.

From my vantage point above your chest I saw when you moved your right hand onto your
mound. I watched in fascination as you began to touch yourself, slowly and gently stroking
the furrow between your legs. When your hand emerged into view again, I could see the
clear stickiness clinging to your fingertips.

I moved my left hand downwards, running my own fingers across the downy hair of your
mound. You pleaded, but you did not protest.

“Please… Please…”

I rose and moved, sitting down between your open legs at the bottom of the bed. Your
pussy was different now, pinker, puffier, your little lips now had a glistening sheen that
glinted in the sunlight.

I placed a fingertip at the top of your mound and slowly drew it down the length of your slit.
Your lips were astonishingly soft, like the folds of an enchanted silk garment. You were wet,
it was like slipping my finger into your open mouth. I explored this strange new world with
every one of my senses, inhaling your scent, listening to how my touches made you gasp
and plead, until I finally lapped my tongue against your slit, and tasted you. You were
delicious.

My tongue roved across your cunt, pushing your little lips open, then travelling upwards to
visit your little pearl, hiding under its fleshy hood. I moved my fingertip down to the bottom
of your slit, letting it linger at the entrance to your vagina. She admitted my fingertip easily,
coating it in your beautiful sticky goo.

As I licked your clit, I felt your little hole suddenly grip my finger. It all happened so quickly,
your limbs twitching and your back arching, one long last exhalation as you emptied your
lungs with joy, and you came.

I remained between your legs, breathing in the musky scent of your excitement, before I
rose and laid beside you, wrapping my arms around you in a tight embrace.

Later that afternoon, after we had cleaned ourselves up, we went out for dinner, holding
hands, chatting excitedly, occasionally exchanging lewd looks that said: I’ve seen you
completely naked, and I’m recalling that memory, right now. We didn’t stay out late, we both
seemed rather keen to get back to our chalet.

Neither of us had to ask “What shall we do now?”
It was utterly obvious what we should both do next.

It was a hot summer night, and I’d already partially undressed to my T-shirt and underwear,
leaving my clothes strewn messily across the floor. I looked at them pointedly, and then
playfully scolded you for bringing a boy back to your dormitory.

“Oh!” you exclaimed in playful horror, “That is streng verboten!”

“And what happens to naughty girls in this school?” I asked provocatively.

You paused for a moment, probably mentally composing your reply.

“When we are bad, Mein Herr, we must be spanked, on our naughty little bottoms.”

It sounded so cute in your soft German accent, like you were a character in a Grimms’
fairytale. I felt myself getting hard again.

I marched theatrically to my bed and sat down, beckoning you towards my lap with my
finger. You looked back at me coyly, with wide innocent eyes, fiddling with the hem of your
dress.

“Now, young lady!” I insisted.

You sashayed over to where I was sitting, the look of innocence still fixed on your face.

“Am I to be… spanked, Sir? On my bare bottom?”

I could barely believe what I was hearing, but managed to answer affirmatively in the
gruffest, most authoritative voice I could muster.

Your response was to reach under your dress with both hands, and pull down your panties
to the floor.

“Oops…” you said casually.

“Bend over!” I commanded, sternly.

You did as you were told, lunging across my lap so your upper body and right leg were on
the bed, and only your left foot remained on the ground. Your panties remained on the
ground, a creamy smear clearly visible in the gusset. No wonder you were so keen to shed
them.

I began to spank you, slowly and sensually at first, barely little taps, but getting harder as
you moaned your encouragement. I think you thought your spanking was a bit of a joke at
first, giggling each time I slapped your bottom. After about a dozen smacks, I lifted the hem
of your dress to expose your bare bottom, already tinged with a slight blush of pink. Soon
your giggles gave way to gasps, and you were squirming on my lap, your legs splayed apart.

I had given spankings before. But this was different. They were childish games, played long
before any of us had discovered our sexual selves. This time I was all too aware of the wet
puffy slit between your legs, and the achingly stiff erection that was being squeezed against
my own tummy every time you squirmed. Every now and then I would stop, and slip my fingers between your thighs, caressing up and down your smooth slick crevice. This was
quite unlike anything I’d done before.

