"Is this your first time?" the nurse said, gently, as she handed me the clipboard.
"Yes, ma'am," I said, shyly.
"You'll do fine," she said, in a kind maternal tone.
I sat down with the clipboard. It was a release form, and on the back, there was a checklist and a blank space where you could write in things that the doctor needed to be aware of while administering the treatment. I never thought I would take this route, and even when I had gone to get medical approval from my doctor, he had encouraged me to consider other avenues. Doctors, as a whole, did not like alternative or complementary therapies, I have discovered. He had given me the same grief when I had gone to an acupuncturist for the same problem.
I was able to check "no" on most of the checklist. I had never been raped or otherwise sexually abused, physically abused, emotionally abused (although I would like to know what their definition of emotionally abused was,) or held anywhere against my will. I almost didn't check the question about being spanked as a child. I suppose by definition I had been. I had been smacked on the bum a couple of times when I was three for running into the street, but that was all. I signed the disclaimer at the bottom that said I was allowed to end the treatment at any time that I saw fit.
I felt a tickle in my tummy as the clock drew closer to eleven o'clock. I watched the birds outside the window jump from branch to branch as I forced myself to keep my eyes from the clock. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard my name. I flew out of the chair.
The doctor didn't say anything for a moment. He just looked at me kindly.
"Is that your release?" he said, gently, and I nodded. He reached out for it and as I tried to pass it to him, my hands shook so bad that I dropped it on the floor.
"I'm sorry," I said, my voice squeaking. I picked it up quickly and handed it to him, cursing my clumsiness. I mumbled about my own idiocy under my breath.
"Follow me," he said, and I obeyed.
He led me into a typical examination room, one that you would find in any clinic or hospital. Rather than smelling like harsh disinfectant, it smelled as if someone had lit spicy incense. In the middle of the room, there was a table that looked like an examination table, except for the hump in the middle. My palms began to sweat.
"You were spanked as a child?" the doctor said, breaking me from my reverie. I almost jumped out of the chair again.
"Huh? Oh, yes," I said, nervously. "Once, for running in the street. I was three."
"You look frightened," he said.
"I-,"
Suddenly I felt as if I couldn't lie to him. His eyes were brown and his hair was salt and pepper grey and he reminded me of every fantasy I ever had for a daddy. I felt as if lying to him would be the worse sacrilege I could commit. Worse than lying to a priest. Worse than lying to God.
"I am," I said, quietly, hating my vulnerability.
He took my hand in a paternal fashion and patted it. "It's okay to be frightened," he said. "This is a scary treatment. But trust me when I tell you that it will help."
I nodded mutely, like a child getting a lecture she knew she deserved.
"I want to remind you that you are here voluntarily, and that you can stop the treatment at any time."
I almost didn't want to hear those words. I almost wanted him to tell me that I needed this and it was for my own good. I almost didn't want the option of leaving.
"I'm going to walk you through what will happen and then we'll get started," he said. He showed me the ropes – figuratively. Literally, they were more like straps. He walked through what would happen from beginning to end, and then handed me a hospital gown (the kind that ties in the back but is mostly open so the whole world can see your tush. It was fitting to the occasion.
He left me alone to change, and I did so, quickly. The whole time I thought I would bolt, but I forced myself to unbutton my shirt. I left my bra on since I didn't see any reason why I would need to take it off. My panties, however, were a different story. I knew those had to come off. When they were off, I felt open and vulnerable. I couldn't run, unless I wanted everyone in the waiting room to see my bare ass.
The room was impossibly quiet. I knew there were other doctors who were administering the treatment to other patients. Why couldn't I hear it? Or hear a little crying or whimpering? I jumped when a knock on the door cut into the silence.
"I'm all set!" I said, loudly, my voice cracking again.
"Okay, before you get on the table, tell me why you're here."
"I feel horrible and stressed and angry all the time and I can't control my temper."
"I'm going to remind you for the last time that you can stop the treatment anytime by saying, "stop treatment,"" he said. "Unless I hear those words, I'll go from beginning to end."
"I understand," I said, the butterflies in my stomach forming their own army in an attempt to escape my stomach.
I climbed onto the table. I lay my abdomen over the hump, and all of the vulnerability I felt when I first put on the hospital gown returned threefold. I felt as if my partially clothed ass was nearly touching the ceiling. I closed my eyes and he put the padded cuffs around my ankles. Then I felt him tighten the strap across the top of the back of my knees until it was snug. He followed the same procedure for the strap across my lower back. He finished by putting my hands in padded cuffs. I had limited movement in my arms and lower legs, but the middle of my body was snug against the padded table. If I hadn't been so terrified, I would have been fairly comfortable. Well, as comfortable as anyone who is strapped to a table with her nearly bare ass in the air.
My nearly bare ass became a totally bare ass as the doctor opened the back of the hospital gown. I felt him put a blanket over the back of my legs, leaving about half of my thighs and my entire ass bare. He also put a blanket over my back, which was also partially bare.
"Are you warm enough?"
I nodded.
"Let me know if you get too warm."
That would have been funny if I hadn't been so nervous.
"I'm going to start," he said. "This room is soundproof, so make all the noise you need to."
The first slap was more startling than painful. I jumped, mostly internally as it is difficult to actually jump when you're strapped to a table. I lay there, quietly, drinking in each sharp slap. His spanks were rhythmic, quarter notes, four-four time. My bottom started to tingle, then sting.
The friend who had recommended the treatment had said it was painful, but satisfying. I had been expecting large pain. Screaming pain.
Moments after the desire for large pain had crossed my mind, I noticed I was squirming and clenching my bottom. The warmth was growing across my bottom and the sting of his hand became more biting. I breathed deep into my stomach and grit my teeth. It wasn't that bad.
I was getting spanked. I was twenty-eight years old and I was getting spanked. It's funny the things you think when you're laying over a table with a hump in the middle and having a professional spank your bare ass.
I soon stopped thinking. I could feel each rhythmic slap. His hand was tireless. I expected him to stop, to give me a moment to catch my breath. I wiggled harder. My wiggles then turned to flailing. I kicked my legs and thrashed my arms, acutely feeling the bindings. I couldn't move the middle of my body; couldn't escape his ceaseless, stinging slaps. I was still quiet. I grit my teeth against the pain.
"I'm going to switch to the belt now," he said, and I burst out crying. The big pain was coming. "There are the tears," he said, quietly, gently touching my back. "You need to let those out."
I wanted to ask him to stop. I wanted the treatment to end. My bottom was on fire. Something inside of me pushed me along, knew how important this was.
"I'm going to start again," he said, quietly.
A moment later, I felt a hot lash. I cried out. His lashes were like his spanks: rhythmic and firm. He didn't whip me as quickly as he spanked me. Each lash had a chance to sink in, from the first shock to the deep, achy, lingering pain. I howled and squealed. I made noises that I had never made in my life. Grief, pain, and anger poured out of me through my tears and howls. The whipping felt as if it lasted an eternity, and I was still crying and flailing after he stopped.
He covered me completely with a blanket and put his hand on my back. I felt warm and comforted. He left his hand on my back until my sobs subsided.
"Good job," he said, quietly.
"Can I get down now?" I said, my voice trembling.
He released the bindings, and I slid off the table. I could feel my bottom throb as I stood up.
"You're going to be sore for up to a day," he said. "I'd like you to return a few more times."
I nodded quietly. I felt quiet inside for the first time in a long time. I felt whole.
I hugged him.