From: sfpo8@aol.com (SFPo8)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.spanking
Subject: Therapy
Date: 28 May 1996 07:25:20 -0400


Introduction and disclaimer: This is not a true story, but it touches on
some truths I think may lie at the heart of our shared obsession.  It is a
pure wish-fulfillment fantasy, with some parallels to my own life and some
huge differences.  

It is written for my own pleasure, of course, but it is also written with
the knowledge that at least two professional therapists read this group
and will either find this story of interest or find it to be totally
absurd (in the latter case, one of them will certainly know how to deal
with my misbehavior in writing it.) It is actually less a description of a
spanking (although I have tried to include enough to push people's buttons
here and there) than a sort of rambling scenario about what spanking
really is, to us, and what it may all "mean." It is also, in a way, an
explanation why, after being a member of a.s.s. for more than a year, I
write less and less, having been able to tame my demons through  writing,
a therapy of sorts. 

***********************************
Part I

I suppose I did ask for it; I know I did, in fact.  But hearing that,
hearing,"You asked for this spanking, and now you're going to get it,"
still chilled me in a way it never had before. That was the second week,
of course. 

The ad was different from the usual in the "deSade" section of the paper.
Most of them were of the "Goddess seeks obedient slaves" or "Nurse Wilma
gives her special enemas to bad children" or "Have you been naughty? The
Governess knows what naughty boys need" variety.  The promises were still
exciting, although I had already experienced many sessions with
professional women, and most had been, to at least some degree,
disappointing.

But this ad was new.  And intriguing.

" That naughty little boy inside you needs to come out and get the
spanking he has always deserved. I will find him, and spank him, and he
will be sorry indeed.  Call Dr. Anna Morton,  Special Psychology, 872-
4493 for information." 

Anna did not answer the phone herself; a surprise there, right at the
outset. Anna had a secretary, and an appointments calendar, and also, I
found three days later, a waiting room with some of the usual frayed
copies of National Geographic and Time, but also  frayed back issues of
Stand Corrected and Domestic Discipline Digest. 

I was relieved to find that no one else was waiting there with me to
observe the sweat on my upper lip and my nervous intakes of breath as I
glanced at some choice photos of bare-bottomed ladies being paddled, in
full color, while I waited for my appointment. I even listened very
carefully to hear - what was it I expected to hear?  Familiar smacking
sounds, and cries of pain from the offices within, no doubt. But all was
silence. Nor did I have, as I thought I might, a glimpse of a red-faced,
slightly teary "patient" departing from the office.  Suddenly the door
opened, and the secretary called my name, and I went in.

Dr. Anna's office was as drab and unexceptional as any other I had been
in, decorated mostly with diplomas and family photos, its only furniture a
cluttered desk and chair set, with a stereotypical psychiatrist's green
leather couch to the side.  Dr. Anna,  as she preferred to be called, was
a statuesque blonde with lustrous hair to her shoulders, about my own
height, but younger and in obviously better physical shape.  Of course, I
am 48, and a bit paunchy, whereas the good doctor must have been in her
mid-thirties, with the taut physique of a runner and the upper arms of a
weight lifter. I couldn't help but notice those well-muscled arms.  

I have never before been to a psychologist or psychiatrist, so I cannot
say whether her questions, at least at first, were out of the ordinary. 
They seemed routine enough: date of birth, occupation, family background,
and so on, and then some  questions about my sex life before zeroing in on
specific inquiries about the reasons I had come.  I began to explain about
my lifelong sexual obsession regarding spanking and the few experiences I
had had, and I started to launch into a description of my typical
fantasies when Dr. Anna stopped me.

"There is no need for you to tell me more. What you think you want, or
think you need, is not important. I am not a professional dominatrix; I am
a licensed psychologist with a specialty.  As such, I expect you to agree
to minimum of three one-hour sessions.  My fee is the usual one - $100 per
hour.  For the service I provide that is entirely reasonable, I am sure
you will agree. In fact, I think you will want to extend your treatments
well beyond the initial series . . . but first, you must sign this consent
form here, and then we will begin the hypnosis session immediately."

"Hypnosis?  I'm not sure . . . "

"Of course not. I need to explain. Hypnosis is the easiest and most direct
way for me to discover what your deepest fantasies are, the ones you have
kept hidden even from yourself. I am sure you could tell me about all the
fantasies of which you are aware, and you may have even tried to act these
out, but it is never quite a satisfactory experience is it? "

"No, actually . . .  I did try that  . . . but  . . ."  

