Our group of friends discovered it in a lavatory in a grimy nightclub. Frustrated by the queues for the main bathroom we’d gone a-wandering. How we giggled as we pushed past the feeble “Staff Only” signs, and ventured deep into the warren of dusty service corridors. Emboldened by our safety in numbers, we were feeling naughty and ready for mischief.
We tentatively tried every door we found, waving into the darkness when we needed to trigger the motion sensors for the lights. Until eventually the flickering illumination revealed a large open space with a single toilet cubicle and a sink. The most desperate wasted no time forming their own little queue, whilst the rest of us admired the life-sized mural that dominated one of the walls.
The image had been spray-stenciled, its black lines resembling burn marks on the glossy white tiles. It depicted a woman with enviably slim legs, bending over in a way that concealed her face and body behind her limbs. The surrounding area was respectfully clear of graffiti, only a single spray-painted message that announced: “Get spanked”. I was shocked to see my magic word written out so brazenly. I was so used to only seeing it on the screens furtively read behind closed doors, as if the word itself was too shocking to ever be publicly displayed.
I drank in the details of the mural as my friends abluted with audible relief. I was struck by her submissive body language, how she was bending over without even looking back at the viewer, her hands already gripping her ankles. She had the air of professional obedience that made me picture her as a secretary. Her pose made me imagine she’d carelessly dropped her pages. She had been interrupted whilst gathering them from the floor, and was already anticipating the first castigative smack.
The image resembled a Banksy, though lacking his signature visual wit. He’d have sketched a commentary on contemporary working life. A wageslave with a collar around her neck, chaining her to her desk, or more subtly, her phone. Nevertheless, the artist had done a commendable job capturing his vibe.
Only on closer inspection did I notice something surprisingly odd. The black patch that I’d assumed was her skirt wasn’t actually painted at all. It was an actual gap in the wall. I leaned over, peering into an opening that was uncannily reminiscent of a wood-fired pizza oven. As I couldn’t see the alcove’s expected interior, I shone my phone’s torch inside. My beam revealed the intervening wall was only one block thick, and disappeared into a lightless void beyond.
Just as intriguing were two footprints on the floor in front of the mural, as if someone in bare feet had carelessly stepped in black paint. They seemed deliberately placed, with the heels against the wall, and toes pointing forward. Had the footprints been pointing the opposite way, I’d have assumed this spot was intended for male visitors. They’d stand behind the bending figure, hands on the wall as if grasping her hips - pushing their stiff cocks into the wide dark orifice in the hope of a warm wet welcome on the other side. To me, the implication of the footprints was clear: stand here with your back to the wall, if you dare.
A friend joined me to investigate. We nipped back to the adjoining corridor, but failed to see any doors into this mystery space. We returned to peer suspiciously into the cavity. Growing up, we’d all absorbed the cautionary lore of horror movies, quite aware that blindly sticking a hand into a gaping maw was the epitome of foolhardiness. So we borrowed the cleaner’s mop and fed it into the hole with considerable trepidation.
No hand grabbed it. No falling blade severed it. There was no tearing of cobwebs. No enormous spider came leaping out. In fact, nothing happened at all.
Egged on by our dares and giggles, a bolder friend stepped onto the footprints and stood with her back to the wall. The gap was now just behind her own buttocks and wide enough to admit both her hips. Slowly, she pushed her bottom backwards into the breach.
As she pushed further, she bent at the hips, letting her own hands slide down her shins until she was mimicking the figure drawn on the wall. It was funny how they mirrored each other, like two sides of the same personality: a public image in a smart pencil skirt, and her altogether more daring persona who donned skimpy clubwear after hours.
Yet still, nothing happened.
Until something suddenly did.
Our friend yelped, springing forward in shock, swearing loudly. Which naturally prompted roars of laughter from everyone watching.
“Someone spanked me!” she exclaimed.
Our interrogation began at once. Did it hurt? Was it hard? Did you like it? You did, didn’t you? Our teasing goaded her into retaking her place, and sure enough, another smack soon stung her behind.
I could barely believe it. A real spanking, happening right in front of me. Questions flooded into my incredulous mind. Who was the spanker? A man? A woman? Were they using their hand, or a paddle, or a whip? Was there an audience watching? VIPs? The club staff? It could even have been a group like us, who’d wandered out of bounds and found themselves in a darkened room with a hole that glowed like a little window, and the muffled sound of our voices coming from the other side.
