Law

"Come in, Ms. Sharp. This is your fourth and final visit, so you know the drill. Read the release form, sign it, and get ready."

I did as instructed, and the therapist, Jan, continued with her instructions.

"You've signed for a spanking, a paddling, and a strapping, all of indeterminate length plus forty; that's four o, strokes of the senior judicial cane, an incremental increase of ten on last week's session. I'm sure you remember last week, thirty strokes ended up being over fifty because you couldn't stay in position. The same rule applies. You get up. We begin again."

"Yes, miss," I replied, standing naked except for my pretty panties, hands by my sides, the way Jan likes me.

"My therapy works. Once you leave here, you will have been thoroughly punished for your perceived wrongdoing, the slate wiped clean. Do you understand?"

"Yes, miss."

"Right," she said. "I've picked out the cane, one of my favourites and, according to its recipients, extremely painful. You now pick a paddle and a strap, and we'll get started. That's right. And over you go. My knees are always available for naughty girls like you to go across for the start of their punishments. Warm-ups are just as important here as in the gym."

I wake up in a sweat very regularly.

And when I don't wake up in a sweat, it's because I seem incapable of sleeping properly at all.

I worry, you see. And yes, I know that worrying in the middle of the night, especially when you've got nothing to worry about is a whole new level of stupidity. 

I'm not stupid.

I'm not.

But nothing stops me.

From worrying, that is.

So I get therapy when I have to and feel the lack of sleep is overwhelming me enough to harm me.

I can't afford to let that happen. 

I like to make money, d'you see? And I'm good, really good, at what I do.

I'm Molly, Moll to friends and those who know me. Ms. Sharp, to those that don't and my advisories. Hired straight from university, I'm forty-something, you'll have to guess, so for the past fifteen or so years, I've worked for Johnson, Barker, and Quinn, solicitors. They pay the price to keep me, and I deliver. With the highest 'win' rate in the company, I've amassed a client base that I work very hard for, both corporate and criminal. The former, in the main, pays a substantial salary, helping me to own all the nice things and enjoy holidays and luxuries that I honestly do appreciate all the time.

The latter is why I wake up and also why therapy, for me, is an essential, although expensive, part of my life.

Ok!

Let's start where it all started.

Before knowing the full remit, I accepted my first criminal case, defending one Mr. Arsehole Scumbag. At the time, he was just Jon Doe, someone charged who needed defending. But once I'd done my work, using all the skills I and my team could muster, we got the result we needed.

"Is this a decision upon which you all agree?"

"Yes, Your Honour."

"And how do you find the defendant?"

"Not guilty."

"Mr. Doe, you are free to go." And the party began even before he and his entourage escaped the court.

For this, I received a huge bonus, as much as Mum and Dad earned in a year...and a car. Not a cheap run-around. A £75,000 luxury sports car.

The partners' legal team looked into it all and could find nothing wrong with a grateful client lavishing their lawyer with such bonuses.

"Just enjoy, Moll. They're few and far between," Mr. Quinn said, shaking my hand. 

It had also benefitted the practice too. 

Within a year, I, well, my team, had collected more details on Mr. Doe.

That's when he became Mr. Arsehole Scumbag. 

He was and still is, after all these years, a career criminal of the first order, and we, I, helped him get away with murder. Literally murder. Multiple murders, actually. 

This is when the wakening sweats began. 

From my journal at the time. 

It's my fault, isn't it? If I had not done such a good job, maybe that man and his family would still be alive. I'm not sure defending such people is going to be my line of work. But I suppose that I'm Quinn's good books now, aren't I? He has given me some better work since.

The ultimate upshot, and how I came to be standing here today, was a drink I had with the practice manager, Rose Probert, Rosie.

"There's no shame in it," Rosie repeated, trying her best to make me at least think about therapy. "You're brilliant at what you do, so don't let this one bad experience derail you. Go talk to a professional. That's what they're there for."