By the time I stopped spanking, your bottom was pink, your pussy was soaking wet, and I
was absolutely rigid. So I asked you if you wanted me inside you – and you eagerly agreed.
You got off my lap and watched with wide sparkling eyes as I fetched a condom and expertly
rolled it down my shaft. Practice does indeed make perfect.

You invited me to lie down on the bed, and then you knelt over me, bending down and
kissing me so deeply I could taste the butterscotch sauce of dessert on your lips.

It was my first time, I hesitated, but you took charge, guiding my cock to the base of your
gorgeous creamy entrance. It all happened so quickly, you lowered yourself onto me, and I
felt my cock suddenly enveloped by you. And then you began to ride me, I was too busy
struggling to control myself to do any thrusting.

Your tight little hole gripped my cock like a clenched hand. You rode me wantonly, gathering
speed as our excitement grew, until I was bold enough to cup your hot spanked cheeks in
my hands. I definitely came first, pushing the tip of my middle finger into your bottom hole
as I convulsed with pleasure. I felt you grinding your mound against mine as I came,
pushing down on me until you’d impaled yourself on fully on my finger. Your right hand flew
between your thighs, fluttering vigorously against your own little pearl as pleasure washed
through me. And then you came too, it was the beautiful sound I’d ever heard, a prolonged
girlish giggle of joy.

“Frecher Junge…” you gasped when I withdrew my finger from your bottom.

I took that as a compliment. As I was soon to discover, you did tend to temporarily lose your
ability to speak in English whenever you came. A trait I found immensely endearing.

The single beds in the chalet were too small to accommodate us both, but that night we
slept together in your bed anyway, our arms wrapped around each other, it helped prevent
either one of us tumbling to the floor.

By the next morning we were due to leave our chalet, but we couldn’t bear the thought of
going our separate ways. I had completely abandoned any thoughts of travelling east to the
museums and cafes of Vienna, and you seemed in no hurry to arrive in Italy. So we came up with a new plan, to go west to Lyon, and then venture into sun-drenched countryside of
Provence.

We walked hand in hand to the train station, and boarded the next train heading west,
snuggling beside each other watching the mountains crawl past. We were to spend the rest
of the summer together. Your company was absolutely intoxicating. You taught me what
Germans call vorfreude – that joyful, intense anticipation of imagining future pleasures. Our
budgets were limited, so we often slept apart in gender segregated hostel dorms, or we’d
stay with families in farms and homesteads, chastely sleeping in separate rooms.

But even so, we’d still tease each other, flashing a glimpse of our nakedness whenever our
hosts’ backs were turned. But once a week we’d treat ourselves to a private room, and both
spend the days leading up to it in a state of euphoric expectation. We felt like partners in
crime, on the run, scurrying deeper into the backroads of Europe.

Do you remember all the naughty things we got up to? I know excited you get, thinking back
to all the naughty things we’ve done.

How you loved to tease me. I recall your favourite tactic was trying to get me hard in
situations where I could nothing about it. You’d flash your panties, perhaps whispering into
my ear how wet you were, or even leave me naughty notes to discover in my backpack.
You’ll recall how I retaliated, by promising to put you over my knee when we were next
alone. I began to keep a tally, minor teases like sticking your tongue out would earn one
spank, whilst major teases like going to the loo, fingering yourself and rubbing your pussy
juices across my lips on your return would earn five. Yet my ingenious scheme only seemed
to encourage your misbehaviour, alas.

Trains proved a regular venue for mischief, which was fitting, given how we met. I’m sure
you remember one escapade in particular.

It started innocently enough, as so many erotic adventures do. My hand resting on your
thigh, as I idly looked out the window at the passing yellow blur of vast fields of sunflowers.
I rubbed your leg in slow circles, as you laid back in your seat and sighed. Soon, you whispered into my ear: “Higher”

My hand complied, and a pattern developed: I’d rub, you’d whisper in my ear, and my hand
would stray a bit further underneath your dress. Soon, I’d reached the top of your leg, stroking
along the crease of your thigh, feeling the fabric of your panties against my fingertips.

“Higher…” you pleaded.