"Exactly.  Spanking, which is my specialty, is rooted in childhood,
somewhere in childhood, almost certainly before you can remember how,
when, and why you acquired this particular obsession. My treatment cannot
necessarily rid you of that obsession, although in certain cases, when
patients want to change their orientation, I can accomplish that.  But
most do not want to change; in fact, most find that my treatments enhance
their appreciation of their special interest.  Changing your orientation
was not  what you wanted, is it?"

"No, I didn't have that in mind.  All I really was looking for . . ."
   
"Was a good, old-fashioned spanking.  Of course. Isn't it revealing how we
always call it a "good" spanking?  Well, I promise you - it will be good,
better than good.  But each person is unique; and to provide you with that
spanking , I have to find the roots of your desires, the sources, the
reasons.  I have to meet that little boy who is hidden away inside you,
somewhere, because he is the one who needs the spanking, isn't he?  And
when you have been spanked before, that little boy never quite got what he
needed, did he?"

"No . . . no, I guess I always feel . . . somehow . . . outside the
experience.  You know?  Yes, of course you know. I see that.  You mean I
won't get . . . that is, today  . . .  we only have what's left of the
hour, so . . . "

"So, no spanking today.  Right.  After all, the anticipation is one of the
best parts of the experience, and when you leave today, you will make an
appointment with my secretary for the next treatment, and that *will* be a
sound spanking, for certain, so you will have quite a bit of time to
anticipate. Do you understand?"

I understood well, and already I began to feel that odd constriction in my
chest which has become so familiar to me whenever I think about undergoing
the scary and slightly dangerous process of placing myself in the power of
a strange woman for a session of bare-bottomed punishment. I had no sense
of disappointment that a spanking was not imminent at all, only a sense of
excitement and foreboding at what was to come. I signed the proffered
clip-boarded form without really reading it, and lay back on the padded
couch, anticipating I knew not what.  

I had never experienced hypnosis before, but it came as no surprise to me
that I was asked to count backwards from 20, and did so slowly, as Dr.
Anna told me to relax, and to feel sleepy, and I counted, and then  . . . 

And then she said, "Well, that was very interesting indeed. I have rarely
found what I was seeking with any greater ease, or precision. You, or I
should say your inner naughty child, was most informative.  And, indeed,
very naughty, and very deserving of a special kind of spanking.  Which he
will certainly get. 

"Please make an appointment with the secretary, and I will see you next
week.  In the meantime, I want you to think about this, and only this:  I
have spanked many little boys, and I do so regularly, but this bad little
boy I will enjoy giving as sound and thorough a spanking  as any little
boy I have ever encountered.  Next time.

"Oh, yes: the secretary will give you a standard set of instructions as
well as some specific ones, which you should follow explicitly.  That
naughty little boy will get his spanking, as he certainly should but, of
course, there will be a third session too.  And if you do not follow
instructions, you both will be spanked even harder at that time.  When
that happens, it happens as much for my pleasure as for yours.  So I
really don't advise it."  

"I think I have discovered a little boy who has been begging for a
spanking for, oh, about 40 years or more, and in another week he will get
everything he has coming to him. Yes, you can go out the front door, by
the secretary's desk. The back door is used  after a spanking, so you do
not have to be observed as you appear then.  As you will learn."

The next week crawled by at first and then raced as the day for my return
visit approached. 

I had read the standard instructions carefully. They were bland and
sensible: no aspirin less than 8 hours before my visit; bathe in the
morning , paying particular care to "personal hygiene;" wear light,
comfortable clothing; eat lightly and no closer than two hours before my
appointment; and allow an extra hour after the appointment before
expecting to return to work.   

There were also  specific instructions she asked the nurse to type for me
as a result of what she had learned during the previous meeting.

1. Go and purchase a wooden hairbrush, at least 3" across and 6" in
length, preferably larger. Be sure it is solid, not hollow, and made of
real wood, not plastic or composite. Bring it with you. 

2.  Purchase and bring with you a pornographic magazine - hard-core, not
Playboy or even Hustler. It must include close-up pictures of intercourse
and fellatio.

3.  Bring a picture of yourself taken some time before your eighth
birthday.

4. No matter what you ordinarily wear, you must wear white cotton jockey
briefs on the day of your appointment, not boxer shorts.    

The only difficult task was to find a hairbrush of the kind requested.
Most drugstores seemed to carry only light, plastic models, or wooden ones
much smaller than specified.  I finally found a solid tan oval hairbrush
in a bath and specialty shop; it was a bit thicker and heavier than I had
wanted, knowing to what purpose it would be put, but it was the only one I
could find large enough to  avoid the likely penalty of failure to bring
such a brush with me.