People from my background don't believe in therapy and therapists. Well, I didn't, anyway. I didn't say this to Rosie, though.

"I'll think about it," I told her.

Then didn't. 

About a month or so later, exhausted from lack of sleep and knowing I wasn't performing to my fullest potential, Mr. Quinn called me to his office late at night.

But it wasn't the expected bollocking. He had another of those jobs for me, and he expected the same outcome.

So we, me and my team, delivered.

"Not guilty. You're free to go."

Party, party. Big bonus. Lavish, and I mean lavish; all expenses paid holiday and higher than high praise from Mr. Quinn.

"No idea how you did it again, but you may have found your extremely well-paid vocation, Moll. If that is, you've no problem defending these people."

"No, Mr. Quinn," I replied, loving the benefits but hating the people I was being expected to work for. "Everyone deserves the most robust defence available to them, don't they?"

"Yes, Molly," he continued, knowing, or thinking he knew, how I felt about these people. "Everyone. Reputations, so important in our profession, are built and broken by work of your quality. Keep it up, and I'm sure you'll be invited to the big table in no time. Thanks, Moll."

I'd been dismissed. 

"Drink?"

"I think I need one tonight," I replied to Rosie's blunt question.

"Meet me in Brannigans, 9.30ish. There'll be a drink waiting for you. I think we probably need to talk."

"Thanks, Rosie. I'll be there."

"Drink up," she said as soon as I arrived and ordered two more. Doubles. "Tough one. What's he bollocking you for?"

"No, no. Praise with the dangling carrot of future promotion. 'Big table' promotion. That means 'partnership' doesn't it?" I asked her, using the hated air quotation marks, then dissolving us both into gales of laughter.

"Yeah," Rosie eventually replied. "The prick sees himself as a gangster's lawyer," and the laughter took us again.

"Ideas, well above his station."

"Right, Missy, I've been watching you."

"Fuck off, Rosie," I said, the drinks and lack of sleep making me sound angrier than I was. "I'm not going."

"First of all, please don't swear at me like that."

"Sorry, Rosie."

"Okay. And yes. You are. I've made you an appointment with the best, the very best in her field. You'll go, pay your money, and I don't care if you just sit quietly with her for the full hour. You're going, even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming. Please, Molly. I care about you too much to just sit and watch you become even more of a shell."

I cried then.

Rosie put her arms around me, holding me until I calmed and the tears slowed, eventually stopping enough for me to speak through the sobs.

"Okay. But only because it's you. I'm not doing this for me. I don't want or need therapy, just a better way of coping with 80-hour weeks and the stress of dealing with those fucking people."

A week later, it wasn't the taxi I'd booked waiting for me. It was Rosie.

"I hate you," I told her, jumping into the passenger seat with a lightness I'd not felt in...well...forever, or that's how it felt.

"Yes, Molly. I know you do. But I guess something clicked in there."

"No!"

"Liar."

"Yea. I know."

"Well," Rosie continued, pushing for answers.

"Well," I paused again, and Rosie waited, patiently this time. "It's all about how I'm dealing—actually not dealing—with defending these bad people. Someone has to, and I'm that someone for now. She says I need something to kind of balance what I do. Next time..."

"Next time?"

"...yes. Next time she'll have put a plan together for me. We'll discuss it at length in a double session. Drink?"

"Yes, please. And I'm starving, too."

A week later, plus a couple of hours, Rosie was waiting again. This time, I hadn't been expecting a taxi, but I felt waves of relief seeing her there in her big, luxurious, air-conditioned car.

"Well?"

"Give me a minute. And d'you fancy getting a takeaway and some wine, my treat? I'd rather be home, my home, than out somewhere being seen," I asked her, hoping for the right answer. "You can park up at my place and stay the night if you'd like, too."

"Just a minute. You seem...different, somehow. What's happened?"

"Can't we just go home? Please?"

I started to cry. Again.

She held me. Like a lover would. Stroking my hair and cooing gentle, reassuring, sweet nothings in my ear until I calmed enough.

