The Other Side

A story of stepping outside, to where the noise is coming

Nothing turns me on like the sound of fucking.

Well before I’d ever experienced it for myself, I had heard it - countless times.

I can trace it all back to one unforgettable day. I had arrived home early from school, to find my elder brother’s car parked unexpectedly in the drive. I heard them both the moment I opened the door, distant voices, bursts of playful laughter. For a moment I contemplated announcing my arrival, but seized by nosiness, I held my peace.

I lurked at the bottom of the stairs, listening. My busy mind trying to decode the muffled sounds emerging from behind his closed bedroom door. The second voice was definitely feminine, higher-pitched and giggly. Almost certainly his girlfriend.

In our house the creaks on the stairs had always infuriated me. Everyone ascending the stairs would play the same maddening percussion, thump thump thump, creak, thump, thump, creak. It was exasperating, so over the years I’d learned just where to stand to avoid the annoying squeaks, a skill that now allowed me to ascend without detection.

My room was opposite his, my plan was to linger by the half-open doorway, listening for any juicy gossip.Instead, I heard him declare, “God, you’re beautiful”, and moments later, her arousingly assertive reply: “Fuck me, now”.

I froze, and then heard everything. The pants, the moans, the rhythmic creaks. Everything.

They returned the following week, hoping to take advantage of our parents’ known commitments to have the house to themselves. They must have believed I was still busy at school, but I was senior enough to have a flexible schedule. So I was already in my room, hiding in my walk-in closet, my bedroom door deliberately left slightly ajar.

Her giggles were my cue to crawl out of the closet towards my door. There, I’d listen transfixed as my big athletic brother fucked his gorgeous girlfriend, with one hand muffling my mouth, the other deep in my panties.

I stayed there until he came, his grunts and gasps fading into contented sighs as he energetically emptied himself into his condom. Then I’d creep back to hide in my closet, waiting until they’d showered together, dressed, and thundered excitedly down the stairs together. I’d wait until I heard the latch of the door lock, and his car reversing, and then I had the whole house to myself again.

That was when I’d strip off and jump into bed, and recreate what I’d just overheard in my feverish imagination. I’d incorporate everything I could remember them saying. “On your knees”, “Oh God, right there”, “Don’t stop”, “Please, don’t stop”, grinding against the pillow between my legs, rocking in a crude simulacrum of a fucking until I made my own bed creak.

I never ever got caught.

---

Listening in is like being part of an illicit threesome. But I’m not a voyeur, spying on private moments doesn’t turn me on. Seeing it all quickly becomes overwhelming. On occasions when I have happened to witness others fuck, it got so much better once I closed my eyes.

In the years since, I’ve become a connoisseur of overheard fuckings. It became more difficult to eavesdrop in university dorms, one could only linger for so long in hallways before security was called. The best I could do was mark on my calendar when those in neighbouring rooms liked to enjoy each other. Everyone has their own schedules, but with enough observations, patterns do emerge.

It was much easier at parties. I’d watch for couples sneaking off, and follow them up the stairs. Though bathrooms did have locks, occupying them for even a quickie risked exiting to an impatient mocking queue. Hence most chose a bedroom, I’d stand in front of their bolthole like an officious doorman, listening to the escalating sounds of pleasure just behind me, dutifully ushering along any passers-by, helpfully preventing any embarrassing interruptions. There was no need to thank me.

Hotels are the very best locations of all. It goes without saying that some are much better than others, depending on their clientele. I have my favourites, the ones that tend to attract lovers, or those looking for a discreet hideaway to consummate their affair. Bonus points for thin walls, and an ambient air-con that never outblew their moans.

But my very best investment has been to befriend the front desk staff. They have a professional sixth sense, and know exactly who’s checking in to fuck. They know I’ll never complain about being assigned a room with amorous neighbours, quite the contrary, I’ve been known to leave extremely handsome tips. By now they know just the kind of room I like.

Tonight, they had not let me down.

I had been sitting at the room’s bureau, working on my laptop. I prefer being busy. I love the serendipity of being deep in flow, only to be unexpectedly interrupted by clandestine creaks and escalating gasps.

It was late when the unmistakable sound of fucking began to percolate through the wall from the neighbouring room. This was my cue to rise from my chair and shed my clothes, slipping off my sensible big girl briefs last of all. It was always so liberating to stand naked in my own little sanctuary, my toes deep in the plush carpet, sound-bathing in the miniscule waves of pleasure that emanated from the other side.

