Election Day

2 min read

I always vote.

When duty calls, I never decline.

But how naughty it felt to cross the threshold of the polling station, smuggling such a sordid item into this most sacred space. This church hall. This temporary temple of democracy.

And then to stand in the short queue I as waited to confirm my name. The clerk said it out loud, as if he knew exactly who I was. Even though he couldn’t have known what I was hiding, he made me feel notorious.

I flirtatiously fiddle with the hem of my skirt, and coyly accept the ballot paper he hands to me. I let it flap in my hand like a suitor’s handkerchief.

He points towards the row of booths against the wall, their cheap curtains limp like an ersatz peep show. I saunter towards them, sashaying conspicuously, a walking blasphemy along the line of pews.

I choose the empty booth in the corner, and pull the curtain fully closed behind me. Just me and my sacred ballot, hidden from any eyes that might pry.

The booth has a little low table to write on, conveniently about waist height. I set my phone down, aiming its camera towards me, and press its screen to start recording. There had been a sign on the wall as I entered: No Photography. But what goes on in the sanctity of the voting booth is none of their business. And I don’t keep secrets from Sir.

I lift my skirt.

Oh Sir. I’m so sorry.

In my haste to do my democratic duty, I must have completely forgotten to put on any underwear…

I spin around and lift my skirt again.

Spreading my legs so there can be no doubt.

In this dim alcove I wonder if there’s enough light to allow it to sparkle.

Oh Sir. How naughty of me!

To go out to vote wearing my princess plug…

I let my skirt fall, and scrutinise my ballot paper for the first time. Now, who shall I choose? I read down my list of choices.

What about Mr Stephen Bewers? He’s the Labour candidate, standing for fairness, equality and social justice, like some latter-day superhero. Worthy yes, but he just doesn’t turn me on. Far too sensible a choice, like what my teachers would want me to choose.

Here’s Mr Cecil Drake. The UKIP candidate. Likely considers himself a straight-talking man, one of those self-important bores who try to pick me up in bars. His is the Party of Out. An In-Out Referendum, there’s a thought… In. Out. In. Out. I reach behind me, taking out my plug, examining it, smelling the musky scent of my own bottom. Then replacing it, feeling it slide inside and fill me up. Then out again. No. I feel empty without it. Sorry Cecil, it seems I prefer an In to an Out.

Or there’s Mrs Eleanor Martin. A Liberal Democrat. She sounds like a teacher, I wonder if she’s handy with a ruler? I could warm to her. Or at least my bottom could. But something tells me liberals don’t believe in smacked bottoms any more. What a shame.

How about Ms Harriet Willows? Ah, she sounds like a strict governess. One who’d put me over her knee, and smack my bare bum with her slipper, then make me face the wall in shame with my pink cheeks on display. She’s a Tory, the party of austerity and firm leadership, the party for those sent to boarding schools and convents.

I turn around, lifting my skirt to reveal myself to the camera once more. I pump my plug in and out with my free hand, slowly so as not to give myself away with squelches, hoping the clerks won’t think I’m taking too long to deliberate. This is a very important decision after all.

The party of strictness turns me on. Ms Willows would definitely slipper my bare bum if she caught me like this. She’d believe in taking care of her constituents, instilling discipline. She wouldn’t hesitate to call at our home, and give me a good whacking as Sir looked on.

I’m playing wantonly now. Fiddling with myself. Rubbing my clit.

The plug feels so large inside my bum. Oh Sir!

I’m going to come for you!

Afterwards I grasp my ballot with my sticky fingers.

I place my X beside Ms Willows’ name, just like a little kiss.

I do hope she will be cruel to me.

I take my phone, coyly draw back the curtain and deposit my ballot.

Wondering if the clerks can smell my sex.

Later I know you’ll ask me.

Of course I voted, Sir.

But I was naughty.

I voted for a Tory.

And you’d give me the smacked bottom naughty girls deserve…

Originally published at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com

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