When we got home, Rosie furtled around in my bag till she found my keys, let us in, sent me for a shower, and ordered food to be delivered.

Ice-cold wine was waiting for me when I came back to the kitchen. The table I rarely eat at was set ready with placemats, cutlery, and coasters for our wine glasses.

"Sit," Rosie instructed. 

"In a minute," I replied.

"What the fuck?"

I turned my back to her, loosened the waist tie on my pyjamas, bared my bottom, not for the first time since taking the afternoon off work, and showed Rosie my red-striped, spanked, and caned seat.

"She calls it 'spanking therapy', and I'm booked in for the next four weeks as well," I told Rosie, slipping them gently back over my beating.

"And," Rosie questioned, almost angrily. 

"And what?" I queried.

The doorbell rang, and I answered it to retrieve the food.

"And how has it made you feel?"

"I'm still processing it at the moment."

We ate in an uneasy silence, but the food and more wine helped me.

Picking up our glasses once the food had gone, Rosie took us into my sitting room and sat next to me, awaiting some kind of explanation as to how the afternoon had passed.

"Jan did this to me, with my absolute permission and an understanding of how my mind is processing what I do."

I paused, collecting my thoughts and expecting the conversation to end there. 

"Tell me then," Rosie continued, filling our glasses for the third time.

"What?" I asked, pretending not to understand.

"Details. All, and I mean all, the gory details."

"Well. Long story short, she explained that her secondary therapy, only used rarely by her, was a balancing procedure. I've done something I perceive to be bad—very bad in this case—and my mind won't let it process until I'm disciplined for it. A few probing questions later, and I'm agreeing that, well, you really want to know?"

"Yes, yes, please. I do," Rosie quickly answered.

"Well. She gave me options. And they all involved some kind of punishment. At this point, there were barely fifteen minutes left of our session, but she offered a trial run."

"She's a fucking perv," Rosie interrupted. 

"Yes. I think she is. But if it gets me what I want, it's a price I'm willing to pay. You want more details, or have I satisfied your curiosity?"

"More," she said with a smile. "Hearing about another perv is worth the wait."

"Why? What? Are you one too? Tell me."

"Nope! You first."

"Need a pee. Back in a mo."

"Have you anything a bit more casual I can change into, Moll? We're about the same size, and a shower if I'm staying."

I got her some pyjamas and undies, leaving them on the bed in the guest room whilst she was in the shower. I cleared away the debris from our meal, cleaning as I went.

"Right," she said, returning to the kitchen breakfast bar and perching on one of the high stools. "Tea, please, and you can continue now with this afternoon's shenanigans. I'm...intrigued."

For some reason, she patted my silk-covered bum as I walked past her to fill the kettle. 

I flinched, the tenderness there making it feel like a smack.

"Ouch!"

"Don't be a baby. It sounds and looks like Jan did a lot worse."

I put mugs of tea on coasters on the granite surface.

"Come on, Molly. Tell me the rest. Or do I have to spank it out of you?"

"Would you like that?" I asked, genuinely questioning.

"Maybe," she replied, with more than a lascivious glint and a lick of her lips. Tea, sweetened with honey, was sipped and savoured.

"Well," I began again, "Jan explained her process. After thoroughly discussing how I felt about the 'wrong' thing or things I'd done that were contributing to my chronic insomnia, together we would plan the extent of the punishment or punishments I should then receive. And they will, if and when I agree, run the full gamut of corporal and associated punishments."

"Explain, please," Rosie interrupted again.

"Corporal, including..."

"Yes. I'm familiar. Spanking. Smacking. Strapping and belting. Paddling. Caning. Whipping. Mostly on the bottom," she said, patting mine again as I was standing next to her. "But also on many other parts of your body."

I noticed, in retrospect, the change from general description to specifically me. 

"But associated? What was meant by that?"

I became squirmily embarrassed. 

"Sex," I replied quietly.

"How? And speak up, or turn the music down a little."

