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Session IX: Just Another Manic Monday
It wasn’t until later that night that I realized that, once again, Jennifer hadn’t spanked me. Why was I so disappointed by that? Why did I crave correction from her so much, when I was getting such wonderful pleasure from her? I didn’t know. But I did know by Sunday night that I was yearning for a spanking.
It was, in theory, an office day on Monday. Feeling a mood I hadn’t felt in years, I put on a dress and stay-up thigh high stockings. The weather prediction was for a blustery day, and I knew that I would feel the cold up my skirt while I was outside. But I sort of looked forward to that. For extra measure, I dug into the bottom of my underwear drawer and found my thong. It wasn’t going to feel as naughty as going without panties, but it would be close.
I practically dove for my phone when it went off at 10 o’clock. In my haste, I fumbled my password the first time, but I got it right on my second try. I had a session! I couldn’t wait. “Natalie Flanders” was my therapist’s name and she had an address not too far from campus. I made up a service call and headed out to my car. Following the app’s directions, I soon found my way into a suburban neighborhood, pulling up into a nondescript, blue, two-story house, with a single car in the driveway.
I pulled in behind that car and climbed the steps to the front door. Just before I hit the doorbell my bladder checked in with me. This morning’s coffee was starting to catch up with me. That’s embarrassing, I thought to myself as I pushed the buzzer.
The door was opened by a middle-aged woman in jeans and a red knitted blouse. She had short brown hair and brown eyes, and like me, she was somewhat overweight. She wore big glasses and matching big earrings dangling from her ears.
“Mrs. Flanders,” I said, holding up my iPhone. “Pam Burgin. I’m here for a therapy appointment.”
“Yes, yes, come in. Please.” She let me in and I noticed that she took a look around the neighborhood as I went by her. I stopped inside the door, in an immaculately kept living room. There was a couch, a couple of formal looking chairs and a coffee table. A set of magazines was piled neatly in one corner of the table. A pair of impressionist prints hung on the wall.
She seemed pleased that I was looking around. “I was in therapy too until a few months ago,” she said with a smile. “Before I went in, I was a horrible housekeeper. Now, well, I’ve reformed.”
This was new to me. She used to be in therapy. “I didn’t know you could go from receiving to giving.”
“It’s a fairly new part of the program,” she said. “This is my second time. I’m excited to be doing this.” She seemed so earnest, so hoping to do good.
“Um, Mrs. Flanders. Or can I call you Natalie?”
“No, Mrs. Flanders will do.”
“Okay. Mrs. Flanders, before we start, do you mind if I use your bathroom? I had a little too much coffee this morning.”
She stepped back and looked me up and down. I saw the wheels turning behind her eyes. “No. You can wait.”
“I really could use….”
“No,” she repeated. “You can wait.” She walked over to one of the formal chairs and sat down.
“Come over here, Pamela.”
“Listen to me, Pamela,” she said firmly. “Come over here for your therapy. You can use the bathroom afterwards.”
I looked at her for a second and then walked to where she was sitting, all too aware of the pressure from my bladder. She was sitting up straight in the chair, her lap flat in front of her. She indicated her side and I stood next to her.
“Are you wearing panties, Pamela? I understand you don’t always wear them when you report for therapy.”
Geez, did they tell the therapists everything? “I’m wearing a thong,” I said.
“Stay up,” I answered.
“Raise your dress and show me.”
Obediently, I collected the fabric of my skirt up my sides to reveal my thong. The white fabric covering my sex was soon visible.
“You could use a little trimming,” she said to me, making me blush. “Take them down. No, off, then get over my knees, Pamela.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I whispered and switched my hands to my thong and pushed them down. As I bent to move them around my shoes and off my feet, my face was near Mrs. Flanders’ breasts. She was wearing a strong dose of perfume that made my nose itch. I stood up again and gathered my skirt again, then bent over her knees.
“Give me your right hand,” she said. I bent my far hand back over me and she grabbed it and held it, bent upwards. It held me immobile; any squirming would wrench my arm painfully. “Count,” she said and canlı bahis şirketleri whacked my ass.
I was actually kind of thankful that she made me count her spanks. It gave me a way to keep my mind off my bladder. The position I was in put pressure in just the wrong place and I felt the need to go get even worse. But soon, at about number 25, my bottom started burning from her blows.
She was a little clumsy. Once she even said, “Oh sorry,” when her blow landed awkwardly. But she followed it up with an even harder slap. “No I’m not. You will be though,” she corrected herself.
I felt my legs start to drift apart on number 40. At 50, I started hoping that she would smack me between my thighs or finger me when she was done. But she kept raining the blows on my ass.
She stopped at one hundred. “You’d be surprised how much that hurts your hand,” she said. Then, “But your ass is nice and red. You know, you’re very wet between your legs.” She continued to hold my hand and put a little pressure on my arm.
“Yes, ma’am. I know I am. I always get wet.”
