Therapy: Chapter 1

13 min read

photo: MetArt

Who calls the shots in this therapeutic power dynamic?

Session 4

Therapy is actually kind of fun.

Sandra is nice to talk with. And that’s mostly what it is. I talk about the previous two weeks, and at the end she gives me some advice. Cognitive Behavior Therapy is very practical in that sense.

She doesn’t know much about kink.

I didn’t think that would be an issue. Then I did. Then I realized it was fun to talk about it with her.

At first, it was just vague stuff. She’s not stupid. But, nothing specific.

This is our fourth session.

She’s wearing the exact same thing she wears every time I see her.

A black dress, not too short, that swishes when she walks. It covers her arms, and goes up to her neck. Black tights, or pantyhose, or something. I can never tell. Black heels.

Very professional.

I’m only human. I like looking at her.

She isn’t gorgeous, or anything, but pretty.

And, to be honest, I’m worked up. I had a lot this past weekend.

“So, what have you been up to?”

I know I’m blushing.

“Well, to be honest, my girl and I went to a sex club.”

“Like a strip club?”

“No, no, like a club where people do sexy things. It was a fetish night so there were lots of people doing the kind of stuff we like.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, you know, like rope, and spankings and things like that. I saw one guy wrap a chain around his fist and punch the butt of the girl he was with, a lot. I definitely want to try that.”

“So you two just watch?”

“Oh no!”

“Really? You do that kind of thing in front of people?”

“No no, that isn’t my thing. There’s sort of private rooms.”

“Oh, so you do your stuff in there?”


“Like what?”

She’s pressing a little bit. I like that, because I like talking about this stuff.

“I have toys to spank her with, and my hands. You know.”

“And she likes that?”

“Oh god yes!” I actually laugh, and she smiles.

“And you like hitting her?”

“I do. But mostly because she loves it so much. You should see the smile she gives. It’s bliss.”

“So this is for her benefit, mostly, then?”

“Yes. No. I mean, the pain, yes. For me, it’s about power.”

I’m pretty sure she didn’t just squirm. She was just adjusting her position.

I like looking at her, but I know my imagination can get away from me.

“Tell me.”

“Like, an example? Ok, so, when we go into these rooms, the first thing I always do is throw her over the bed, lift her skirt or dress, and pull her panties down. If I’ve allowed her to wear them. Then I just smack her ass, good and hard, for a minute. It lets her know I’m in charge. She likes the pain, and it puts her in her place.”

Which is way more blunt than I’d intended.

This time she did squirm.

And clenched her legs together.

“And then you use toys to hit her?”

“First, I make her answer a question: who owns that ass? She’s a good girl, so she always says, you do. Then I smack it a few more times, to drive the point home.”

“And you use what, a paddle, or something?”

“I use my hands, or an acrylic cane, or this leather bat I have called a jack. She ends up with a lot of marks, and bruises, that she’ll feel the next day or two.”

“And so you do like hurting her.”

“Oh, yes, I like the sounds she makes. I like how desperate she gets with each hit.”

She’s uncrossed her legs. There’s the tiniest gap.

I push, just a bit.

“I like the sounds. I like the smell of her, getting worked up. Falling into that place where I’m the only person in the world who matters.”

I see a flicker of tongue tip, just at the corner of her mouth.

“And violence is how you achieve that?”

“No. Violence makes her body feel good. But it also shows her the power I have over her. And her body knows it. It opens up to me.”

“She’s ready for sex.”

I think she almost blushes.

“No. She’s ready for whatever I decide to give her. With her ass in the air, it’s hard not to want to claim it. The club provides plenty of lube, and I bring these pretty blue latex gloves.”

She almost bites her lower lip.

Session 10

I guess it isn’t surprising that things have changed, a bit.

Sex has entered the relationship.

Not sex, but the concept of sex.

It’s therapy, it’s personal, so I would assume this comes up a lot, but in an abstract sort of way.

This is different.

This pushed a button.

I shouldn’t want this, because it will probably keep me from getting what I need out of this relationship.

But I want this, because it is new, because the dynamic is complicated, because it is interesting.

I want this because I do.

We continue to talk about normal things, like work, like the vanilla aspects of relationships.