Our carriage was almost empty, a virtue of our limited budget, the cheapest tickets were never on busy trains. I looked around casually, there was no one in the seats nearby to see us. So I let a
fingertip stray into your underwear, gently combing the fine hair on your mound.

“Lower… please…” you whispered.

My finger drifted downwards, like a drop of water being channelled by a furrow, until I
reached the velvety soft bump of your little hood. I stroked you there, and you writhed
silently in your seat. Soon your slit was soaking wet.

“Stand up” I told you a few minutes later.

You rose, your excitement and the motion of the train making your legs wobbly. The seat in
front of you was slightly higher than your waist, helpfully shielding you from any prying eyes. I
reached under your dress with both my hands, hooking my fingers into the elastic of your
panties, pulling them right down in one swift movement.

You had to throw your hands over your mouth to stifle your gasp.

I made you step out of your panties, and picked them off the floor. The crotch was dark with
your wetness, sticky to the touch. Then I stood too, so I could whisper into your ear.

“You are a naughty girl. You know what happens to naughty girls.”

I lifted the back hem of your dress, and quietly smacked one of your bare cheeks by way of
illustration.

“Now go to the toilet.” I instructed.

“Take off your dress and your bra, hang them up, and wait facing the corner with your hands
on your head. Keep the door unlocked.”

You looked round at me, your expression one of indignant shock, but I could see that was an
act, and you were struggling to keep the lust from your face. And then you turned and
walked towards the toilet at the end of the carriage, hips sashaying provocatively all the way
down the aisle. When you closed the door of the cubicle, I looked at the light above it to see
if you’d followed my instructions, it did not illuminate.

What was it like, waiting naked in that toilet cubicle? Knowing at any moment the door
would swing open, not knowing who it might be. Not knowing who would see you, standing
with your nose in the corner like a naughty little girl, ready to be spanked.

I let you wait for five minutes, rummaging in my bag but watching the carriage for any hint
of movement, ready to leap from my seat and get in front of anyone who came down the aisle with a lavatory visit on their mind. Then I strode down the aisle and pulled the door
open. You flinched, but didn’t turn around.

I opened the door to an extraordinary and beautiful sight. You stood obediently in the
corner, your hands on your head, your dress and bra hanging up as I’d instructed. I stepped
inside, locking the door behind me.

I saw in the mirror you had your eyes closed. I wonder if you knew it was me – or whether
you were just hoping it was? Did the thought of being discovered naked by a stranger
excite you? I slipped my hand between your thighs, folding my fingers and cupping your
cunt. You were so wet, I’d never seen you so aroused. I left my hand against your slit for you
to slide on, whilst I planted kisses on the nape of your neck.

You got close, didn’t you? Until I withdrew my hand and smacked your arse.

Inside, space was tight, far too cramped for me to sit on the toilet seat and put you over my
knee. So you remained standing in the corner, your head on your hands, resting against the
wall as I spanked your bare bottom pink. I did wonder if the sound of the smacks would be
audible, or masked by the clunking and clattering of the train. Or if someone was now
standing outside, waiting, and bursting for a pee.

After I’d spanked you, I pushed the door ajar slightly, peering outside to see if anyone was
waiting. But the corridor was empty. So I locked the door again, and cupped your buttocks
with my hands, finding each firm globe hot to the touch. I pulled your cheeks apart,
examining the pink wrinkle of your bottom hole, and the dark patch of skin that surrounded
it. Beneath, your lips were swollen and conspicuously wet.

With my palms on your bottom, I kept your cheeks held apart, whilst my thumbs massaged
either side of your slit. You were very excited indeed, I could slide my thumb all the way into
your vagina without resistance.

You weren’t the only one excited, my own erection was now painfully imprisoned in my
trousers. So I undid my jeans and tugged them down, and sat on the toilet seat. You looked
at my cock hungrily. I dipped my fingers into my front pocket and produced the condom I’d
stowed whilst you’d been waiting for me.

“Yes!” you nodded enthusiastically.

I tore open the packet eagerly, rolling the sheath down my shaft without delay. Then you
straddled me, lowering yourself onto my cock until you were fully impaled and sitting on my
lap. I reached around to grasp your bottom, feeling the heat from your spanked cheeks radiating
back into my palms. We rocked in time with the motion of the train, the subtle sway of track
curves providing the most wonderful sensations.

