I spanked a bishop in the holiest building in London

It’s chilly in the top rooms of Westminster Abbey, but by the time I arriveI’m sweating, having kicked off my heels and tackled several flights of steep steps to get there.

With me is an 80-something bishop, I’ll call him John, who giggles as the keys jingle and he opens an office door at the highest point in the building. He’s spirited and has far more energy than I do after such a climb.

Why are we here? Well, bishop John wants to be spanked by me, but not just anywhere – he wants to live out his fantasy of being thrashed in one of the most iconic and holy buildings in London.

Much to my disappointment it doesn’t look hugely majestic or holy and there’s no stained glass window. Instead there are computers on large desks and clerical robes hanging on the back of the door which sway as John clicks it shut.

He wastes no time heading over to the (run-of-the-mill) window that looks out onto the street and tourists below, pressing his face against the glass as he lowers his trousers to reveal his pale quivering buttocks.

I slap his bottom with my bare hand, feeling the sting of the impact on my palm. This is just a warm up though, and after a few spanks, I whip out my wooden paddle hairbrush from my bag.

John stuffs his hand in his mouth to stifle his squeals as I bring the brush down on his already rosy cheeks – alternating each time and savouring each thwack.

What you likely wouldn’t guess is that John is well known on the spanking scene, running monthly events and appearing in dozens of spanking films.

The church obviously has no idea about his extra curriculars. I imagine he enjoys the incongruity of his parallel lives, with framed pictures in his home of him shaking hands with George Carey overlooking debauchery.

John is taking a massive risk. But then, he’s just an old beardy white guy – they’re everywhere. And in porn I feel people are always looking at the women anyway. He’s also been at it since the 1990s, so I guess he feels pretty safe now.

I first met the bishop about ten years ago, when his beautiful detached three storey home in south London was used to produce a custom spanking film. This was for a private buyer who spends about £100,000 a year on films of ‘school girls’ getting spanked by other women.

We had a makeshift script and a standard plot: an aggrieved teacher, played by me, was forced to discipline two schoolgirls. The school girls were, of course, actually in their thirties.

One had an enormous fiery tattoo covering most of her bottom, I recall, which rather broke the fictional dream. She also whimpered orgasmically at every thwack, which again, wasn’t quite the required vibe.

We shot five scenes anyway, and cast and crew all gladly accepted an offer of celebratory wrap party wine from bishop John. As I drank more wine talk turned to kink – and Christianity.

The bishop seemed entranced by my religious insights (I’m a committed atheist), or perhaps it was my stockinged thighs and resilient liver that fuelled his imagination. Either way, he hired me to spank him regularly after that night, about every month or so.

He typically wants to be spanked in semi-public settings where there’s a chance we might get caught, like wooded areas or parks – to each their own.

Our role-play usually tends to be slapstick. Often he’s been caught stealing frilly knickers from a woman’s washing line. In a bid to relieve the pressure on our overcrowded prison system, a ‘correction officer’ is dispatched and permitted to dispense immediate justice, in this instance bending the bishop’s naked bottom over for a flogging. Retribution, if not the divine kind. 

Back at the Abbey, a creak sounds, snapping me back into the room which smells like stale coffee and dirty carpet. I’m terrified of a security guard bursting in on us, as we’re in here after hours, but John has already assured me that the walls are solid stone.

Even someone as religion-free as me feels a certain sacrilegious thrill at our daring. A thousand years of history turned into a backdrop for muck.

John grunts and moans and his bottom turns raw under the watchful eye of photographs from him and his colleagues on their missionary work in various places around the globe.

His head rests against the window the entire time, with the thought a passing tourist might suddenly look up and see us making his penis twitch.

If they do raise their eyes skyward they’ll only see a dedicated man of God standing in sombre contemplation – not the tart bashing away at his rear end.

I consider twotting him with a handy bible too, thick and leather-bound, but thought I’d probably committed enough sins for one day. His interest in mingling religion and kink is a tense one, which he seems equally as fascinated by as he is disgusted.

If I push it too far, he might well be appalled and offended.

After countless lashings, John’s cheeks are bruised and surely tingling, as he pulls his pants back up and kisses me lightly on the cheek.

He thanks me for making one of his longest-held fantasies come true, then leads me to the pub. We’ll never do it again.

‘Just this once,’ he says over a drink. But, who knows, maybe he’ll change his mind if he has some sins to atone for in the future.

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