First Date

A story about daring to be judged

She felt herself soften under his gaze, like a little chocolate figurine under the sun.

Maybe it was feminine intuition, but behind his mask of formality she sensed a suppressed strictness, a stern core beneath his softly-spoken niceties. 

"Do you believe in spanking on a first date?" she flirtatiously wondered aloud.

It was important to know these things.

He held her gaze and answered without hesitation, solemnly and seriously, as if she’d just asked him if he believed the planet was imperilled by climate change.

“Yes I do.”

The implied threat of a smacked bottom saturated the air between them, like the slowly increasing clammy heat of an approaching storm.

“I know exactly what you need.”

He said it kindly, not accusingly, just a matter-of-fact observation that required no great intuitive leap. She felt like she’d become translucent, that secrets she’d spent a lifetime hiding were now as obvious as the colour of her eyes.

Nevertheless, she absolutely had to ask. His answer wasn’t quite as important as how he’d react. She wanted to know if he’d be flustered, to see if her intuition was right, to discover if his spine was made of steel or candle wax.

---

The restaurant was full of couples - most chatting excitedly, though some seemingly content to merely stare at each other in lovestruck silence. They’d sardonically chosen their first date to coincide with Valentine’s Day, so they could gently mock its romantic cliches. Candles flickered and twinkled all around, as if they were in the midst of a most sacred rite.  

On any other evening, this place would have been a hubbub of raucous bellowing and squealing laughter. But tonight, with so many eager to make good first impressions, the conversations were more muted, almost conspiratorial, as companions opened their hearts discreetly. As an inveterate people-watcher, she readily recognised the familiar back-and-forth of first date interviews. The gruelling desperation of needing to seem both interested and interesting.

All relationships began like movies, she thought. Finding your co-star involved auditions. And all great movies came from a director who knew exactly what they wanted.

She realised it had been quite some time since either of them had spoken, not since his tease about knowing just what she needed. Now that initial silence had now developed into an almost theatrical pregnant pause.

She looked into the wide black holes of his pupils, and wondered what was going on behind them. He was inscrutable, almost impossible to read. Perhaps her provocative question had sent him into a reverie and, at this very moment, he was imagining what it would be like to put her over his knee and tug her panties down. But that was far better than the alternative, being thought of as a presumptuous ill-mannered deviant.

All around them, silently and invisibly, profound transformations were occurring. With every passing minute, dozens of judgements would be crystallising, previously fluid interpretations suddenly freezing into solid perceptions deep within every single mind. She could almost feel it. 

Interacting with others meant judgement was inevitable. Even those who tried to play safe would be judged, and risked inadvertently conveying completely the wrong impression about themselves. It was perfectly possible for one to burn with a fierce passion inside, yet conceal their flame so effectively that they appeared dull and emotionless to others. She was determined not to make that mistake again.

There was something she feared far more than his disapproval, and that was bitterness of her own regret. She’d spent so much of her life secretly hoping to one day meet someone who'd dare to put her across their knee, and spank her properly, until it hurt. That joyous new future might only be a conversation away, if she was bold enough.

She became aware that a judgement of her own was now crystallising within her mind. He was comfortable with silence. He didn’t fear dead air, like so many do. He wasn’t prompted by insecurity to babble, as if any gap in conversation was confirmation he wasn’t interesting enough. He didn’t feel the need to speak because he knew her mind was racing. 

Their mutual silence wasn’t an awkward lack of subjects to discuss. On the contrary, there was suddenly so much more to talk about. In truth, the difficulty was knowing where to start.

She broke the silence.

“What exactly do I need?”

She expected him to say: a spanking. Or even better, a good hard spanking on your bare bottom. But that wasn’t what he said at all.

“Direction,” he said simply.

“I see a high-achieving perfectionist,” he continued, “who’s weary of trying to live up to her own impossibly high standards. I see a woman who yearns for simpler instructions.”

She stared back, she’d never experienced such candour on a date before, or ever felt so seen.

She glanced around the room again. The most common demeanours were goofy grins and playful giggles, but she could see others who seemed to radiate nervousness, the ones so anxious to create the best possible impression. Yet no one can truly know another’s idea of perfection. Our ideal companion simply wants us to be our most authentic selves, and is honoured to be trusted with our deepest and most precious secrets.