At that very moment, the tiny vibrations that constitute sound were rippling against every patch of my skin. Too feeble, of course, to tickle my nipples or tease my clit, I relied on my mind to amplify them. I faced the source, feet apart, arms outstretched, head thrown back, willing myself into an antenna for their inadvertently arousing transmissions.

Yet something was wrong. Perhaps I was tired, exhausted after a busy day, but despite my efforts to mentally enhance what I heard, the illicit sounds remained frustratingly muted. If only we were a quaint Japanese ryokan inn, I wished, with paper fusuma walls that would leave little to the imagination.

I knew there was something I could do to make the sounds louder. A gambit I’d pulled off many times before. It was impetuous, but somehow I felt in a risk-taking mood.

Emboldened, I threw on my dressing gown, and stowed my keycard in a pocket. I crept out of my room, closing the door gingerly, and tip-toed a few steps sideways until I was standing in front of the adjoining room’s door. I lingered, and listened. They were definitely fucking, and their mutual excitement was swelling ever louder. My hand impulsively sneaked into my gown and found the hot damp place between my legs.

I had never intended to lurk for long, I merely needed to collect some essential details. Once I knew just a bit more about who was on the other side, my vivid imagination could fill in the rest.

Who were they? Statistically, and nerdy me did have data to back this up, they were most likely to be a young couple, on a night out, or visitors on a romantic city break. Less likely, but still quite common would be two lovers having a secret tryst. It was always interesting to cast my eye over my fellow guests at breakfast the next morning. I liked to play a little game to amuse myself, trying to determine which couples were engaged in a torrid affair, and which were involved in a discreet but inappropriate workplace liaison.

It was most likely to be a man and a woman, but it wasn’t unusual to find myself listening in on two men, I wasn’t fussy, I was quite happy to audibly witness a big stiff cock pushing deep into his lover’s bum. The excitement of listening to excitement is always the same. It could also be two women, of course, licking each other’s pussies out. Those couples were so vocal, so encouraging of each other, which made them so exciting to follow.

I must have carelessly entered a reverie as I went through my typology of lovers in my head, inadvertently stroking myself whilst imagining what each of the archetypes got up to, based on my own meticulous fieldwork. This distraction meant I didn’t notice the approaching couple until the very last moment.

Hit by a surge of extreme self-consciousness, I instinctively withdrew my obscenely placed hand. I was suddenly acutely aware of how suspicious I must have appeared. On the verge of panic, I acted as if I was standing in front of my own door, just about to open it. To make it more convincing, I pushed the handle down as they passed.

They were walking hand in hand, and didn’t swerve out of their way to avoid me, probably expecting me to have already entered my room before they reached me. So I had to push myself against the door to give them room to pass by.

To my enormous surprise, the door wasn’t locked, and since I was leaning against it, it opened, causing me to stumble inside. The fire safety mechanism closed the door behind me.

Two faces glared back at me. The rest of the room was a blur.

I saw a man and a woman. They were naked on their bed. He was underneath, with her straddling him. She rose and sank demonstratively on his thick cock three times, all whilst staring straight into my captivated eyes, without ever saying a word. Gradually her up and down motions slowed, and she was the one who broke the awkward silence.

“It seems someone is spying on us, dear.”

If she was indignant at my intrusion, her voice did not betray it. There was a matter-of-fact calmness to it, a sense of someone not easily perturbed. She spoke slowly, with that refined diffident manner that only posh folk possess, the one where each vowel seemed to be addressed separately, as if she was issuing instructions to her household staff.

I stammered my apologies, adding a lame excuse about staying next door, and how I must have got a bit confused. She regarded me sceptically, rising from her lover’s cock, and dismounting from the bed just as elegantly. She approached me completely abashed, I couldn't help but stare at her gorgeous naked body.

When she was standing close enough for me to smell her musky sweat, she reached to my waist and untied the simple up-and-over knot of my dressing gown’s belt. She theatrically opened my gown with both hands as if throwing open a pair of curtains, before pushing it off my shoulders, so it fell with a soft flump to the floor. She paused to look me up and down, a smile told me she appreciated what she saw.

I reciprocated her gaze, we stood in silence for a moment and regarded each other. Her black hair stopped before her shoulders and was elegantly coiffured. She was pretty enough to feel intimidating. She wore nothing on her ring finger, which made me notice she wasn’t wearing any jewellery at all. Her lithe naked body looked gym-toned, though her aloof demeanour and subtle wrinkles suggested she was older than me. Small stiff brown nipples protruded from her modest breasts. Beneath her the notch of her cleft I could see her swollen lips glisten.

