Fiction & fantasies
Spanking fiction and fantasies
Everything in this section is invented. Nobody in it exists, nothing in it happened, and none of it is instruction. It is here because the rest of the site can explain what a scene consists of and cannot get anywhere near what it is like to stand in your own bedroom with your hands on the second button, deciding.
Fiction, about consenting adults over 18. It is not explicit, it is not instruction, and nothing in it should be copied as a method. The characters negotiate, use safe words and look after each other afterwards, because that is what competent adults do, but a story is a story. If you want the practical version, it is on negotiation, safe words and aftercare.
Why write it at all
Because almost everyone arrives at this with a fantasy rather than a plan, and almost nobody can find the fantasy written down anywhere that treats it seriously. What exists is either pornography, which is about bodies and not about people, or clinical explanation, which is about safety and not about longing. Neither one tells a woman in her forties why she has been thinking about the same imagined ten minutes since she was nineteen.
So these are written from the inside, and most of the words go on the part that actually takes up the room: the deciding, the asking, the undressing, the waiting, the being seen. The physical part of a scene takes twenty minutes and about two hundred words. Everything else in a person's head about it can take twenty years.
What I am hoping for is recognition rather than admiration. Somewhere across these there may be a paragraph that lands on something you have been carrying for years and have never been able to translate into words. If that happens, the writing has done the only job I set it.
Borrowed words are useful in a way that is easy to underestimate. Being able to point at a page and say it is a bit like that one is far easier than constructing the sentence yourself from nothing, in a conversation you are already dreading.
Some people find it easier to open the subject with a partner by sending a link than by explaining, and if any of this ends up doing that job for you then take it and use it however you like. There is practical help with that conversation at asking a partner you already have.
I am not claiming to be better at this than you are, and I am not setting myself up as an expert on anybody's interior life, least of all yours. The only thing I have that you may not have yet is time.
I have been doing this and thinking about it for a long while, so the experience has accumulated and some of the vocabulary arrived with it. Yours may not have had those years yet, and for all I know it has had a great deal more. Either way it is mileage rather than insight, and mileage is not a rank.
Most are told by women, a handful by men, several by the person doing the spanking rather than receiving it, and some are about two women. If you only read one, and you have never done any of this and told nobody, read no words for it.
Everything here is mine. For novels, plays and films by other people, each checked against the same adults-only rule, see the bibliography and further reading.
Asking, and telling somebody
The hardest part is almost never the spanking. It is the sentence beforehand.
I said yes
Her husband, from his side. Four months between being told in the car and the first time, and he is frightened of the wrong thing entirely.
The dictionary
One sentence rehearsed since she was nineteen, and a Sunday evening on a sofa with the film paused. The story is the telling.
The list
She could not say it, so she wrote it down and left it on the table. The worst four minutes of her life were the ones after that.
The email I did not send
Nine hundred words drafted over a week, with headings. In the end she sent eleven, from a bus.
Telling him after nine years
Nine years of rehearsing, and then it falls out sideways during a row about the dishwasher.
The friend who knew
She told a friend before she told any partner. Fifteen years braced for disgust, and it never arrived.
The search history
He borrows her laptop for two hours. Nothing is found, and she learns what she actually wanted.
The second date
Negotiation over a second coffee. She walks to the bus stop elated about the admin.
Two copies
His side. He wants it all agreed in writing before the first time, and she hears distrust. A page and a half, and the drawer where the boiler guarantee lives.
The one who said no
He listened properly, thought about it, and said no. He is right, and she is allowed to mind.
Doing that to you
The husband who said no, from his side. He chose his sentence so the fault would have his name on it.
No words for it
No partner, no scene, nobody told. It ends with her typing eight words into a search box.
What I was taught
She left the church at twenty-five. The filing system she took from it still puts this under the same heading.
First times
Including two women who started long after everyone told them the door had shut.
Quieter than that
Twenty-two years of imagining it, and then a Wednesday, a ticking radiator, a laundry airer that has to be moved, and eleven minutes.
The appointment
A train to Manchester, a negotiation next to a display of muffins, and a question carried since she was nineteen.
The safe word
Twenty-four, terrified of being difficult, and what happened when she used the amber one.