“You understand me,” she said at last.

“I’d love to understand you more deeply.”

“I’d love that too.”

“May I probe deeper?”

“Please.”

“This won’t be a quickfire pop-quiz,” he warned, “I won’t be asking your favourite song, or the places you’ve always wanted to visit. These will be intimate questions, ones that will psychologically undress you, right here, in front of everybody.”

“Then do your best to undress me,” she challenged, with an air of arrogance that suggested she’d like to see him try.

He paused, as if contemplating.

“Close your eyes.”

She did as she was told, the surrounding hum of conversation seeming to grow louder as she entered the darkness.

“I want you to picture a scene that epitomises what spanking means to you. Hold that image in your mind. Don’t censor it. Let the details develop slowly, as if you’re looking at a negative in a darkroom.”

A scene materialised in her mind unbidden.

There was a man and a woman. Indoors. It was dark. Too dark for colours. Just outlines of shadow and a few shades of grey. He wore a suit that was dark enough to merge into the blackness. Both had their backs to her. She was naked, her pale skin seeming to radiate the only source of light.

Her viewpoint wasn’t close in, but further away, as if she was looking on from an adjoining room. They were standing close, but not quite touching. Each within the other’s personal space, an intimate distance away. She was looking over her shoulder, upwards towards him.

His body language was poised and relaxed, as if this scene represented the proper order of things. He was holding a small paddle — a dark heart silhouetted against the pale light of her buttocks.

It’s unclear whether she has a slight blush on her bottom, or it was just a trick of the light. She might have already been spanked, or just about to be. 

Her body language was compliant. She was making no attempt to shield herself, or wriggle away from his smacks. Her hands were unseen, but she knew they were clasped in front of her, cupping her bare crotch tightly.

There was absolutely no doubt who was in control. But it was a touchless authority that came from her acceptance. There was a feeling amid those austere patches of black and white that felt so right, so inevitable.

She kept her eyes closed as she described the scene that only she could see. He had closed his eyes too, letting the vibrations in the air between them convey an image, which his mind slowly recreated. Had her eyes been open, she would have seen him nod approvingly.

“Is this image a scene that you’ve seen before?” he asked at last.

“Not knowingly. It just appeared in my head.”

“You can open your eyes,” he said. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

It almost seemed surprising to find herself back in the restaurant. Part of her was still in the shadows, with his paddle resting against her bare bottom.

“What’s the earliest spanking fantasy you can remember?”

“My best friend getting spanked at school.”

“Not you being spanked?”

“No. She was far more rebellious than me. I was far too much of a goody-two-shoes.”

“So in your fantasies, naughty girls got spanked bottoms.”

“Yes…” she paused, “even though I’d never experienced one myself, or ever seen anyone else being spanked. I’d only read about punishments, or heard others mention them. My overactive imagination did the rest. It was like imagining what dragons might look like, or a yearning that magic was actually real.”

“Have you fantasised about being spanked by me?”

“Yes - ” she almost added a “Sir”, but halted herself just in time.

They had encountered each other for the first time several weeks ago, and exchanged increasingly brazen messages since. There had been plenty of time for her to read and reread his messages, as her tummy fluttered and her places tingled.

"From the spankings you love to imagine, what three aspects are you keenest to experience for real with me?"

He spoke as if her spanking was a fait accompli, that he’d already decided it would be happening, and now they only had to work out the details. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been asked a question that made her nipples stiffen, then was surprised that her answers required so little deliberation.

“I want to have my panties pulled down.”

She saw him smile.

“I want it to hurt.”

She saw him nod. 

“I want to be cuddled afterwards.”

His right hand reached across the table, cradling hers in a reassuring grasp.

“I believe I can make your three wishes come true, my lady.”

He saw her face glow.

“Stand up please.”

She did as she was told, acutely aware of the glances of those sitting nearby. Not quite staring, but she could feel their eyes roving across her. The human species is finely attuned to faintest echoes of social conflict. Was this a row? Had her companion said something stupid, or outrageous? Was she about to storm out?

“Fold your arms behind your back.”

It was the calmness in his voice that made her brave, as if granting her permission to be audacious. Those around her seemed to blur into irrelevance, as if she was now inhabiting a private bubble of reality with just the two of them inside. His reality, his rules.