I did both.

"She, Jan, said that if it became sexual, erotic, a turn-on, so to speak, then that, too, would be incorporated into any punishments.

"Why the fuck would it? Fucking perv. She's grooming you."

"What are you on about?"

"You know what that is?

"Of course. But I'm not going to let that happen, am I? I've got you to talk to, and if you want, I'll debrief you after each session. Details so you can, well, you know, steer me in the right direction."

"But I might be grooming you too. Ever thought of that?" Rosie said with a huge, toothy grin.

We laughed uncontrollably. 

"But finish off about session one. I'm still intrigued."

So I explained that Jan had removed her jacket and instructed me. She sat on her git-posh office chair that she'd moved into the centre of the room and 

"For these final few minutes, all I'm going to do is spank you, then I'll treat you to six of the best with a junior cane. Ok?"

I'd been too flummoxed by the whole session up till that point, and even though I knew this was ultimately what was going to happen and why, but now?

"Okay," Jan continued. "Skirt and slip off and get over here," she said, patting her lap in a most businesslike way.

There was no option to refuse or even pause to consider what was happening. In seconds, my clothes were gone, and I was in the most embarrassing position imaginable. Jan's palm was making increasingly hard contact with my barely covered bottom.

"Fuck. You're hurting me. Stop it. You're hurting me."

"That's two extra strokes for swearing. And if it didn't, there'd be little point, now would there? Spanking from me invariably ends on your bare bottom," she said, tugging my skimpy knickers down to my mid-thighs, and this increased vulnerability made it feel like she was smacking me even harder.

Jan answered the question raised in my mind.

"No. This is nowhere near as hard as I can, intend to, and will spank you. This is an introductory taster. Now. Jump up and bend over the edge of my desk."

Awkwardly I did so, but not, I think, fast enough. Jan smacked me constantly until I was in the position she required, my bottom and leg tops stinging horribly.

"If you get up," Jan said, whistling the thin, flexible cane through the air, "all the strokes up to that point will be repeated. In my presence, it pays to do exactly what you're told when you're told. How many are you due to?"

"Eight."

"Eight, miss," she said, hitting my bottom extra hard, once for each word on alternate cheeks.

"Eight miss. Eight miss."

"That's better."

Jan lined up the cane, and with a swish and a thwack, followed by a yell from me, I jumped up, clutching myself as though I could squeeze away the pain.

I couldn't, but holding my chin, she spoke quietly but menacingly into my face.

"You're here to be punished for what you've done, yes?"

"Yes miss."

"So you need what?"

"The cane, miss."

"And if you get up?"

"We begin again, miss."

"Count your strokes. I've only a very few minutes left."

In less than a minute, I was beaten. Thrashed. Eight evenly spaced and increasingly loudly counted strokes were slashed onto and into my bare, unprotected bottom.

"Okay. We're done for this week. I'll see you at the same time for the next four weeks, when the discussions and severity will increase incrementally until I'm satisfied that you feel you've been punished sufficiently. Book yourself in with my secretary. Thank you, Molly," Jan said, shaking my hand and passing me a thick envelope. "Some, what shall we call it, homework, to be carried out at some point midway between sessions. Goodbye."

"I'd already pulled up my pants, so after replacing the rest of my clothes, I left, coming to sit very gingerly in your car."

"Fucking hell, Molly," Rosie breathed. "Is this what you want, wanted?"

"Honestly, Rosie, if it helps with the crippling guilt I'm feeling, then yes. It hurt. A lot. And I can still feel it now. Especially when you pat my bum like you did."

We were laughing again.

"I can pat you again, a little bit harder, if that's what you want."

The laughter and the wine were now in control, and we were both teary-eyed with it. 

Rosie gently drew me into a hug, and I let her, realising gradually that, well, I don't know, her hugging was rather nice.

"Do you want me to kiss you?" she whispered.

"No. Yes. I think so. Why?"

Her lips gently brushed mine.

"No. Sorry."