Thirty-one years
Fifty-eight, widowed after a marriage in which she never said it, and a second man who asks.
Sixty-one
A shoebox of her mother's birthday cards, an arthritic knee, and the arithmetic of fifteen good years.
The book on the train
Four copies in one carriage in 2012, and a decade working out what she actually wanted.
The women who do it
Everyone assumes the person holding the hairbrush has the easy half.
The other chair
Eleven years of holding the hairbrush, and a note she writes, does not send, and then sends.
The one who decides
He asked her to. What it is really like is arithmetic, and it is lonely, and nobody warns you.
Learning the wrist
A cushion, a wooden spoon and a kitchen at eleven at night. She is not practising accuracy.
The first time I said no
He asked for a session and she refused, because she could see what he was avoiding.
The woman at the munch
A back room in a pub and eleven words by an unplugged fruit machine that gave her the language.
The first Sunday
A fetish market on a Sunday afternoon, alone, telling nobody. The moment it turns on is her realising she is bored.
The party
A function room behind a print works, badminton lines on the floor, and a scene that fails because she is being watched.
His list
Her husband wrote it down and handed it over. Four honest seconds of thinking less of him.
Who it is with
Women with women, men with men, three adults, and the bodies and pairings the usual pictures leave out. Written for the people in them rather than for anybody watching.
Her and her
Nine years, a real rule, a hairbrush in the tea-towel drawer, and no template for any of it.
The woman who asked me
A friend asks, with her hands in the washing up. They never do settle on a word for it.
Two men
Fifty-three, divorced, asking another man. The fear was never shame, it was being quietly downgraded.
Both sides, twenty hours apart
Saturday receiving, Sunday giving, same sofa. Two appetites that happen to share furniture.
The third of us
She is fine about the spanking and undone by a Tuesday phone call.
The only chair
She is fat and says so. The subject is furniture, and a partner who measured it rather than reassuring her.
When the wanting does not line up
Kink and sexuality are separate axes, and they frequently do not match.
Not foreplay
Four months in, and every time she asks he turns it into foreplay, because that is the only version he has met. The story is her finding the sentence.
Not that kind of want
A lesbian who has wanted this from a man since her early twenties. The man in it has never once had a face.
Believing her
His side. She told him plainly it was not sexual, and the work was in the two seconds after he noticed himself wondering.
Being undressed, looked at and assessed
The part most people dread, and the part most of them came for.
Down or off
She had assumed knickers down. He said take them off and hand them to me, and the gap between those two instructions is the whole evening.
The photograph
He asks, at the end, whether he can take one. What he does in the next four seconds tells her more than the hour before it.
The undressing
She had negotiated the implement, the number and the position. Nobody warned her about the buttons.
The grey dress
Twenty-six pounds, bought to prove a point. A year of the one second it spends over her head, and of taking it off again.
The light off
Four years of saying she prefers it dark. He does not tell her she is lovely, he moves a lamp eighteen inches.
The monthly review
A written assessment of a whole month, read aloud while she stands. The praise is worse.
The check-up
A form, forty questions and six minutes of silence. Nobody touches her at all.
Kit inspection
Nine items laid out on a bed to a standard, and the midnight redo when one was wrong.
The curtsey
Seven repetitions in a front room in Leytonstone, and nobody raised their voice once.
Books on her head
Three paperbacks, eight minutes, and a failure at seven minutes twenty with nobody to blame.
Twenty minutes facing a wall
Nothing happens. It gets further in than anything else here.
Scenes and borrowed frames
The staged ones: a courtroom, an office, an aircraft cabin, a dartboard.
Two hundred lines
Her handwriting degrades, she starts to hate the sentence, and then somewhere around line ninety she stops.
The tribunal
Charges, a plea, a stated sentence and a clerk who never speaks. Cold until the last three paragraphs.
The appraisal
A form built in Word, a dressing table pretending to be a desk, and eight seconds of trying not to laugh.
The line check
Cabin crew standards, and being corrected while required to keep a pleasant professional face.
The bet
Best of three at darts in a garage in Solihull, and a deliberately missed double eight.
The weekend rules
Friday seven o'clock to Sunday four, including the hour in the park being themselves again.