As we fucked, we mischievously agreed that the first one to come would open the door
when we were ready to leave, and so be the first to step out and encounter whoever might
be patiently waiting.

That challenge seemed to motivate you, and you began to grind yourself on top of me with
renewed vigour, trying to make me come. I had the advantage though, able to reach behind
you and tickle your bottom hole, circling it, teasing you by explaining just what I was about
to do. You begged me not to, bucking up and down frantically, clenching my cock with your
tight little cunt. I knew I couldn’t hold out much longer, so I slipped my index finger into
your bottom hole, so hot and smooth and tight. The muscles of your entrance gripped my
finger like a vice, but you couldn’t help but push down deeper on it.

Moments later, we came together, muffling our delight against each other’s shoulders.

When did eventually emerge, dressed, cleansed and smiling, we stepped out hand in hand.
What the world thought of us, we no longer cared.

During our time together I realised a fundamental truth. For as long as I could remember,
I’d fantasised about the female form, her soft hairless skin, the curves of her breasts, the
delicate folds of her sex, and the tight pink hole I longed to penetrate. Now I realised all
these were just locations. The real discovery was that underneath her beautiful flesh lurked
an erotic puzzle of desires and fantasies just as complex and enigmatic as my own. I might
spend a lifetime deciphering her, if I’m lucky.

After a week spent sleeping apart in the white-stone farmsteads of Provence, we got a room
of our own when we arrived in Avignon. We arrived during the culture festival, with posters
festooned over seemingly every vertical surface. We rented a little garret, and played like
bohemians. You were my life model, wearing nothing whilst I sketched your curves in
charcoal, whilst I wore just the artist’s linen smock I’d bought from the market.

By the following week, we’d arrived at the sparkling blue paradise of the Mediterranean
coast. This time we treated ourselves to a hut near the shore, and I spanked you before our every visit to the beach, making sure you wore your bikini thong so everyone on the promenade
could see your pretty pink cheeks.

We got up to much mischief on those beaches. Frolicking in the warm surf, hands wandering
underwater where they couldn’t be seen. Or you kneeling beside me wrapped in a towel, my hand underneath, so you could ride my fingers.

Our travels eventually took us to northern Italy, following the train routes east until we
reached Ravenna, just before it was time for us both to return to our homes. On our last day
together we laid a red rose at Dante’s tomb.

As we I stood in front of the cream-white stones, I whispered in your ear:

“In that book that is my memory.
On the first page, the chapter when I first met you, appear the words:
Here begins a new life.”

* * 9 * *

Tonight is our last night together. One last hot sultry night in Ravenna. Tomorrow we are
due to go our separate ways, me to the airport at Bologna, you on train heading north to
Germany.

For most of my story, you’ve been sitting astride my leg, occasionally rocking your pussy
against my kneecap as I, your blind storyteller, recounted my journey. It’s taken me a while
to tell my story. I hope you’ve enjoyed it.

And now my story is almost up to date.

Did the nature of my tale surprise you? Perhaps you expected to hear the tale of teenage
hijinks, each followed by a session of corrective discipline. But time I spent with my
wonderful headmistress went far beyond that.

Several times when I was recalling my spankings, I was surprised to feel you lift up my legs
and slap my bottom with your palm. Just enough to make it tingle. But I noticed that
afterwards, when you sat back down upon my knee, your pussy was always that bit hotter
and wetter.

“She must have really cared about you…” you say eventually.

I nod in agreement, picturing Jennifer’s kindly smile within the darkness of my blindfold.
There is a softness in your voice, a note of compassionate appreciation, and maybe also a hint of wistfulness.

I try to read you. Are you coveting what I had? You didn’t have a mentor
of your own, did you? No one to instruct you, no one to listen to your trials and tribulations.
To put you over their knee, to give you a good spanking when you deserved it, to wipe away
your tears and worries, and then tell you everything was going to work out fine.