I did not intercept her hand when it moved towards my own crotch. It slipped easily between my thighs, cupping my slit. I felt her fingers sliding across my greasy lips, and knew at once she’d discovered my sordid secret.

“Just walking down the corridor with a wet slit, were we?” she chided, in the tone a detective might employ upon an incriminating discovery.

Her tone was assertively dominant, the voice of someone used to taking charge, and getting her own way. Her next act was to grasp my hand, and sniff my sticky fingers, it was pretty obvious where they had been. She made me feel like the naughtiest girl in the whole wide world.

She delivered her verdict whilst tipping my chin up with her fingertip, “You were touching yourself as you listened to us”. It wasn’t even a question, it was an assertion. My subsequent blush only affirmed my guilt.

“I believe in smacked bottoms for naughty girls,” she declared.

At first, I thought she was teasing, even flirting with me. After her pronouncement, nothing more was said, and I sensed the tension between us building. When she moved at last, my eyes followed her as she strode across the room to a leather satchel. She rummaged inside, until she pulled out a long thick wooden ruler, the kind an architect or artist might own - that was when my tummy tumbled.

I had never been spanked, not painfully anyway, merely playful slaps from lovers. Now I’d been caught wet-handed and I felt tremendously guilty. Seeing the ruler, and her smacking it experimentally against her palm, made me melt a bit inside, and the guilt of being caught so blatantly somehow seemed to dissolve within my gooeyness.

Naughty girl. Smacked bottom. Her words continued to echo inside my head, it was the mental equivalent of reinforcing an unexpected tingle by rubbing myself, deliberately keeping the sensation simmering rather than letting it ebb away.

I did not have to wait long for my comeuppance. On her return journey she grasped my wrist, and led me over to the bed. She chose to sit on the side, just beyond her partner’s feet. I was steered so I stood by her right-hand side with my back to her partner, who would surely be assured of an excellent view.

I felt the tip of the ruler under my chin, raising my eyes to meet her stern gaze. “Apologise for spying on us, young lady.”

I hadn’t actually been spying, your honour, just listening in, trying to establish what nuisance had interrupted me. But with my sentence hitherto decided and being already stripped for punishment, it didn’t seem an appropriate time to argue technicalities. I apologised as directed, first to her, and then half-turning towards him as much as the ruler beneath my chin allowed. I ended up giving my apologies to his resolutely stiff cock, which I noticed was still glistening with his lover’s wetness.

“Now tell me you’ve been a very naughty girl, and ask me politely for a good hard spanking on your bare bottom.”

It was like being in a trance. My vocal chords hummed, and I felt my lips move.

“I’ve been a very naughty girl. Please may I have a good hard spanking, on my bare bottom,” I repeated, unsure of what I was really asking for, but feeling that deep down I needed it.

“Bend over.”

I hesitated, having never bent over anyone’s knee before. What was the expected protocol here? To lunge over their thighs, and support oneself with hands on the floor, or bend at the hips and abruptly squash them with your weight? As I pondered this, she grasped my arm and yanked me unceremoniously over her bare lap. My hands plunged into the plush carpet, and my legs flailed in the air in a most undignified manner.

New sensations fizzed across my body. The first was her warm thighs radiating into my own, her body heat felt so blissful to my touch-starved body. The second was the tip of the ruler tapping and then rubbing against my bottom. The third was when the taps moved to my inner thighs, and continued until I’d spread my legs apart to her satisfaction.

She leaned over me to grasp my wrist, and folded my right arm onto the small of my back. I felt her palm press against my captured wrist, and all thoughts of leaping from her lap in an indignant sulk dissipated in an instant. To describe the feeling as being held does it little justice, I was anchored.

Lulled into a state of unanticipated tranquillity, her initial whack landed as a stunning surprise, expelling the air in my lungs as a startled yelp. A hot stinging sensation began radiating from the point of impact, which I was still trying to mentally process when the next smack landed right on top of it.

The ruler began to sting in different places, like sparks from a forest fire landing on new kindling, inexorably expanding the territory ablaze. She spanked me slowly, but firmly, with the righteous vigour of someone who’d had an extremely satisfying fucking interrupted.

It was soon obvious she was a skilled spanker. There were little clues, like how she allowed a moment of grace between each whack, enough for me to discern the sequence of sensations that were being rapidly fired up my spine to my brain. Each spank started with a sudden shock, then an eruption of heat, followed by a lingering sting that spread across my bum like a rock thrown into a puddle.

I’m certain she enjoyed how I reacted to her smacking. Her fuck-sensitised slit would have been rubbing against the luxurious duvet as I squirmed. Perhaps in those pauses, she was enjoying how my kicking feet and bucking hips caused a little quake on the spot where she was sitting. I loved how my dance could make her moan.