The craft of it
The parts that look like technique and are actually attention.
Green wood
She had wanted to be birched for eighteen years. Cutting it from the tree at the bottom of the garden and binding it at the kitchen table turned out to weigh more than the strokes did.
The cushion
Three weeks of a grown man practising on a sofa cushion with a chalk cross on it, because she asked him to cane her and he will not get it wrong.
The care of things
A Sunday, a kitchen table, and the job of cleaning and oiling his things one at a time while he stays in the other room.
The warm-up
She said get on with it once, got exactly that, and never said it again.
That was a four
Nine months of saying lovely. She asks people for a number out of ten all day at work, and one Thursday she gives him hers.
Counting to twelve
Being made to speak, hearing her own voice arrive from further away, and losing count at ten.
Tied
The five small self-rescues she never knew she used, and what happens when none of them is available.
The first cane
Four years of finding weddings to postpone it, and the delay before the pain arrives.
Buying it
Incognito tabs, a fourteen-pound beech hairbrush, and Pat next door taking the parcel in.
Reading her
The male one. He is not somewhere powerful, he is at a control panel, and she will never see any of it.
Afterwards
The twenty minutes, the two days later, and the fortnight of evidence.
The last train
She did the thing she had wanted for years, and then walked out into an ordinary Thursday evening and got on a train. Somewhere around Peterborough it arrives.
The blanket
Aftercare from his side. Most of the work turns out not to be touching her at all.
Tuesday afternoon
Saturday was good. At half past two on Tuesday she is at her desk and everything is flat.
The one who is supposed to be fine
Top drop, two days after a scene that went well, with nobody to tell.
The one who checks on him
Three and a half years of being looked after, and the evening she noticed his tea had gone cold.
The mirror
Days four to ten, the colours changing, and being unnerved by her own pleasure in them.
The changing room
A leisure centre changing room, a colleague, and the decision that she is careful rather than ashamed.
Living with it
The unglamorous middle, which is where most of it actually happens.
I expected better of you
She had negotiated the implement and the number and felt businesslike about it. Nobody warned her the talking would be the part she could not manage.
Straight out of the bath
Three years in, and one sentence read on a forum throws out all the arithmetic they had built up between them.
The credit page
For two years he has written on the left-hand page of the book, where the offences go. One Sunday she finds four lines on the right-hand page.
Wednesday, the third year
Raining, tired, nothing wrong, third year of it, and she still wants it.
One line at lunchtime
Five words at lunchtime, a drainage meeting and a train home. Nobody lays a finger on her all day.
The drawer
Packing a house. A hairbrush, a garden centre card and a ninety-nine pence egg timer.
The entry
Writing the charge sheet about yourself, in your own handwriting, including the draft that was too kind.
The rule about the phone
She asked for the rule. She resents the rule. She broke it on a Thursday and told him.
Not tonight
Six years in, refusing for the first time. The effort was all in the question he did not ask.
The deadline
Eleven weeks of not doing it, a number in biro on the back of an envelope, and a Tuesday at half past nine.
The line
Six months in Doha, a phone against the fruit bowl, and the fridge starting up when the call ends.
The third Thursday
Nine years, once a month, and nothing else at all. Not a compromise, and not a sad story.
Alone on a Thursday
No partner and no scene. What is missing is somebody to say that is enough now.
Why it helps
A hundred and eighty decisions in a day, counted out of spite, and the one hour she makes none.
Bodies that need the plan adjusting
Nobody in these is an object of pity and none of them is a tragedy.
What my hands will not do
Sixty-six, thirty years of holding the implement, and arthritis in the base of both thumbs. The eight weeks he spent not booking anything.
After the operation
Seven months after surgery on her spine she wants it again and cannot say so. He has been careful to the point of absence, and she has read that as him going off her.
The list of medications
A fortnight rehearsing the disclosure, answered with: right, what did the pharmacist say?
The flare
She plays on Saturday and pays on Monday, which she knew and chose.
The shoulder
A joint goes audibly mid-scene, and a partner arrives with a notebook headed what has to be true.
Hot flush
Fifty-one, eighteen months privately drafting the obituary of her own sex life. A fan, a broader strap, an earlier start.