I scurried off to bed.

The next morning, not a word was spoken about it. As though it hadn't happened. 

"Breakfast's ready. I raided your cupboards."

"Brill. And I've opened the envelope. The homework one."

I passed the letter to Rosie, and she read it whilst we ate.

"Oh!"

"I know," I replied. "Have you ever been in there?"

"Of course. Haven't you?"

"Well. No. I'm. I've. I'm not a prude or anything. Just...oh hell. This is weird."

"What is?"

"Well. I don't do it. Sex. I have. But it was a while ago."

"How long?"

"Years," I answered quietly.

"By choice," she continued prying.

"I don't know."

"Boys or girls?"

It was barely 8 o'clock, and I was being grilled. Embarrassingly so.

"I..well...it's...I..." I began, stuttering.

"Sorry, Molly. I know I ask too many questions."

"No," I answered, stopping her apology. "I've made out with both boys and girls, but the boys, we'll, they'd no idea what they were doing. But the girls—well, girl actually—made me feel so special. I think, no, I know that if my studies had been less stressful, I may have made something with her."

"Oh," Rosie eventually replied.

"Anyway," I eventually continued, "the homework. On Wednesday, I've got to do a little DIY. It seems a little bit of an odd thing to be doing."

"I'm going to come back for you in an hour, and I'll take you to Simple Secrets. The therapist has an account there, giving substantial discounts with this letter. We may as well use it."

"Okay. I'll get showered. See you soon."

This was turning into an adventure. It was a painful adventure, but an adventure nonetheless.

Three hours later, Rosie took my hand and led me out of my first visit to a sex shop, and my bank balance was many pounds lighter, even with the discount.

"Well. They were lovely and helpful, weren't they? I expected dark, dingy, seedy almost. Not lovely light and so helpful," I raved to Rosie.

"And now you can do your homework properly, can't you love?"

"I suppose."

"So tell me," Rosie continued, "what's the problem?"

We drove for a while in silence.

"It's so embarrassing. And weird. Jan is expecting me to spank myself. Bare arsed and hard enough to make me stinging and red."

"Yes. I understand, I think. But if it works and you're able to get on with your life, this punishment therapy has got to be worth it. Hasn't it?"

Yes. I suppose it is," I answered almost reluctantly. 

"Want me to help?"

"No! What! No, thank you." Another long pause. "You want to spank me now, too?"

"Weelll," she said, but I thought I detected the laugh in her tone.

"You do, don't you, you fucking perv? It is you grooming me, isn't it?"

"I only said I wanted to help my friend. If that makes me a perv, then maybe. You only have to ask."

"Okay. Rosie. Will you please help me?"

"Molly. Let me think about it. Yes, I'd love to help you," Rosie answered, perhaps a little too quickly. 

"When?"

"Whenever you'd like me to"

"If I buy us lunch, how's about now, this afternoon?"

"Just got to check something."

Rosie fiddled with her phone for a few minutes.

"That's sorted. I know you never come out, but we're going to the Wig and Pen for tea, a few of us from work. I've just arranged to go a bit later, so you've got me until about 5ish, if that's ok. You can come to, if you'd like."

"Maybe," I answered uncharacteristically. "I might need some light relief after this, mightn't I?"

Lunch was a posh sandwich and takeaway coffee, eaten in the car, looking out over the rolling hills on the outskirts of town.

"I suppose you'll be showering before you start, won't you?"

"Yes, Rosie. You already know me so well. Make us a cold drink, and I'll be back in a minute. What do you think I should wear?"

"Okay. Make it simple. Just your bra and knickers. I won't be embarrassed. I'm here to help." 

She sounded a little excited about the afternoon's prospect.

"You're loving this, aren't you, Rosie?" I asked as she went into the kitchen, and I went for my shower.

"Actually, yes, Molly," she answered when I returned in matching French knickers and a pale blue camisole. "And wow. You look amazing. I wish it was me going to spank you instead of you doing it to yourself," she said, wide-eyed, holding on to the heaviest of the new paddles and slapping it, non-too gently, against her leg.