The photo I chose to bring was one of me posed on a little pony ; I must
have been about five years old, and I was cute, innocent, and smiling
broadly.  I could not look at that photo easily without a huge feeling of
nostalgia and a strange affection for that charming little boy I must have
been.  I hoped that the charm might lessen the intensity of twhich he
seemed destined to receive and which, I now realized, might be more than I
had sought.


Part II

My second appointment was for 2 P.M., and I was so concerned not to be
late that I actually arrived at the office building fifteen minutes ahead
of time.  I felt foolish pacing the lobby with my briefcase, knowing what
was inside, and I felt equally foolish trying to window shop in the street
outside, thinking only of what was about to occur; so after futile
attempts to pass time, I took the elevator to the 16th floor office suite
and waited, again alone.  This time the illustrations in Domestic
Discipline Digest of bare-bottomed little boys, tearfully receiving sound
spankings and paddlings,  filled me both with dread and aroused
anticipation.  

When the door to the inner office opened, I was surprised to hear Dr. Anna
address me in a very different tone of voice from that of the previous
week, and by a name I had not heard in many years:

"Kenny, I need you to come with me right this minute; right this minute,
please, and no ifs, ands, or buts."

Kenny!  I am Kenneth to my associates, Ken to some of my friends, but I
haven't been Kenny since I dropped that name in seventh grade.  Not only
the name, but the language she used brought back long-forgotten echoes of
conversations with my mother, my aunt, and my school teachers.  Without
even thinking, I looked down at the floor and shuffled my way to the
doorway, where Dr. Anna grasped me firmly by the wrist and led me not to
the office where I had met with her before but to another room, further
back down the corridor, a room with a heavy, thick doorway, into which she
pushed me ahead of her before closing the door with a soft thudding sound.

It was furnished with a child's bed and dresser, a child's desk and chair
set, a thick blue carpet, and wallpaper with illustrations of nursery
rhymes. There were no windows.  There was a large screen across one
section of the room, and a several large closets; I learned later that the
screen hid and the closets held other furniture, and that the wall
coverings could be changed to simulate different environments.  My own
room as a child had not resembled this one, but still I immediately felt
transported to an earlier time of my existence as Dr. Anna led me to the
low bed, pushing me back to sit upon it while she stood before me.  She
took my briefcase from me, placed it on the dresser,  and then returned to
stare, silently, down at me.  I kept my gaze on the carpet between her
shoes. 

"Kenny," she finally said, in a flat, unemotional voice, "We both know
what you did, and what you're going to get now. Don't we?"  

"I . . . I'm not sure . . . I don't remember . . ." I had no idea what she
meant, and I wasn't sure what role she expected me to play.

"No, you don't want to remember a lot of things, do you, Kenny?  But you
do, and you will . . . and you will be a very sorry young boy. You do
remember how you got spanked when you were two because you wouldn't take
your bath and made such a fuss, and splashed your mother, and how she took
you right out of the tub, dripping wet, and put you over her lap and
spanked your little wet bottom until you cried. You remember that, don't
you?" 

But I didn't.  Somewhere, in a corner of my mind, something stirred; the
story had a familiar ring, but it was like something I had seen, or read
about.  I didn't think anything like that had happened to me . . .  at
least . . . I wasn't sure.  "I don't . . . think so . .  . that's not  . .
. I don't remember that . . . " I stuttered a little, not at all sure what
answer I was supposed to give.

Dr. Anna's hand closed about my wrist as she yanked me to my feet. "You
know perfectly well that happened, Kenny . You told me so yourself last
week.  So you are lying.  And lying little boys get spanked, and you are
going to learn that right this minute." Her hands were at my belt, and
before I could think twice she had opened my trousers and slid them to my
ankles.  "Now.  Get over my knee.  You have earned yourself a spanking,
and you know it." 

She sat down on the bed and motioned me to get across her knees, and
before I could even think about complying she had grabbed my shirt and
pulled me there, beginning a rapid stacatto of spanks to the seat of my
jockey shorts. It didn't hurt very much; in fact, I was hardly aware of
the pain, but I did feel totally confused, certain that I had not lied and
so did not deserve this spanking, although I also had known it was coming,
of course. I almost felt disappointed that it was such a light spanking
and not the punishment for something real which had been promised. I was
still not sure how I felt even when she paused, after a minute or so, and
I felt her fingertips slip under the elastic band at the back of my
underpants and slide them down to my knees before the spanking went on,
now beginning to have a noticeable sting to it.  