I don’t know if she realised I was watching her reflection in the full-length mirror opposite. It was easy to read the delight on her face, and - just behind her whacking arm - I could glimpse his fingers curled around his cock. He must have been tugging himself in time with the whacks, because I only ever saw his shiny swollen tip as the pain was erupting across my bum.

After her final smack landed, she laid the ruler down on the bed, and tugged my cheeks open with both of her hands. I felt tender, sticky, and quite contrite.

“You liked that.” It was not a question.

She was right. Even now, I still masturbate to the memory of the time she gripped my wrist tight, and the first spanking that ever made my bottom burn.

---

Despite the fiery throb, I could have laid across her cosy lap all night, dozing contentedly like a well-petted cat. But it seemed she had other plans. She released my arm, and allowed me to stand, but not rub. After rising herself, she pointed to where she’d been sitting and ordered me to kneel on that very spot.

I did as I was told, obeying her subsequent instructions to place my nose to the covers, and submissively raising my bum high in the air. It was strange yet comforting to feel where she’d warmed the duvet on my knees.

“Your turn, dear,” I heard her say, “Do you want to spank her, or fuck her?”

I was gobsmacked by her invitation, her presumption that she had the right to offer me up.

Then I heard myself thinking: it wouldn’t be so bad to be ravished, if he’s hot.

That was when I realised I couldn’t actually picture his face. He’d been lying on his back when I’d entered, and I must confess my attention was rather lured towards their thrusting groins. It had all happened in a bit of a whirl, I’d been staring at her, then been put over her knee, and now I had my nose pressed into the bed. On the balance of probabilities he would be hot, she definitely was, and I was quite prepared to trust her taste.

Little tremors propagated through the mattress as he rose, and I sensed him move behind me. Warm hands cupped my sore cheeks. I knew they were his hands because they did more than just touch me, they fondled me. They squeezed my sore cheeks like a grocer testing fruit, as if the pertness of my flesh was an accurate measure of my femininity.

An even more shocking violation followed, he splayed my spanked cheeks apart, and I felt his hot breath intrude between my legs. He peered inside, making me feel like a chattel up for auction in a sex slave market. I was powerless to do anything other than wait to hear whether my messy cunt was worth the coins in his purse.

Then he said something most unexpected, “Kneel beside her”.

His partner played along, climbing onto the bed beside me and mimicking my pose.

“Are you going to compare us, Sir?” she asked coyly.

He affirmed that was exactly his intention.

“Ooo!” she cooed, “A cunt competition! Winner gets fucked, loser gets spanked?”

He slapped my bum, “Would you like to play?”

I hesitated, dumbstruck. I hadn’t expected any of this, and events were now moving at a dizzying speed. An older version of me would have refused indignantly, but since I’d entered this room something seemed to have changed inside. Like I’d melted, and was being recast.

“Yes, please,” I answered as boldly as I dared, hoping I didn’t come across as an inveterate slut.

In truth, I was tired of being the one always standing outside, listening in, and yearning.

“Good girl!” he commended, rewarding my answer with another earnest smack.

I heard him moving away, and there was activity behind us. As we waited, I looked across at the elegant lady kneeling beside me, she gave me a smirk, and I did my best to return it. The rustling culminated in the unmistakable crinkle of a condom wrapper being torn. A sound that always made my pussy twitch.

“There,” he announced, “now I’m free to fuck whichever cunt I prefer.”

I exchanged a knowing look with her again. It felt so odd to be kneeling side by side with the woman who’d just spanked me, especially now I seemed to be in competition with her. I could see she was a pro, already spreading her legs, and arching her back so her slit was presented just right.

I wracked my brain for a strategy of my own. How exactly does one win a cunt competition?

My rival and I had both shaved and would be pleasingly smooth to the touch. After the excitement of recent events, our lips were both likely to be engorged pink and alluringly swollen. And it was almost certain both of us were already wet and slippy.

So what does a man look for in a pussy? The symmetry of our labia? The aesthetics of how our wetness glistens in the light? The gape of our entrance? The gothic architecture of our hood? Most men would never compose a rating scale for slits, because the only one that really mattered was the one that happened to be right in front of them.

If I had an advantage, it was that I was fresh cunt. I was a wildcard, an exciting stranger who’d literally stumbled into his world and now was presenting herself for his delectation. Yet, when we go to a restaurant, do we try something new for the sake of novelty, or opt to order our favourite dish? His favourite was kneeling beside me, I was merely a tempting drippy hole, a seductive fancy one might enjoy for dessert.