“Have you made a mess in your panties?” he asked, in a tone that was inquiring, rather than accusatory. 

“Yes Sir”

“What does that make you?”

“A naughty girl.”

The admission spilled out so easily, it had been bottled up for far too long.

“Naughty girls must have their panties pulled down.”

She nodded. He was absolutely right, of course. 

His finger beckoned her closer. She stepped forward, until he was within her intimate space. He was still sitting, but now close enough to reach beneath her knee-length dress. How easy it would be for him to hitch his fingers inside the elastic of her underwear, and quickly whip them down to her ankles, whilst all those watching gawked and gasped. She realised that if he did, she would not object. She would let him pull her panties down, even in front of all these witnesses, and she would be grateful for it.

“I want you to go to the bathroom. Then pull down your panties, and wipe yourself.”

That seemed like an eminently sensible suggestion, she nodded her agreement.

“After you’ve wiped, I want you to keep your panties at the tops of your thighs, so they’re just above the hem of your pretty little dress.”

The serious respectful expression she’d worn to receive her instructions was abruptly riven by a most unexpected grin. 

What he’d commanded her to do was so scandalously naughty. Yet for as long as she could remember she’d longed to assert her own individuality, and transgress the soft laws of decency and civility she’d spent so long obeying. She had found a willing conspirator, someone unashamedly guilty of incitement to naughtiness. And she loved it.

---

She left the table without needing any further encouragement, unfolding her arms, and striding confidently past the observing eyeballs. Inside, she felt a fire blazing again, incandescent and fierce - one she’d feared had dwindled to embers long ago. It was such a relief to know that beneath her sensible exterior, a feisty force of nature still existed to rage against the dying of the light.

She entered the bathroom cubicle with the furtiveness of a cat burglar, peeking through the narrowing gap as she eased the door closed, as if inexplicably anxious someone might be watching. In the privacy of the stall, she hitched her dress up her thighs and over her hips, then continued gathering the smooth satin fabric until she’d raised it to the level of her bra. By tucking the hem into both shoulder straps, she was able to keep it out of the way, and regain the use of her hands.

When dressing she’d opted not to wear lacy lingerie tonight, and chosen a pair of tight white briefs instead. She could already feel the stretchy material, damp and cloying against her folds. She tugged the waistband forward, peering over the ruffles of her gathered dress and down past the curve of her freshly shaved mound, revealing a glistening hint of her own excitement. She had been aware of it for quite a while.

No one else knew this - how would they? - but she loved the clammy hug of soaked panties, especially when out in public. She loved how she could be so aroused, and it would be completely undetectable to anyone nearby. 

She loved how she didn’t actually sit on her wet spot, and how it lay in the narrow gap between her bum and her seat. She adored how the wet spot kissed her most sensitive places, and how naughty and squirmy her hidden mess made her feel. 

But she had her instructions.

In one slow continuous motion, she began to tug her panties down. She felt the sticky material cling to her lips, until it finally parted, leaving behind a web of sticky strings. When she felt her clit throb, she began to blissfully daydream that he was the one pulling down her panties. 

From behind her closed eyes, she imagined being back at their table. She saw him raise his hand, he called the maître d’ over, and discreetly asked if there was anywhere available to deal with naughty girls.

“Bien sûr,” their host had replied respectfully. “Monsieur, Madame, par ici, s'il vous plaît...” 

They rose from their seats, and he grasped her hand. They were led out of the main dining room, into an adjoining passage, and finally through a door into a small but elegantly furnished private dining room. He pulled one of the high-backed chairs away from the table, and beckoned her to stand before his lap.

“Voudriez-vous une spatule en bois, Monsieur?”

Clearly their host was quite familiar with guests needing to discipline their companions. Her date  graciously accepted their host’s kind offer, prompting him to leave for the kitchens, whilst he asked her to lift her dress to her chest. Then he did exactly what she was doing now, his fingers slowly pulling her panties down. Exposing her exquisitely smooth slit, and revealing her sordid stickiness.

To avoid getting her gooey mess on his smart suit trousers, he plucked a dinner napkin from the table, and laid it across his lap, just as he would when about to dine. 