A good spanking. Isn’t that a funny idiom? Of all the adjectives we could use, we call it a
good spanking. Not a shameful spanking, a disgusting spanking or a disgraceful spanking –
but something righteous, something merited and virtuous. I’d never pondered that familiar
linguistic coupling, but now it all made perfect sense. That spankings are given not because
either of us was wicked, but because they were an expression of a greater love.

I feel the tights around my wrists and forehead being loosened, blinking painfully as light
floods my eyes again, when I open them again, your smiling face fills my vision.

“I hope you enjoyed my little game…” you say at last.

“Very much, minx”.

“I can be a handful” you admit.

“You do need a strict hand” I confirm.

And then you pause, as if you’re thinking deeply, like you’re mentally establishing how to
express some complex thoughts in words.

“Why do you like spanking?” you ask, at last.

I open my mouth, about to give you a stock reply: that I just like it, that it always has. But the
intensity I can see in your eyes stops me, I know that answer won’t be sufficient.

What was it I learnt over the knee of my headmistress? What was it I wanted when I
fantasised about putting my classmates over my knee? It was never about enforcing rules
like some petty dictator. I’m not bossy, who really cares about school rules? Even I didn’t
care about school rules. No, it was something deeper. Much more profound.

Glimpses of pink bottoms and smiling girls filled my mind. And I realised it was the
consequences of spanking that turned me on, and the thrill of being the cause.

“I like spanking because…” I say after some deliberation, “… it’s playing. It’s play – for
grown-ups. A game of cause and effect.”

“The cause is applying a modest force to your beautiful body. It is a special kind of intimacy,
a vulnerability. When you consent to a spanking you’re allowing me to do what you’d let no-one else do – to smack your bottom until it is sore.”

“And the effects, well…” I blew out my cheeks just imagining them.

“How you react when I spank you excites me. I see a beautiful pink blush forming on your
perfect little bottom. Then there’s that sound, that reverberating stinging clap, followed
immediately by your body’s response. One uncensored by your mind, and completely
authentic. A gasp. A little yelp. A lingering moan.”

You smile coyly.

“When you’re over my knee I feel your body react. I can feel you clenching. Flinching.
Squirming. Yet still you raise your bottom again, and I know even though I’ve made your
bottom sore, you’re still aching for more.”

“I like spanking because I am the cause of the effects you feel: your pain, and your
pleasure.”

The words I’d just uttered had seemed to coalesce in my mind, I don’t really remember
composing them. That was just how I felt. I dearly hoped it didn’t make me sound weird. Put
into words, sex sometimes does sound weird. As if you’re trying to narrate a piece of music,
rather than simply performing it.

But spanking really wasn’t so different to fucking. Both were unions of two erotic minds, that
granted sensual pleasure to us both. Only instead of stimulating your mind through your
cunt with my cock, I was doing it via your buttocks with my hand. Yet spanking was involved
so many more feelings than just pleasure, it was a heady mix of pain and shame, of lust and
submission, of play and make-believe.

When I finish talking we look at each other in silence, both contemplating what’s just been
said. I am relieved to see your expression is not a frown of disgust, it might even just be a
lust-induced glare.

You edge closer, near enough for me to feel your firm nipples brush my chest. When you
eventually speak, your voice is quiet and coquettish, but this time I know it’s not an act.

“Will you be my spanker? I can be a very naughty.”

“I know.”

“Will you set my rules? Will you teach me my lessons?”

When I was a boy, before my coming of age, I childishly thought of love as a game to be won, that sex was just a prize to be claimed. But one can not appoint oneself a lover, or the
master of another. You have taught me that love is a choice. Your love must choose you
freely. And in every day you spend together, you must prove yourself worthy of her.

“I would be honoured, Fräulein.”

We stare into each other’s eyes, as if sealing a solemn covenant.

Tomorrow we will both go our separate ways, to commence new journeys, to begin new
chapters of our lives. But the bond between us is strong, and we have pledged to meet again
before the year is out. I do not think our story is about to end.

But why worry about the future, when there’s so much to enjoy in the present.

“Now…” I say sternly.

“… let me show you what happens to naughty girls…”

And then I pull you towards me with an effortless strength that comes as a gentle surprise.

@spankingtheatre 2016

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.

You’re welcome to reblog and share.

February 12, 2016 0