He inspected us visually first, formulating a first impression the way a visitor to a gallery might, approaching the masterpiece in reverent silence, then viewing it from a variety of angles. We esteem things more when we can look, but not touch.

I wished I could make my swollen cunt pout like a temptress’s lips. Sadly the anatomy he was scrutinising had such a paucity of expressions. I couldn’t draw attention with a teasing tongue, or coyly flash him a teasing smirk. I could only hope he’d stare into my moist pink depths, and somehow that would be enough to seduce him.

Then I heard him sniff us, deeply inhaling our intimate scent. No lover had ever smelled me before, not anything like this. We are so sensitive about our personal aroma, and his action made me instinctively anxious. What if I smelt wrong, how would I ever know? No wonder we so rarely risked smelling each other, we were terrified of causing terminal offence. But why so negative? I might have a sensational smell, right now the pheromones of my pussy’s natural perfume might be making his dick twitch.

It was shocking that the first touch I felt was the warm moist tip of his tongue. It intruded like a slithering snake between my lips, lapping at my entrance. At first I thought he meant to eat me out, but soon realised he was merely tasting me. I wondered if he was a connoisseur of cunts. Were we like wines, with our own unique bouquets? If so, what notes are most prized? A musky earthiness? Perhaps a subtle vanilla?

I once read that the lignin in old paper breaks down to the molecule we recognise as vanilla, and that's why old bookshops smell like sweet pâtisseries. Later I learned new books are printed on factory pulp, so they’re no longer enchanted with the same magic. If I could choose my own flavour, I’d want my own little pages to taste like a long-lost chapbook of vulgar love poems.

Only after he had evaluated us with his eyes, his nose, and his tongue, did I finally feel his finger touch me. He began by reaching between my legs and caressing my mound with slow sensuous strokes, which segued into an infernal ticklish skittering.

His skilful fingers went lower, he gently tugged my hood back, and the puff of warm breath on my stiff little bump suggested he was keen to inspect it up close. Simultaneously, two fingers traced a path on either side of my slit, down, then up, then down again, before he repeated that motion with great alacrity on my dainty little lips.

His exquisite fondling would last about a minute, then all the sensations suddenly ceased, and it would be my companion’s turn to gasp and mew. I suspect he repeated the same motions on her, genuinely curious to see how we both responded to identical touches.

The more he meticulously inspected us, the more desperate I was to be chosen over my pretty posh companion. As he stroked my lips, I could hear my inner voice trying to sell myself: I keep this part of me hidden from the world, Sir. It’s practically untouched, and could be all yours. Doesn’t it feel like the softest and most luxurious velvet? This little glove will fit you so well.

A probing fingertip went deeper, as he began to test my tightness. Fingers are more discerning visitors, they can evaluate cunts in ways impossible for cocks. Once greeted with a genial hug, fingers can linger and admire the texture and artistry of the decor inside. I must have made him feel welcome, because soon another guest arrived.

It was enduringly weird that I knew absolutely nothing about the man now stretching my pussy. It flew in the face of everything I thought I knew about intimacy. Drinking together, then eating together, the emotional vetting, and all those little tests of reliability.

The traditional process of getting to know someone resembled a long cinematic zoom shot. The camera started faraway, roving then abruptly halting, as an individual is noticed in a crowd. The shot would follow this subject, its focus tightening, causing new details to emerge, and the background to blur. Eventually the subject would come to dominate the movie screen of our mind, yet still we’d yearn to go closer. We’d zoom into their face, and keep on going until we plunged deep into their eyes.

The subsequent shot would see the camera panning down their body, as if following a trail of lover’s kisses. It would begin to move faster, it was now an aerial shot gliding over paradise. The scene would escalate in its intoxicating splendour until it finally flew between their legs. The music would swell, then all fades to black.

It was funny how intimacy varied as the depth of a shot changed. Close-ups could be quite wholesome, whilst wide shots might leave nothing to the imagination. A picture of the pattern on some panties is innocent enough to be a mere curiosity. Yet slightly further away, the contours of the wearer’s curves would be revealed. Go further, beyond the borders of the tight fabric, and patches of bare skin we rarely show in public are glimpsed.

As the camera retreated, the wearer would be seen in a pose like an underwear model. But the widest shot would be the hottest of them all, finally revealing the wearer’s seductive body language, and whether their face showed shyness or lust. Staring at the details of my cunt would be titillating, but a true voyeur would stand further back, enjoying how my whole body was prostrated for his delectation.