By the time the maître d’ returned with the wooden spatula, she had been perfectly presented over the napkin, across his lap. Her dress was now lifted above her hips, and her panties were stretched tight between her ankles. Her bare bottom rose proudly into the air, her thigh gap a perfect window to the slick swollen folds of her slit.

The maître d’ stayed to watch, his hands clasped behind him in the classic stance of genteel staff, observing impassively as the borrowed spatula painted her bottom pink. When she was properly spanked and sore, her date told her to stand, and held the folded napkin between her legs as she pulled her panties up. When they returned to their seats, she would sit gingerly on her stinging cheeks, and feel the thick cotton napkin pressed against her leaking slit.

Would their fellow diners have noticed their short absence, or heard the distant muffled smacks? Would they dare to raise their hands, and ask to visit the room too? Or would they be content to whisper to each other: will you please spank me too when we get home?

As her daydream faded, she found herself staring down at the creamy mess she’d made within her sodden briefs. Whilst her instructions were indeed to wipe herself, it seemed obscene to waste something so precious. Especially when she had a much better application in mind. So she scooped her mess up with her fingertips, and generously spread it all across her lips. She tasted salty and musky and naughty.

Mindful that this certainly deserved a smacked bottom, she reached behind herself, cupping her newly bared cheeks with both hands, and rubbed them just like a well-spanked young lady would.

Then she took the opportunity for a quick pee, and with a long sweep of a tissue, wiped herself dry from her hood to her bottom hole. Her final arrangement was ensuring her lowered panties were at an acceptable level, so when she let down her dress, they were just about covered. Her half-lowered panties made her feel like a sex slave, her legs hobbled by fetters.

After flushing, she left the bathroom cubicle as casually as she could manage. Another lady was now standing at the row of sinks, gazing into the mirror as she preened and pampered herself. She washed her hands quickly and flashed the adjacent reflection a smile. It felt both shocking and thrilling to stand beside someone else with her panties pulled down.

During the short walk back to their table, she quickly discovered if her legs were too close together, her briefs slipped down as she moved. Fortunately this was easily solved by walking with her feet well apart, which helped keep her underwear taut between her thighs. As a result, she strode into the dining room with a swagger.

He rose from his seat to welcome her, and she glided into his intimate space. For a moment, they paused to appreciate the sparkle glinting in each other’s eyes. Then her head moved towards his, and they spontaneously kissed.

She wanted the first kiss they shared to taste of her wet cunt. She could feel his tongue glancing across the sticky residue she’d painted on her lips. 

“I love how you taste,” he whispered as their first kiss ended.

“Plenty more where that came from,” she whispered salaciously.

Moments later, he initiated their second kiss, this time moving close enough for his knee to gently push against the band of her underwear that lay hidden just beneath her hem.

“Good girl,” he murmured into her ear. 

As the kiss ended, her skin was swept by a surge of goosebumps. 

He chivalrously escorted her back to her seat, pulling it backwards then shuffling forward as she sat. Only then did she realise how exposed the lowering of her panties made her feel. She was literally sitting on her bare bottom, with the taut band of her briefs strung like a hammock between her thighs. She glanced at the thick white napkin on the table, and wondered if she’d end up taking it home, beneath her dress, pressed up tight against her leaking slit.

He retook his seat, admiring the rosy blush that had spread across her cheeks, illuminating her from within like a paper lantern.

“How does that make you feel?” he said, sotto voce.

“Like the naughtiest girl in the world.”

---

The food had been delicious. The conversation had veered between the stimulating and the exhilarating. Now their drinks, which were slowly diminishing with every sip, were a liquid reminder that even the best evenings must eventually come to an end. Most of their fellow diners had already departed, the candles on their tables now exhausted and extinguished. Soon, they too would have to follow.

She stared at the red rose that decorated their table, and realised it had the most beautiful thorns.

“May I make a request?” she ventured.

“Of course.”

“Will you make my other two wishes come true tonight?”

“Your wishes are my command, my lady.”

“Will you escort me home?”

“I’d be honoured.”

“And stay for a drink?”

“Just one drink. And maybe a good spanking. But nothing more.”

She felt herself blush deep between her legs.

.

.

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@spankingtheatre 2024