“Does this get you horny?” she seemed surprised.
“Um, yes. Very much so.”
“Do you expect me to do something about that?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t do things like that. Now get up.” She let go of my hand. I got up as awkwardly as ever. It really wasn’t an easy position to get out of. “You can use the bathroom now,” she said.
I looked down at my thong, lying on the ground then around the room. “Oh, right,” she said and stood up. She walked to the archway out of the living room. “This way.” Mrs. Flanders gestured me through the archway and into a guest half-bath. I walked by her and tried to close the door, but she didn’t let me. “No. Sit. Don’t pee yet.”
Blushing I lifted my dress around me and sat tenderly on the toilet. My ass was on fire and though the toilet seat was cool, it was also hard. I looked up at Mrs. Flanders. “Now may I?” I asked.
“Are you still horny?”
“Would you like to do something about it?”
“May I? Please?” I couldn’t believe I was asking to play with myself. And right in front of her, obviously.
“You may choose. Pee or masturbate.”
I looked up at her, maddened, feeling the war of conflicting needs in my groin. I had to pee, but I was fucking horny. My face as red as my ass must be, I leaned back against the back of the toilet and spread my legs a little wider. My right hand moved to my sex and I closed my eyes and began to pleasure myself, sliding my fingers into my opening.
“Don’t close your eyes, you slut,” Mrs. Flanders said to me. “Open them and look at me if you’re going to finger-fuck your cunt in my bathroom.”
My eyes opened immediately; I was attuned to her command at this point. She held my eyes as I diddled myself. I was dripping wet from the spanking. My fingers slid in and out without resistance. Needing to pee intensified everything. As did being watched by my “therapist” who stood over me, her hand twisting on the door handle, her lower lip folded under her upper teeth.
In seconds I got close. I let my fingers slide up out of my pussy and find my clit. With my middle finger, I pressed and vibrated against myself, like I’d seen a cellist do to his strings once. Closer, closer. “Yeah,” I groaned as reached the crest.
I came and as the orgasm flooded my nerves with pleasure, my bladder released. I shuddered with relief that was like a booster shot to the orgasm and the pee jetted into the toilet bowl beneath me.
I was momentarily ashamed at the pee, but then I realized that compared to having been spanked and masturbating myself to an orgasm in front of this woman, the pee was nothing. I held my fingers against my clit and just let the feelings wash over me. “Come back when you’re finished,” Mrs. Flanders said unsteadily and turned back to the living room, leaving the door open.
I considered going again. I could have. I was still that horny. But I knew I shouldn’t. I concentrated on squeezing my bladder to empty it completely, then took some paper and wiped. I automatically reached to pull up my panties then remembered that I didn’t have them on. I stood and flushed, then went back to the living room.
Mrs. Flanders was back in her chair, my thong held nervously in her hands, which rested on her lap. “That was very, um” she paused. “Very educational to watch.” She looked down at her hands, remembering she held my thong. She held it out to me. “Here.”
I reached out and took them. “Thank you for my therapy, Mrs. Flanders,” I said. “Am I done? May I go?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. She got canlı kaçak iddaa up and walked me the few feet to the door. “I hope the rest of your day goes well.”
“Thank you,” I said, making my underwear as small as I could inside my fist. “And you have a good day too.”
I winced as I slid into the car. My bottom hurt so nicely.
My thong went into in my purse when I got into the car; somehow it never came out. I had meant to put it on when I got back to the office, but I got distracted. I’m not sure how you forget you’re not wearing any panties, especially when you’re wearing a dress, but I did. Maybe it just felt good. Or maybe it was the fact that my ass hurt so much.
The app went off again at 3. “Dr Hannah Barrows,” it said with the address. Was this another shrink, I wondered? That would make sense, getting other therapists involved in this kind of therapy. But when I got to her office, I found out that Dr. Barrows was a GP in a private practice.
I wasn’t really sure when I walked into the waiting room and saw a man in his seventies and a pregnant woman in her thirties waiting in the uncomfortable seats, reading out of date magazines. Should I go up to the receptionist? Would she know about my appointment? What else could I do, I figured, and went to the frosted glass window that separated the waiting room from the rest of the office.
Behind the desk was a middle-aged Hispanic woman wearing multicolored nurses’ scrubs. She looked up at me. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“Pamela Burgin.” I said. “Um, I think I have an appointment with Doctor Barrows?”
“You think? Let me see.” She looked at her computer and clicked the mouse a few times. “Oh yes, you’re right here. Right on time too. Please have a seat and Janet will be right with you.”
I sat down gingerly on one of the hard padded seats, squirming to find a comfortable position. I hadn’t, when the door opened and a tiny red-headed woman, also in scrubs and holding a clipboard in her hand, appeared. “Pamela?” she asked.
I stood up while the other two patients in the waiting room glared daggers at me. She led me into the back, weighing me and measuring my height before directing me to an exam room. Inside she took my blood pressure, pulse rate, and my temperature, noting the results on her pad. “Does your pulse normally run high?” she asked.