It was as if my movie was being played backwards, my cunt was already dominating his screen, he hadn’t yet admired my face, let alone fallen deeply into my eyes. He was yet to watch the prologue that revealed all the enticing clues to the life I led. I was an arthouse movie that had begun in media res, a sizzling cold open that would leave the audience shocked.

His movie was playing in reverse too, his character yet to be introduced. I didn’t know his name, and I’d spent more time gazing at his cock than his face, nevertheless, yet I desperately wanted him to want me. This was a need far more visceral than the horny itch one could scratch by coming. When I eavesdropped on my own thoughts, I heard how my inner voice was pleading. Please sir, I’ll be so good for your big hard cock, I’m so tight and willing. Do you find me pretty, Sir?

It was more than a hunger for validation. I wasn't a form that required an official’s stamp. It felt more primeval, more like the fundamental force within electrical circuits, where energy needs to be in particular places, and will flow by any path necessary to get there.

I was consumed by a craving to feel special, to be seen, and to be desired. I wanted to impress him, and bask in the glory of triumphing in his contest of attractiveness. Coming on a cock was just sex, I couldn’t imagine anything hotter than being enthusiastically chosen over others.

Do you like pink bums, Sir? Do you like looking at naughty girls who’ve just been spanked? I really do require such a strong strict hand. Can you give me what I need, and what I deserve? I imagined his stiff cock bobbing in the air just behind me, made even more rigid as he admired my punishment blush.

Put it in. Put it in. I definitely was thinking it. I might even have whispered it aloud.

Moments later, I felt his warm tip slip between my slippery lips.

Initially he was content to rest just inside me, and feel how my entrance reacted to his intrusion. I felt myself stretch, and mewed my encouragement. In response, he reached over me, and I saw his hand appear before my face. His thumb was pointing back towards my lips, so I took it inside my mouth, and sucked it languidly as he pushed in deeper.

He had admirable self-control. In my experience, cocks too often behaved like rogue fucking machines. Once switched on and let loose inside they simply pumped away like power tools until their juice ran out. He was using his dick to methodically probe me, thrusting to different depths - then pausing - like a sexual scientist academically invested in exactly how much I clenched.

Inside, I heard myself begging. Please Sir, push deeper. Push faster. My hot bum will feel so good against your thighs as you take me.

But it was never going to be a true fucking, not now, not unless I was crowned the chosen one. He withdrew after only a few thrusts, and shifted sideways to enter her. There was no favouritism, he slipped as subtly into her exactly as he had into me. Envy smouldered inside my empty cunt as I watched him push his thumb into her pretty mouth. As he moved inside her, I felt tiny shudders through the bed.

She sighed when he withdrew, which was the last sound either of us made before a tense and uneasy silence. We awaited his words, as if it were a royal proclamation. A minute must have passed, and I began to impatiently wonder why the male mind seemed incapable of rating only two cunts. Then I realised if roles were reversed, and I had to decide between two cocks, the choice would be agonising.

Eventually, he announced in an ominous baritone voice: “I have decided.”

For ceremonial effect, he continued by reiterating what was at stake. “One will come on my cock. One will dance to the beat of my ruler.”

He emphasised the reality of the forfeit by plucking the ruler from the bed, and tapping its cool tip against my trembling bum. Then I heard him tap my rival too.

“The one to be spanked will feel a whack across her bottom,” he clarified.

It was notable how he hadn’t used the words winner and loser. For a moment, I wondered if maybe the spanking might be the true prize. It might be so frustrating to be fucked whilst having to listen to someone else getting the sore bum you craved. I was a world expert in listening impotently to the pleasures of others. Though if I was honest, this was more an attempt to rationalise away potential disappointment. I was already sore, what I really wanted was to come on his cock.

There was an unbearable silence. I was barely breathing, hoping for the best but braced for the worst. I had thought of my raised bum as inviting, my pert cheeks alluringly framing my pink wet lips - but now it just seemed terribly exposed, like a gigantic unmissable target.

The smack, when it did eventually land, was the most intense I’d ever experienced. The pain of the impact hit my brain first, the ramifications crashed across my mind an instant later. He preferred my rival’s cunt, and that meant I must have my bottom smacked.

Beside me, a deep moan suggested he’d already entered her. Another smack followed, less painful this time, as it was delivered upwards with a flick of his wrist, rather than swung down from a height like the first.

It didn’t take long for him to establish a tempo. One thrust for her, one flick of the wrist and another stinging smack for me. Sometimes I’d yelp as each whack landed, or emit a frustrated moan. Part of me still hoped that he’d tire of her, and start fucking me instead. I wouldn’t have complained if he’d bent the rules and alternated between us.