The quiet signal
She masks so well nobody has ever noticed her struggling. A laminated card, two squeezes, a ten-minute clock.
Private lives
Parcels, sisters, spare rooms and a GP appointment nearly cancelled.
Nobody believes us
Six years of second Sundays with Gordon, and a sister who has decided it is an affair and is being kind about it.
The witness
Told from the third chair. Her closest friend of twenty years asks her to sit in the room, and she says yes before she has caught up with the question.
The hour I paid for
Fifty-four, married, and nobody has ever known. An envelope of twenties on a side table, and the relief of it being nobody's business.
The flat below
A hairbrush, a first-floor flat, and a note pushed under the door on a Tuesday. The one comedy on this site.
The parcel
A woman of forty-four watches her mother pick a padded envelope off the mat. Four minutes of arithmetic and five cover stories.
What my sister saw
A mark at a wedding, eighteen hours of silence, and one question in a Premier Inn car park.
The locked drawer
Two lodgers within eight months, and a woman of fifty-three loses her house's operating system.
The appointment I nearly cancelled
Four days rehearsing a sentence, a thumb over the cancel button, and four minutes with a GP.
When it goes wrong
No villains who look like villains, and no confrontation scenes. Aftermath and self-argument.
Lucky to be asked
She would not accept a bad quote from a roofer. At fifty-two she has decided she is not in a position to be fussy about this, and there is no spanking in it at all.
It was not like that at first
Eighteen months of small moments, none of them alarming on its own. The reader sees it a long time before she does, and it does not end with her leaving.
The row underneath
From the top. Every word inside what they agreed, and ninety seconds in he hears his own voice change, because Thursday is still sitting in him.
The man who was not there
Five weeks of messages from a man who said everything correctly, and the video call he always had a reason to postpone.
The night I put it down
A year in, he works out mid-session why she is really there, puts the strap down on the arm of the chair, and does not pick it up.
He did not stop
Four more strokes after the word, then a kind apology. A fortnight of talking herself out of it.
The repair
The man who got it wrong, the reason he did, and nine days waiting for her to decide.
The graze
The skin splits and the scene stops. Two days of each protecting the other from a version of events neither of them held.
Too much, too soon
Six sessions, eight weeks, three people. Nothing terrible happens, and that is the point.
The message at midnight
Six boundaries in eleven days, each returned to her reworded as concern for her comfort.
The drink
A bottle already open and three polite refusals. Nothing else goes wrong, and she leaves anyway.
The bruise that frightened me
Three days of dread, one call to 111, and an embarrassment that was the only real risk.
The word that landed
A word she put on the permitted list herself, and the evening it went in like a needle.
Say it out loud
Twenty-four counted without her voice changing, against eleven words at her own kitchen table.
The one I walked away from
A changed address, a friend in the flat, a joke about safe words, and a bus home.
Endings, and the inside of it
Where it stops, and what it is like in there while it is happening.
When it stopped working
Nobody at fault, four months of politeness, and a drawer emptied in four minutes.
The last Sunday
She stopped wanting it and he would carry on tomorrow. She will not say maybe one day.
The apology I needed
He forgave her in a garden centre car park. Four months later she is still paying in instalments.
The week I was unbearable
Nine days of being vile, and she is the one who raises it. He asks first whether she is ill.
Where it goes
The subspace one. Language goes before thought does, in that order.
The professor
She surrenders nothing. It is the most controlled hour of her week, and the only straight sentence she gets.
Unhurried
She thought it was about older men. It turns out to be about nine seconds of silence he did not fill.
What he could not say
Forty-four, employs nine people, and four things he has never said aloud about his wife and a hairbrush.
A note on the fantasies themselves
People are often more frightened of their fantasy than of the act. The act is twenty minutes with somebody they like. The fantasy is the thing that has been running quietly for years and has never been said out loud to anybody, and saying it out loud makes it real in a way that cannot be taken back.
Nothing in a fantasy is a confession of character. Wanting to be told off does not mean you want to be diminished in your life, wanting to be the one giving the orders does not mean you are cruel, and the content of what runs in your head is not a plan. If any of that is sitting uncomfortably, the pages on shame and arousal, what it is actually for and am I normal are the ones to read.