After about two minutes more of this, just as my backside was beginning to
feel a bit painful and warm, Dr. Anna stopped and said, "Now, stand up and
pull your underpants back up, and we can continue this discussion.  I hope
you will be more careful about telling me the truth, now that you know the
penalty for lying."  Still confused, I did as she asked, pulling my
jockeys up as fast as possible but still aware that, since she was seated
and I now standing, she had been gazing directly at my crotch as I did so.
In fact, she continued to stare very obviously at the front of my
underpants as I stood before her.

"Now, Kenny, let's see if your memory has improved.  Do you remember how
you looked in your parent's bedside table once, and what you found there? 
Do you remember how you felt?"

And suddenly I *did* remember.  I must have been about seven, old enough
to be alone in the house one Saturday morning when my parents were grocery
shopping.  I had stolen into their room and poked around and, for some
reason, decided to look in the drawers next to my father's bedside, and
there I had found, under some old folded pages from the morning newspaper,
a magazine, filled with pictures I did not really understand but knew,
instinctively, that I was not supposed to see or to know about my father
having.  Naked people, not just naked but . . .  lying so that you could
see . . . . and doing things which I could only guess about.  I almost did
not hear the front door close half an hour later,when my parents returned,
and my heart was beating in my chest as I hurried to replace the magazine
just as I had found it, sneak from the room back to my own before my
parents came upstairs, and pretend to be involved with my comic book
collection when my parents found me.  

Dr. Anna sat there, calmly, watching as the memories washed over me. Then
she said, "Kenny . . . go and bring me the magazine I told you to bring.
No . . . just leave your pants as they are for the moment."  So I hobbled
over to where she had put my briefcase and brought back the magazine I had
just purchased,  not unlike that first glimpse I ever had of raw sexuality
long ago, and I proffered it to her.  She shook her head, and motioned me
to open it and look at it, and as I did so she continued to stare at my
underpants, only a few feet from her, at her eye level, as I felt myself
began to engorge and felt the shame of her watching that happen, watching
my thin cotton jockeys move by themselves as something within twitched
with a life of its own.  

Suddenly she tore the magazine from my grasp and looked at it herself, her
expression unchanged as she noted that I had been looking at a picture of
a blonde woman not very much younger than herself, lying on a bed, legs
apart, with the erect penis of her partner showing at the edge of the
picture and a small stream of semen coursing down her cheek.    

"You saw this long ago, didn't you?  You never should have seen it then,
and you were never caught, and your parents never knew.  What would have
happened if they had known, Kenny?"  

This time I could answer with complete honesty.  "I would have gotten a
spanking."  

"On the bare bottom?"

"Yes."

"Hard?"

"Yes. Very."  

"And how do you think you would have been spanked, Kenny.  How do you
think you should be spanked?"  

"With the hairbrush."

"So, now, finally you are going to get that spanking, aren't you?  Just
like you should have then.  Please bring me the hairbrush, and bring me
the picture I asked you for, too.  Oh, and you can take your trousers off
now, and everything else except your underpants."

I stepped out of the tangle of trousers, quickly unbuttoned my shirt, slid
off my undershirt and socks, and went to get the items as instructed, all
too aware of how I looked, the front of my underpants bulging in front of
me as I returned and stood before her, photo in one hand and hairbrush in
the other. She took the photo from me and looked at it with interest. 

"Such a darling little boy," she said. "So sweet.  So cute sitting there
on his little pony. Little Kenny.  Do you think Little Kenny's mother
would have been happy to know how he had sneaked into her room and looked
at pictures of people fucking?"  

"No . . . ma'am" I mumbled.  The word she had used had never sounded so
obscene before.

"What do you think she would say if she knew little Kenny had a big
hard-on from looking at a picture of lady with come all over her face?" 

"I . . . . uh . . . don't know."

"Oh, yes you do.  She would have been terribly upset about sweet, darling
little Kenny finding out about that.  And she would have been ever more
upset because little Kenny knew that it was *her* magazine, and *daddy's*
magazine, wouldn't she? 

"She probably would have been too upset to spank you, the way you knew you
needed to be spanked.  Because what you did was very, very bad, and what
you found out was not something you wanted to find out at all.  But you
did need a spanking, and a really hard one, and you still need it, because
you still feel bad about what happened, and yet you still get all excited
from looking at this stuff, don't you!?"  And Dr. Anne reached for the
front of my jockey shorts and stripped them down, my erection bobbing
there in front of her, uncontrollable and undeniable, still causing me
shame the way my early discovery of my parent's sexuality had caused me
shame then. 

