spankingtheatre:

Every girl in the school knew about it, even if they’d just heard the whispered rumours. They talked about it ominously, like a ghostly legend, or a terrible curse. And when it was discussed, it was only ever in hushed voices and the merest mumblings. It was the threat that hung over them all, the most feared punishment, the just deserts awaiting the perpetrators of the very naughtiest misbehaviour.

How many times had a group of friends begun to scheme some illicit hijinks, only for one of them to stop, and suddenly exclaim: “We can’t do that! We’d all do the Sit Down Dance for sure!”

There was no greater shame than to be summoned to the front of the class, having finally exhausted your teacher’s patience. And then having to stand there, head bowed, as she scribbled your name and misdemeanour onto a little red-bordered card. All while your classmates were excitedly whispering and sniggering just behind you…

“The Sit Down Dance! She’s going to do the Sit Down Dance!”

There was no greater embarrassment than pushing through the double doors of the staff wing, an area normally strictly off-limits for pupils, once the final bell of the school day had rung. Clutching your little red-bordered card to your chest, proffering it to each passing teacher, your pass to the inner sanctum, shirking with shame as they read your name and your crime, scowling disdainfully.

And there was no greater anxiety than trudging down the long corridor, past all the staff rooms and the Headmistress’ office. To shuffle inevitably towards the Punishment Room, tummy tumbling with trepidation.

The door to that notorious room was old and heavy, a dark mahogany hunk that looked incongruously out of place amidst the school’s modern decor, like a pirate ship had somehow been moored at the end of the corridor. Even just turning the ornate brass handle gave the feeling you were about to leave the modern world behind and step beyond into the captain’s cabin.

Visitors saw a small brass plaque mounted at eye-height, a few lines engraved in cursive writing for those about to enter to ponder. It was a quotation from long ago, from when school itself had still been young.

Heaven is not always angry when he strikes,

But most chastises those

Whom most he likes.

– John Pomfret

Alice could feel the dampness of her own palm as she gripped the handle, but after a moment’s hesitation, she pushed the heavy door ajar.

Yet no matter how many times Alice had visited the Punishment Room, the world beyond that antiquated door never failed to surprise her…

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spankingtheatre:

“On the whole human beings want to be good, but not too good, and not quite all the time.” – George Orwell

Alice wore her reins, every day.

She wore them to work under her elegant business suit. She wore them around the house under her jeans. She wore them whenever she went out, hidden beneath her pretty summer dress as she casually chatted with friends. She even wore her reins when she went to the gym, they were clearly visible whenever she undressed, yet no-one ever noticed. It was her kinky secret, hidden in plain sight, beyond the perception of all around her, as they busied themselves with towels, leotards, sprays and all the other paraphernalia of fitness.

Only He could see her reins, only He knew how to take them. He could control her with just one skillful hand. He could tug her, slowly increasing the force she felt, quickly silencing her bratty mouth until she was as still as a statue. He could tease her, slowly releasing his hold, feeling her squirm and longing for more, arching her back expectantly… until another firm tug brought a moan, and a reminder of who was really in charge.

That familiar soreness between her legs had been the sensation of discipline for as long as she could remember. It had begun with the appointment of Ms McGiven, an old-fashioned governess who’d brought with her some very old-fashioned methods of dealing with naughty girls. Goodness, it must have been fifteen years now since the first time.

We are the sum of our stories. And Alice could remember one particular story like yesterday. She thought of it often, retrieving it from her memory like a treasured relic, replaying it when drifting off to sleep with her fingers between her thighs, that one beautiful summer when Penny came to stay.

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tenjou-utena:

retroactivebakeries:

dreamhouse777:

rosewater1997:

all i ever think about is skincare and getting rawed

have you guys considered hobbies

all i ever think about is tabletop roleplaying games and getting rawed

have you considered skincare

female-orgasm-denial:

internetslutclub:

She was almost certain it was her husband dressed up.
Almost.