But a pattern has emerged, where, eventually, there’s no other possible topic outside of kink.

“When you hit her, is there anger?”

“No, never. Even when I’m punishing her. Anger…anger isn’t sexy. More, anger is dangerous, and not in a sexy way.”

“But dangerous is sexy for you?”

“Sometimes. Breaking rules, pushing boundaries, things like that. I mean, all done in a context of consent, y’know?”

“Consent is important to you.”

“Consent is required. We went to a convention once, and she bought me a cane.”

“A cane?”

“Nothing fancy. Literally just an acrylic rod, with a bit of a handle.”

“To hit her with?”

“That was the idea. But, later, she was kind of afraid of it. So we didn’t. We talked about it from time to time, and when she was ready, we did.”

“You hit her with it.”


The pause in her questions was powerful. I may have blushed. She definitely did.

“Did it leave a mark?”


“But it didn’t harm her?”

“Oh, no. I like hurting her, I don’t want to damage her.”

That pause again.

I watched her breathing.

“Will you bring the cane next time? I’d like to see it, and understand. For both your sake and hers.”


That question was repeated each session.

Sometimes with more insistence.

Sometimes with more…pleading.

She could easily have gone online and found a picture of what I was talking about. She could have ordered one. They aren’t expensive.

But that wasn’t the same.

Not even close.

I was enjoying this far too much.

I was enjoying her forcing herself to ask, each time.

I was enjoying her trying different ways to ask, each time.

I enjoyed replying, “Maybe.”

Fun fact: I had it in my car, each visit. Just in case.

She was almost at a breaking point by session 10.

She wore something very similar to what I’d come to think of as her uniform.

All black, still, but her dress was cut low, and was just a bit too short.

Flats had been traded for pumps.

Tights had been traded for stockings, which afforded me a glimpse of bare thigh when she awkwardly shifted positions.

I was honestly unsure if this was for my benefit or hers.

I didn’t like it.

I didn’t fucking like it at all.

I may have scowled the entire session.

Finally, at the end, she asked her question.

As she did, she very deliberately crossed her legs, making sure I had something to appreciate.

“Will you bring the cane, next time?”

I stood up to leave, silently.

As I passed her, I paused.

“Maybe. And don’t ever fucking dress like that again,” I replied, calmly, but, even for me, there was a bit of bite.

In the car, my heart was racing as much as I was sure hers was.

Session 11

She’s back in her usual outfit the next session.

It’s more than a little difficult to not say anything about it.

It’s more than a little difficult to not say ‘good girl’.

But I’m well aware that we are in stupidly dangerous territory. Though not at all the same spot, for either of us.

I’m also new at this. Uncharted waters, and all.

But damn.

I bring my poster tube in with me. She can’t know, for a fact, that I have my cane in there, and she doesn’t know about the other toys, but she’s got to be thinking it.

I like her distracted.

There’s no need for me to even play with it. I just put it in the corner, and smile at her furtive glances.

She cracks at minute 45.

“Why didn’t you like that, what I wore, last time?”

Her voice is so soft. She’s confused and a little ashamed.

“Because that wasn’t you. Not the you I want.”

“But I wore it for you.”


“I did!”

“No, you wore it to get me to do something for you. I’m pretty sure that, if it had worked, you’d have been disappointed.”

She blushes.


“But, I like that you tried. You are used to having a quiet power, right? You’re the shrink, and have authority. You also know an awful lot about what is going on in the heads of others, myself included. But, for that moment, you went to a… I don’t know… a bolder, brasher power. And I doubt that was easy for you.”

“No. It wasn’t. I didn’t think about it like that. I just did it. But it wasn’t easy. Sometimes, it’s really important for me to not over-think things. Professional hazard.”

She smiles. I don’t actually get to see that smile, very often.

I like it.

I glance at the clock. We’re at minute fifty-two. My mind starts racing.

“Sandra, we’re running over.”

She blushes, and averts her eyes.

“Did you cancel your next appointment?”

Her blush deepens. She won’t meet my gaze.

“Sandra, answer me.”


“Did you cancel it last time, too?”


I smile.

“Now, ask your question.”

“Did you bring the cane?” shoots out of her mouth, like she’s been holding it in the entire session. Which, I’m pretty sure, she has.