The smacks continued, at a tempo slow enough to make us wonder whether each lull was the end of the fun, which only made the subsequent smack more surprising. We couldn’t see the impacts, only how they made our friend flinch and gasp - and increasingly, moan in appreciation.
It was also perfectly possible that whoever was lurking on the other side had been quite shocked to see a bum appear through the hole. Maybe they were the one who usually pushed their own bare bottom through the gap, giving the painted secretary a pair of fleshy cheeks at last, just like the souvenir photo caricature boards that had holes for faces at the seaside. They might be waiting in the dark for light to flood through the hole, which would signal someone had entered this bathroom. They’d hope the visitor would see their pale bare cheeks peeping incongruously out of the mural. What sort of club were we visiting, really?
The spontaneity of the spanking got me thinking about all the time and emotional energy we expend interviewing prospective partners. We screen out the bores, the creeps, and brutes, trying to feel in control, wanting to mitigate the awkwardness. Whereas in truth, all one had to do was summon the courage to put one’s proverbial bottom through the gap in the wall.
Our friend remained stoically in position as the atmosphere amongst us rose to fever pitch. Even if someone had interrupted our rowdy group at that very moment, they’d still have no idea what was going on. We’d simply appear to be a raucous crowd of friends sharing an in-joke, gathered around one standing with her back to the wall, and who seemed to be blushing.
She was clearly having such a good time, our collective anxiety began to melt away. Soon others were asking if they could go next. Not wanting to hog the experience, our bold pioneer staggered forward. She looked over her shoulder, lifting the hem of her flimsy dress to reveal that the skin that wasn’t covered by her panties was now glowing a radiant pink.
The sight triggered an eruption of delighted disbelief. Fingers eagerly reached forward to stroke her warm rosy skin. Someone else took her place, and stayed in place for a half-dozen excited shrieks.
As I watched, I found myself wishing I had a glory hole in my own bedroom. I first thought of opening out a large cardboard box, then remembered the plywood boards in the garage. I could tape them to a doorframe, then cut a small hole in it. No need for it to be wide enough for a bum, not yet. I’d start with a gap just big enough for a finger, or a cock. I already had a special visitor in mind. I could invite him over and suggest a little game of hide and seek. I’d scurry off and lurk behind my impromptu barrier, bending over so one hole lined up behind another. He’d get quite the eyeful when he found the hole and peeped within. Yes, that’s definitely what I’d do.
Then it was my turn. Dizzy with anticipation, my head swam as I stared at the black gap in the wall. Bottomless, in every sense of the word, like a rift in reality or an entrance to the netherworld. I was the first of us to hitch up my skirt and tug down my underwear. I wanted to push my bare bum into the hole. It wouldn’t be a proper spanking unless it was on the bare.
Nothing happened, for long enough that a dozen different scenarios flashed through my anxious mind. What if they did more than spank? I’d already willingly surrendered my flimsy last line of defence. My muscles tensed, ready to jump away at the slightest sign of molestation. My awareness shrank to my exposed bottom and the secret sites between it. At any moment I expected to feel probing fingers or the firm spongy dome of a cock.
Would I stay if someone slid into me, and let my friends watch as I was fucked like a public slut? What if the stranger was too strong and put an arm across my waist? If they had a stick like our mop handle and slipped it across the gap in front of my thighs, I’d never be able to pull away. I’d be captured forever by this black hole’s inescapable maw.
My worries dissipated when the first smack landed, like dusty motes whacked free from a musty rug. The impact didn’t feel heavy like a slapping palm, whatever was spanking me felt flexible, like a leather belt or strap. Each whack landed across both my cheeks, imparting a delicious sting that forced the breath from my lungs. I pushed back against the mural, as if longing to merge with it.
The longer the spanking continued the less concerned I became about fingers intruding between my legs. In fact, I found myself yearning for them. I imagined two probing fingers entering, then curling downwards within me, pinning me in place. But my unseen spanker never attempted to penetrate or even fondle my wetness. I began to wonder if a machine was involved, that my bum was breaking an infrared beam, triggering some automated whacking mechanism. Did it really matter, when it felt this good?
We never did discover who, or what, was in the adjoining room. By the time we left that strange little hole, all of us had smarting bottoms. We scampered down the corridors squealing euphorically, off to dance the night away.
Another story?
This is the latest in a series of kinky short stories, here’s the previous one…
The is something so deliciously naughty about an anonymous erotic contact . Great story
This is one of those fantasies come to print. Thank you for the great story.