She handed me a tall iced juice, her fingers brushing mine—a show of delicate intimacy I wasn't expecting. 

"Come on," she said a little too loudly. "Spanking yourself is easy, but getting to the required level...not so much. Bend over and stick your bottom out."

I did so, and I'm sure I heard Rosie's breathing change, just a little. 

"Now, grip this," she said, handing me the lightest paddle, "and whack yourself hard. Twist yourself until you get the right angle to make the best contact."

I followed her instructions but pulled back at the last moment, the implement landing with a gentle pop.

"You look great. But that was poor. Very poor. Even for a first attempt," Rosie scolded. "Try again, only at least ten times harder. To be effective, it's got to sting. Like you've been sitting on nettles."

I tried again.

It landed a little harder, a little louder. I ouched.

"Still poor."

And again.

"Poor."

Again.

"Poor."

I was out of breath and frustrated. 

"Wanna show me?"

"What?"

"Do you want to show me how to do it?" I said, snippily exaggerating each word.

"I'll take this paddle to your bottom if you speak to me like that," Rosie said crossly, threatening me with the paddle still in her hand.

"Well, I can't do it. I can't fucking do it. It's different when someone else is wielding the fucking thing, I'm sure." My snippiness was turning into a tantrum.

Rosie took control, pushing me non-too gently over one of the expensive, well-upholstered bar stool seats.

"Hey!"

The heavy paddle in her hand made loud contact with the cheeks of my thinly covered bottom, metronomic regularity, and increasing volume.

I owed, owed, and ouched with increasing volume as well, but Rosie held me in place. 

The paddle stung.

Like hell. 

Five. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty times.

"I will not be spoken to in that manner."

Five more.

"Especially when all I'm doing is trying to help."

Another five.

A pause.

Then another five.

Dropping the paddle on the breakfast bar, Rosie picked up her car keys.

"I'm out. Call me when you're ready to apologise and take some advice. Jan said DIY. I could and would have done it for you. But not with that attitude."

And she was gone, leaving me across the stool, hot stinging bottom in the air, tears almost running up my face from the position I was in.

"No! Don't go," I squawked, scrambling back up, but the door had already closed behind her. I heard her car door close and the gravel of my driveway spray as she sped away.

Now what.

I tried ringing. Rosie didn't answer.

I tried sitting, but it was too uncomfortable. So I paced, getting colder as I did.

I texted.

"I'm so sorry for being a stupid, petulant little girl. I deserved every single swat you gave me, and thank you for each one. If having the same again and again until you're satisfied that I've learnt my lesson is what it takes, then please, please come back and paddle my bum again."

There was an almost immediate response.

"Thank you. I'm going out tonight. You're still very much invited, so perhaps I'll see you in the pub later."

"Can we talk first?"

"No, Molly. I need to think about what I've got myself into. Maybe later."

"Okay," was all I could respond with.

Then I added a row of kisses.

"xxxxxx"

She responded with a very serious emoji.

" : I "

I left it there, not knowing which way the wind was blowing.

I drank the remnants of both drinks, re-draped myself over the stool, and practiced.

Hard.

About an hour later, I stood up, stiff from my excursions. 

I'd perfected a technique, using the heavy paddle that Rosie used, to beat each cheek separately: right hand, right cheek, left hand, left cheek. With this practice and what she'd already given me, I was in genuine pain.

Elated at my resulting bare scorched bottom but also sure that with more practice, the results would improve, I vowed to use this afternoon as the start of a new me. One of the main directions, as well as not being an arsehole to those who only cared for me, was to be fitter.

The pacing continued once my knickers were back in place, and as the pain ebbed slowly away, I was filled with a totally unexpected feeling.

I sent one more message.

"Can't make it this evening. I'm so sorry about everything. I'd love to talk when and if you're ready. You mean a huge lot to me. See you Monday at work. Xxxxxx."