“I did. Would you like to see it?”

“Yes. Please. Very much.”

“You’ve earned it, I suppose. Bring me the tube.”

The confidence in my voice is shocking, even to me. I’m never like this, in the real world, only with the magic that comes with just the right connection. I realize that she’s been biting her lower lip after each question. I fucking love it. Almost as much as I love the long pause as she decides how she feels about following orders. Or, at least, following orders right in front of me. She’s already decided she’ll obey.

She moves with deliberate steps across the space, and brings me the case. I kind of wish her hands were trembling, but I kind of like that they aren’t. She’s nervous, but she very much wants this.

I can’t help myself.

“Good girl.”


I might have blushed after saying that. She definitely did.

I slowly unscrew the cap on the tube, my eyes on her, watching her watch the opening of this treasure chest.

What’s funny is how unimposing the cane is. It’s just a long, acrylic rod. But pulling it out, revealing it to her, and letting her mind run with the image of it, of it being used. Well, that is kind of magic.

I put the carrying tube down, and hold the cane across my two palms, almost as if I’m offering it to her.

I’m surprised she realizes that she isn’t allowed to take it.

More, I’m surprised she keeps herself from taking it.

She’s shifting, ever so slightly, from one foot to the other.

Her hips are at about eye level for me. I enjoy the subtle swaying of them.
I look up, and it is as if I’ve given her permission to speak.

“This is it? The one you hit your partner with?”

“Well, it isn’t the only thing I spank her with,” I tease, “but yes, this is the cane you’ve been asking to see. I hit her with it last night, in fact.”

She swallows.

“May I touch it?”

I honestly struggle with whether or not to allow it. There’s a timing to these things.

“Yes, with your fingertips. One hand.”

And she does. Her right hand runs along the shaft, her fingertips barely touching it, just sensing the rigidity of it, the hardness, the unforgiving stiffness. Those fingers run left, all the way to the tip, then right, down to the handle.

“May I hold it?”

Again, I can’t help myself.

“Yes, but not if you are standing.”

Now she’s the only one blushing. She struggles, and I worry I’ve pushed too much, but as wound up as I have her, I’m just as badly off. That can reduce my ability to be clever.

She makes a noise, a very quiet, very tiny, very new noise. Like the exhalation of a strange, held breath.

And then she’s on her knees.

My own breathing shudders, just for one or two breaths.

“Now, ask again,” because I might as well keep pushing.

“May I hold it, please.”

I like that additional word. I like that word a lot.

“Yes, you may.”

Her palms up, she takes it from mine, letting it rest in her hands.

It isn’t impressive, it isn’t heavy.

Its weight comes from its function.

Its weight comes from its use.

Its weight comes from want.

She isn’t looking at me.

Her eyes are down.

“Does it hurt very much?”

“Sure. It can. It depends on how you use it, of course. How hard you swing it, where you strike. And the individual themselves. It isn’t the most painful thing you can be hit with, but it can leave marks felt for days.”

She chews her lower lip.

I’m not sure if she’ll ask. I could have blown this. She might not be ready yet. Shit, this is not actually OK from an ethical perspective.

“Will you?”

“Will I what?”

She has to think for a moment. She has to decide how she wants to phrase this request.

“Will you let me feel it?”

I could make her get more explicit, sure. But I’m already torturing her.


She holds out her hand.

“No. There’s a lot of tiny bones that can break. You’d be surprised. And a lot more nerves. It isn’t a good test.”

She thinks again. She’s processing a lot, trying to figure out a path through this minefield. What does she want? What can she get away with? What is she willing to do? And what does it all mean?

Watching her struggle is a new joy for me. Something I’ll be thinking about for a long time.

“I don’t know. Where’s best?”

I’m more than surprised that she isn’t pushing something.

She’s scared.

I like that, too.

“Well, the back of the thigh is safe.”

Hey, I’m a nice guy.


She turns ninety degrees.

“You’ll have to lift your dress, just a little. The upper thigh is,” — I want to say best — “safest.”

Her shaking fingers grip her dress, scrunching it up just barely high enough.

“That’s fine. This won’t be too hard, don’t worry.”

I give her a little whack. Not much, just enough to feel the bite of it.

She makes a tiny yelp. Not much, just enough to let me know.