Usually when I listen to others fucking, their exhortations are short, urgent, and unimaginative. “Yes! Yes!” was pretty typical. “Don’t stop! Don’t dare stop!” was common when one was close to climaxing, but worried their partner might not last that long. “Fuck me! Fuck me harder!” was quite the opposite, a plea for even greater stimulation, as if their partner had an accelerator pedal and they were desperate to floor it.

This couple said none of these. Instead, she seemed to be indecently aroused by the whacks that accompanied every thrust.

“That’s it,” she’d exhort, “give her a good hard whacking!”

He would riff off whatever she said. “Such a naughty girl,” he’d scold, “interrupting us when I was so hard, and ready to shoot.”

“So so naughty,” she affirmed, “you were hitting just the spot I wanted.” She said that whilst looking across at me, with a smirk that suggested he might just have rediscovered it..

I watched her as he fucked her, rather than bury my watering eyes in the duvet. It was so arousing to witness her pleasure so close, even though every stinging whack only fuelled the jealous fire smouldering between my legs.

I told myself I was getting spanked because my cunt wasn’t hot enough, and I can’t rationally explain it, but that thought drove me wild. Strange shivers surged through me. I felt like I was on the very brink of wetting the bed.

He spanked me so hard as he came.

As did she, very loudly.

I almost did too.

---

Afterwards, I was told to stay where I was, with my sore pink bum aloft, like a warning to bedroom eavesdroppers everywhere. She folded my arms behind my back, and left me kneeling on the bed whilst they visited the shower to rinse off their sweaty stickiness.

Amid the faint patter of water, I could hear them talking, albeit too muffled to hear any details. Though I did feel my ears burning, so they must have been discussing what to do with their pink-bottomed interloper.

As well as the heat in my bum, a fire was also raging between it. Whilst I’d been left alone I‘d contemplated using my fingers to try dousing the blaze, but on reflection I decided to be good, ever hopeful of future rewards.

The distant sprinkling ceased, and the couple reappeared wrapped in fluffy bathrobes. They walked straight over to stand behind me.

“So,” she asked in a pantomime tone, “what about her? Should we send her back to her room to ride her own fingers?”

“Why don’t you teach her your own little trick?” he ventured. She readily concurred.

She addressed me directly, instructing me to reach back and place a hand on each cheek, and spread myself wide. I did as I was told, touching my tender bum for the first time, unleashing a wave of fresh throbby aching. I presented my bottom hole for their inspection, and hoped they found both me and my ready obedience pleasing.

My display prompted a smutty conversation in which I was not invited to participate. She asked him if he liked my bum, (he did), and if he’d like to fuck it, (he would, but she’d have to make him hard again first). I’d love to, she replied. I peeped between my legs and saw her palm was already stroking across the front of his gown.

When she addressed me again it was to tell me to start rubbing my sore cheeks. I did my best to comply, but she quickly corrected my chaotic motions. I was instructed to rub with my hands mirroring each other, at a consistent tempo, so they alternately pushed my cheeks inward then sprayed them apart. It only took a few circuits to appreciate her method was far superior, as it subtly stretched the skin between my legs.

Occasionally she intervened to vary my tempo, ensuring the rubbing never became monotonous. She might tell me to halt, and count to six beneath my breath before resuming. During these pauses I’d peep behind me again, and see his hand moving inside his gown. I wondered how close he was to being fully stiff.

Meanwhile my clit was also swelling in ways I’d never thought possible. I’d never realised how a prolonged bottom rubbing could become an excruciatingly slow kind of masturbation. Each circuit alternately soothed, teased, and aroused. Yet the sensations were so tantalisingly weak, nowhere near enough to push me over the edge. It must have been fun for them to watch, and see me try.

Then to my great surprise, the tone of her voice changed, and she began to narrate a little story.

“Once upon a time, there was a naughty little peeping girl.”

I blushed. Guilty as charged.

“She had heard noises coming from the other side of a door. They turned her on - so much - that she began to take off all her clothes.”

Put like that it sounded rather far-fetched, but it was pretty much what had recently happened.

“Soon, she was standing naked with her nose to the door. Her eye to the keyhole, listening and watching the fucking beyond.”

She dictated her filthy fantasy so expertly, I was powerless to prevent the scene from filling my simmering mind.

“As she watched, she realised there was someone behind her, silently gawking at her own nakedness.”

This needed no imagining, I could already feel the pressure of that gaze.

