“Oh,” i’m so relieved, i know the answer to this question. “i come here because of all that other stuff! The yoga and meditation classes and the support group, even the foreced gardening.” i laugh at the thought of my pathetic gardening skills.
“i love submission, but no, i wouldn’t come here just for that. i’m a therapist – mental health, not physical or massage. And the program here is really designed for – well, for wounded healers. Not necessarily therapists and not necessarily mental health, but, you know, healers. And ones who’ve experienced their own pain. But you are too, aren’t you?” And i pause, expecting him to nod.
He smiles “We’re not talking about me now, are we?”
“No, Sir,” i say. He is still smiling, and his eyes are warm. “But i think you are a therapist, because of what you said, you know, ‘what brings you here?’ That’s therapist talk, i should know.”
He laughs then, and grasps my nipple between thumb and forefinger. “Gentle or painful ?” he asks.
Surprised, i gasp, “Um, oh, whichever you prefer, Sir.” He is still smiling, clearly not angry. In fact, he looks – mischievous, and as my brain registers that, he begins to play gently with my nipple, toying with me while i feel my pussy clenching and try not to moan or squirm. But i can’t hold back, and it’s not til i whimper that he lets the nipple go.
“Pay attention,” he says. “If you’re a good girl, I’ll let you ask me one question when I’m through. What kind of therapy do you do, and what kind of wounded are you?”
i’m not sure how i feel about the way he’s phrased that, but it doesn’t matter, i intend to give him what he’s asked for. Open and honest.
“I work with adults, Sir, with depression and anxiety, often trauma survivors. Often survivors of childhood trauma, lots of trauma. And some refugees. And you know, some kinky people. It’s not always easy for us to find therapists who ‘get it.'” i shrug.
He nods. Listening. So i go on. “And how i’m wounded? You know. Some stuff happened to me.” i pause – i’m always surprised that i’m still hesitant to talk about this, still uncomfortable. i hope that’s enough for him, but when i glance up, he’s just waiting, looking at me, waiting. Damn.
So i go on. “My first relationship was abusive – well, non-consensual first, he was 20, i was 12, but i thought i was in love. i guess i was in love. But he was also abusive. Physically, sexually. Lots of emotional and verbal abuse in my first marriage. Oh, um, and sexual.” i shrug.
“i’ve done a bunch of therapy around it, you know. But still.”
“Parents?” he says.
“Divorced. Dad was pretty narcissistic, it was all about how i reflected him. Mom was wonderful. Well, wonderful and perfectionistic.”
He nods. i am quite sure he’s a therapist. We’re talking therapy shorthand for heavens sake, while i’m sitting at his feet naked. As if i were a case i’m presenting to him for consultation. i feel the familiar rush of shame and think, damn it, i shouldn’t still feel like this, and damn it, why’d he make me go here?
“Good girl,” he says, and the knots in my stomach unclench a bit. He takes the other nipple in hand, tugging gently, pinching lightly, and my whole body shudders. He smiles. Releases the nipple.
He dips his thumb in his glass of wine, brings it to my mouth, places it lightly on my bottom lip. Instinctively, my mouth opens to take his thumb. i suck lightly, swirl my tongue on it, and suck again. The hint of wine lingers, but more than that i am enjoying the soothing sensations of caressing his thumb. When he withdraws it, i sigh.
Looking up, i see he is, of course, still watching me. “Did that help?” he asks.
Surprised, i nod. “Actually, yes, Sir. i was feeling – ” and i laugh – “feeling some kind of way.”
He nods. “A spanking will help too. But not right now, I think.” He runs his hand through my hair, pushing it back from my face. “Ready for the next question.”
My body is tingling, and i can imagine his hand landing on my ass. i wouldn’t mind that a bit, not right now, and i’m sure i’d like it more than whatever his next question is.
Not my choice though. And a hand on my nipple, pinching hard, brings my attention back quickly, as i cry out.
“Are you with me?” he says, grinning.
“Yes, Sir!” i say, with enthusiasm, and he laughs.
“Okay. In terms of what you need from this weekend, what do you see as the most important aspects of our interactions? For example, is it pain? Punishment? Ritual? What do you think most needs to happen between us?”
Good grief, i think, he’s doing a treatment plan.
i say, “Oh, Sir, i don’t know! How can i answer that? It’s all important!” But i know i’m being evasive.
And so does he.
Faster than i can say it, he leans over and pulls me up, turns me around and over his knee. “Apparently you do need this now,” he says as his hand lands firmly on my left cheek. i lift my head, trying to see who else is in the room, but lose interest quickly, attention refocused. His hand lands on the other cheek.
i gasp. He strikes again. Firmly. Again. Ok, hard. Ouch – oh, ouch. Rhythmically, as if he were beating a drum, his hand rises and falls. i struggle a bit, wanting to escape the blows, but he holds me firmly.
At last – and i don’t know how long it takes – long enough for my ass to feel like it’s on fire – but at last i feel myself relax into his control. i quit struggling. i offer my ass instead of pulling away. My whole body softens.
The blows are lighter now, and he continues rubbing my ass in between. His hand dips between my legs, and he says, “Very wet. Good girl.”
Spanking more slowly now, rubbing me gently, sensuously, til i’m moaning with pleasure. Longing to please him with my mouth. Wanting his hand between my legs, his cock inside me, wanting, wanting…
And he releases me. Abruptly. Lifts me off his lap and settles me back on the floor. My whole body is aching to touch him and be touched, and he says, “Now let’s try the second question again, girl.”