"So, Kenny, it is now time for you to give me the hairbrush and ask for
your spanking. It will be  long, and hard, and very painful, just as you
know it should have been, and as it should be now."

It was a moment of gut-twisting mixed emotions - relief and fear,
relaxation at the imminence of what I had waited for and terror at how
severe it was going to be.   And, I knew, I had no choice at all.

"Please, Dr. Anna," I said as bravely as I could, "Please take this
hairbrush, and put me over your knee, and give me a long, hard spanking on
my bare bottom, as long and as hard as you think a really naughty boy
deserves." 

And then I heard the words I knew I had to hear, wanted to hear, and may
always want to hear:
"You asked for this spanking, and now you're going to get it."

A hairbrush spanking is always painful.  On an only slightly spanked,
barely warmed bottom, it burns from the very first stroke.  Dr. Anna's
well-muscled arms did not hold back, nor did they tire; she laid on with
the hairbrush with the regularity of a ticking clock, faster than one
spank per second, on and on, a dozen, two dozen, five dozen . . . I lost
count after the first ten and only was aware of how the hairbrush fell,
over and over again, first on unspanked places,and then on places already
spanked and sore, and then on places already soundly spanked and burning
with soreness, only to be spanked over and over again, until I began to
writhe across her lap, and shout out from the pain, and then to beg for
her to stop, and then to protest and try to get up, and then to feel her
strong left hand pressed against the small of my back as her legs pinioned
my legs between them and the spanking went on and on . . . .

Until, at last, the tears came.  Tears which had been waiting to flow for
forty years.  

As I lay there, across her lap, sobbing from pain and shame, the spanking
stopped, and I felt her hand touch the most inflamed portion of my bottom,
the curve where it joins the   thigh, and even the light touch of her palm
seemed to burn the inflamed skin there. Yet it was a soothing caress,
which went on as she spoke.

"So, Kenny, now you have gotten the sound spanking you needed. I told you
it would hurt, and it certainly did, from what I could tell. You are a sad
and soundly spanked young man, aren't you? You are sorry for what you did
now, aren't you? Have you learned your lesson? Have you learned what
happens to bad little boys, Kenny?"

"Yes. ...oh, yes, ma'am. I have?"

"What happens to them, Kenny?"

"They get spanked.  On the bottom.  On the bare bottom, and it hurts . .
oh, it really hurts." 

"And they deserve what they get, don't they, Kenny?  They deserve to be
spanked when they do naughty things.  Spanked a lot, until they can't sit
down, until their bottoms are good and sore and stay that way for a long,
long time."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Have you been spanked soundly now, Kenny?  Will you remember this for a
long, long time?  Will you need another spanking to remember?"

Oh, no, ma'am . . . I don't need another spanking. I'll remember." 

"Oh, Kenny, what a little liar you still are!  You know perfectly well you
have to come back here next week!  And you know that while you have been
lying here, your bottom has already stopped hurting so much.  Why, you
have been *enjoying* it as I have been touching your sore behind. Some
little boys never learn. Oh, well . . ."

And the spanking that followed, while not as long, hurt even more, and
again I found myself in tears, pleading, begging, struggling to get up, at
the mercy of Dr. Anna and a hairbrush which brought me to a private,
special place inside my head, a place of red, hot, unthinkable pain . . .
and, after a few minutes, of great peace.

As I dressed myself, Dr. Anna turned her back, as if to acknowledge that
Kenny was now gone and Kenneth was the naked man before her.  In fact, it
was as Kenneth that she addressed me, reminding me to make an appointment
with the secretary for the following week.  I wanted to thank her, but I
felt completely disoriented, wrung out emotionally and yet refreshed and
newly born.  I looked her straight in the eyes - piercing blue eyes, I
noticed for the first time, and I shook her hand and told her that I had
never experienced anything like that before.  

"Yes, I know," she said. "You were a wonderful patient.  I really liked
little Kenny.   He is a fine little boy, and he has grown into a fine man,
although that man still has to come back next week for *his* spanking. 
And after that . . . .well, we'll see. I have a feeling Kenny will be
coming back from time to time, too.  I'd like that.  I'll see you next
week."

Actually she has seen both of us many, many times since, and both of us
have grown up a lot from her continued therapy, which touches us both in
the deepest parts of our being and makes the two of us, boy and man, one.

Hal