“As she was such a naughty, naughty girl, she pulled her bum open to give them a show.”

I pleaded that I was getting so close, but I was curtly told to keep my hands on my bottom. I had never been this aroused without rubbing my slit.

That was when his voice joined her story, affecting a slightly different tone to how he usually spoke: “What a pretty little bum hole, if this naughty girl doesn’t come soon, I will have to put my finger in it.”

The realisation I might now actually be in a race made my tummy flip. Either I came from rubbing my bum, or I’d certainly come from having it stretched.

“Lick my finger.” he stage-whispered to his partner. The subsequent slurping was ostentatiously performative to ensure I heard it. It’s funny how merely hearing things turned me on so much, I suppose I’ve always been wired that way.

I was still rubbing in urgent circles, fully expecting his spit-soaked fingertip to tickle my bum hole at any moment. The prospect had already made me clench tight, setting off a whole new cascade of tingly quivering.

She knelt beside me, close enough to feel her hot breath in my ear. She muttered just three words: “Best be quick.”

My bottle was filled with fizzy tingles. I could feel the squeaking of my cork.

I heard her whisper: “Come for me.”

And I did.

They liked to watch.

---

When I recovered my senses, I was laying crumpled onto the mattress. I must have grasped my own crotch when the climax overwhelmed me. I opened my eyes to see her looking down at me with an unexpected benevolence.

“I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson this evening, young lady. You only need a smacked bum and someone strict to make you come.”

She strode over to the writing bureau and scribbled something on the complimentary notepaper, she folded and slipped it into my dressing gown’s pocket.

“If you ever want to experience that again…” she said quietly, but loud enough to hear.

Despite our intimacies, this mysterious woman clearly wasn’t a believer in getting-to-know-you smalltalk, or even grand goodbyes. As soon as I’d staggered to my feet, she pushed my bundled gown into my arms and ushered me still naked out to the door, shooing out me with a hard farewell slap to my bottom.

Their door closed behind me, leaving me naked in the hallway, as if I’d just fled from an illicit lover’s bedroom. Fortunately, no one else was here to witness my sudden indecent appearance. I fumbled for my keycard and made it to the sanctuary of my own room before anyone else arrived.

I wasted no time in pulling the lady’s scribbled note from my pocket, desperate to see the message she’d written. At the bottom, to my enormous relief, were the precious printed characters that would allow me to contact her again. I read her note in front of my room’s full-length mirror, admiring the pink souvenir she’d gifted to me.

After a visit to the bathroom, I snuggled into bed, enjoying how the cool cotton sheets felt against my hot spanked cheeks. I knew I had to send my reply now, before I slept, and the encounter became a memory of a dream. I had to act whilst my cunt was still wet and needy, or I might never be brave enough to send it at all.

My message could have been far longer, I might have confessed my sordid eavesdropping secret. Revealing how many couples I’d heard fucking over the years would definitely deserve a smacked bottom. Lots of them. But I tried not to overthink it, I simply typed what I felt, and sent: “I want to see you again please”.

I put down my phone, and the ambient burr of the air-conditioning filled the room. If they did fuck again, I never heard them, I crashed out hard, falling into a night of lewd and lurid dreams.

---

The following morning, I woke to hear them loving each other again. But this time, listening in was agonising rather than arousing. Every gasp of bliss seemed to scratch away at my soul. Having glimpsed the world behind that wall, exclusion cut me deep. It was not that I begrudged them joy, I merely wanted to be part of it as well.

I checked my screen reflexively, but had received no reply to my message. Sending another would have been embarrassingly needy, not to mention pointless, no one interrupts a fucking to check their phone.

If my experience last night had taught me anything, it was life belonged to the bold. Sometimes we had to step outside our sanctuary of silence, and go to where the noise was coming. I threw on my dressing gown, pocketed my key, and left the familiar certainties of my own room behind.

I was outside their hotel-branded burgundy door, standing where their siren song was loud enough to fill my ears and saturate my mind. This time though, I would not barge in. I needed to be invited. It mattered that I was wanted. I rapped my knuckles on their door, and felt the impact echo in my bones.

With shaking fingers I opened my gown, drawing both halves back behind my arms, so anyone looking through the peephole would see me entirely exposed. I did not intend to explain my interruption in words.

But nothing happened.

I waited in the hallway, quite alone, trembling in the eerie silence. My greatest fear was not that the door would swing open, but they were tired of me already. That they had already glimpsed me through the peephole, and dismissed me with a sigh.

My eyes were blurring with tears when someone grasped my hand, and pulled me through to the other side.

@spankingtheatre 2025