“That’s not too bad.”

“Well, I didn’t want to really hurt you. You just wanted an idea of how it feels.”

“Do you hit her harder?”

“Oh, much.”

“Could you…just a little?”

I don’t even answer, I just do it.

Her yelp is louder, more real, now.

Her mouth stays open.

“Like that, you mean?”

She just nods.

“It’s better on fleshier parts.”

I think she stops breathing as she lifts her dress a bit more, revealing the curve of her ass, her blue panties underneath the nylon.

She’s silent. Her head back a bit, lips closed, waiting.

I push.


“Let me feel it, please.”

I give a harder whack, this time. Avoiding her panties, and the nylon only takes a bit of the edge off.

No yelp this time. More like a grunt.

She’s not thinking.



“Please, let me feel it again.”

“Feel? I don’t think that’s the word.”

This is a hard one for her.

I am loving this.

“Please, hurt me.”

I pause, letting her experience the moment.


She’s on all fours in a heartbeat.

I’m surprised.

I like not knowing.

“Say it again.”

“Please, hurt me.”

And I do.

Three sharp hits.

She’s making new sounds, now.

There’s a run in the fibers covering her ass.

“Fuck,” she whispers, probably not aware that she spoke.

“It feels better without all that covering.”

She shifts as if to push down her pantyhose.

Before she can, I simply rip them open.

That earns me a moan.

I don’t wait.

I hit a few more times, red marks appearing.

Her brow touches the floor.

The lines across her ass, across her thighs, are beautiful, and the raggedness of her breathing is like asking me to hit her again, and again. And, of course, I do. At some point, she stops even making the sounds of pain, she’s just struggling to get air into her lungs.

Those long, straight lines of the cane have started to fade into one another, and I realize I’ve been beating her for quite some time. She’s a good, eager girl, and she takes it. I can smell the wetness of her cunt, and I so fucking badly want to touch it. But both of us must behave, I suppose.

“Still with me, Doctor?”

There’s a long pause.

She lifts her head a bit, turning it to look up at me. A line of spittle runs from the corner of her lips to the floor.

I know that look, that look that says whatever she is seeing is very personal. I’ll never know.

But I don’t like that she isn’t responding to the question.

I don’t like that at all.

With my foot, I push against her hip, rolling her over onto her side. She immediate curls up, defensively, but it makes her no less vulnerable. My foot rests on her, making that very clear.

I put just a hint of menace into my voice.

“I asked you a question, Doctor. Are you still with me?”

“Yes! I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I am still with you.”

“So, have you learned why I do what I do?”


“Hm. Have you learned why she likes what I do to her? Why she likes it so very much?”

She doesn’t speak. That’s ok, for a moment. Because it gives me time to truly enjoy the shame on her face, the guilt, the want. And more, the lack of surrender. Part of her hates this, resents it. I love that very much.

But, after that moment, I can’t let it go. She has to learn how this works, if we are to keep moving forward.

“I…fucking…asked…you…a…question, Doctor. When you get yourself off this floor, you can do what you want. But that is not now.”

I’ve given her a way out. All she has to do is get up.

But that is the last thing on her mind.

Good girl.

“No. Yes. A little. I understand a little.”

“Mister. When you are on the floor, I am Mister.”

“I understand a little, Mister.”

I smile, and then make her watch as I check the clock.

“Good. That’s our time for this week. I feel like we’re making really good progress, Doctor, I want you to know how much I appreciate that.”

I lift my foot from her, and watch as she struggles to right herself. She doesn’t get to her feet though. She could just be too much of a mess, emotionally and physically, to do so. But, seeing her there, on her knees, sitting back on her feet, I can’t help myself. I reach out, fingers spread. And slowly, like a nervous bunny, she inches forward, until her throat is in my hand, my fingers clasping around it.

Her eyes are on mine.

I begin to squeeze.


She’s scared, but doesn’t pull away.

She trusts me, but not completely.

Which is what makes this so much fun, so very important.

And I release, letting her down.

“I’ll see you next week.”

I place the cane back in the tube.

At the door, I look over my shoulder, and somehow she’s gotten herself to her feet. I’m struck by an idea.

“By the way, Doctor, do you do couples therapy?”

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