“Um, what? Oh no. It’s been just a, um, eventful day.”
“Okay. The doctor will be with you in a moment. Please undress to your underwear.”
She left me in the room.
I gulped because I had left my purse with my thong in my car. “She’s a doctor,” I told myself as took off my dress and hung it on a hanger provided on the back of the door. I got back up on the exam table in my bra and stockings, all too aware that my still lubricated sex was making an obvious stain on the white paper pulled across the table. I sat there uncomfortably, looking around and reliving my morning’s therapy even though I wanted to think about almost anything else.
In a few moments there was a knock on the door, after which it opened. In came a tall, thin, woman with round, wire-rimmed glasses and dirty-blonde hair braided and pinned up on her head. She wore a white coat and had a stethoscope hanging over her neck. She held out her hand, “Pamela,” she asked. “I’m Hannah Barrows.”
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Barrows,” I said, all too aware of my semi-nakedness.
“I don’t need to ask you why you’re here,” she said, pulling an smart phone out of her pocket and looking down on it. “This is your second therapy session of the day, yes?”
“Yes, Doctor. I had a session this morning.”
“And this says that you had a spanking and an orgasm? Self provided?”
I blushed. “Um, yes Doctor.”
“Well, I’d like to take a look at your vagina to make sure everything is going well. I see I don’t need to ask you to take off your panties,” she arched her eyebrow.
“When was the last time you did a breast exam?”
“Um, it’s been a while.”
“Hmm, okay, please take off your bra and lie back on the table.” She turned and washed her hands in the sink. I reached behind me and unclasped my bra, leaning back on the table and holding my bra awkwardly until Dr. Barrows turned around and took it from me. She pulled the stirrups up from the side of the table. I knew enough to put my feet in them. Usually I had a modesty sheet over me in this position. But now, I felt totally exposed, all too aware that my nipples were engorged and my pussy was increasingly slippery.
The doctor stood next to me and began to examine my breasts, sliding her bare hands around them to check canlı kaçak bahis for lumps and squeezing them gently at first and more firmly after. She flicked her thumbs over my nipples and I couldn’t help but moan. “That’s a healthy reaction,” the doctor said and flicked my nipples again. I bit my lower lip. “Does that feel good, Pamela?” she asked, holding the pad of her thumbs on the tip of my nipples and slowly making circles.
“Yes, Doctor,” I answered breathily. “Very much.”
“Good. It is supposed to.” She let go of my breasts and moved to the end of the table, standing before my opened legs. “You have a very healthy lubrication response,” she said with a little smile, just before she ran her forefinger slowly along my opening from bottom to top.
“Damn,” I sighed. Her touch was delicate, yet firm.
“Yes, ‘damn’ indeed,” she repeated before she rotated her wrist and plunged her middle two fingers into me, sliding in as far as she could before pressing upward to my g-spot. I inhaled quickly as the shocks of pleasure ran through my nerves. “An excellent pleasure response,” she said, and then pulled her fingers out of my cunt. She looked at her fingers then licked them. “Hmm, I’d have to run a test to be exact, but I’m pretty sure your pH is right where it should be.”
She turned around and opened a drawer, pulling out a foot-long ruler. She faced me again and looked at my face and caught my eyes with hers. I didn’t see her move the ruler, but I felt it, slapping with a sting into my sex. “Ow,” I whispered, not wanting to be heard. “Ow,” I said again as she struck me once more.
“Ow?” she asked. “Does it hurt?”
“But does it also turn you on?” She reached out and touched my now swollen clit. “I can see your clitoris is reacting positively to it.”
“Yes,” I moaned. She was manipulating my clit with her thumb and forefinger.
“Yes to both, I imagine.” She released my clit and then began to hit me again slowly, moving the blows all around my crotch, slapping my clit, and each of my labia, both low and high. I let my head flop back on the table and closed my eyes and let the sensations wash over me.
She didn’t hit me many times. Maybe twenty, but I was approaching an orgasm when she stopped.
“Okay, Pamela. Very healthy reaction. Now, please step off the table and bend over it. I would like to check Mrs. Flanders’ handiwork.”
I clumsily took my feet out of the stirrups and climbed down off the table. “Just lie over it,” the doctor said. “Face down.”
I bent, exposing my bottom and sex to her totally.
“Hmmm,” she said, gently manipulating my butt cheeks, “she did very nice work. Your derriere is a nice shade of red still. I don’t think I need to do any more reddening.”
I started to rise up, “Oh, no,” she put a hand on my back. “Stay right there.” I heard her turn and then heard the snap of a latex glove pulled onto her hand. She stood behind me and I couldn’t tell what she was doing until she said, “Try to relax, Pamela.”
Then I felt the cool slipperiness of a lubricated finger press against and then enter my anus. At least it was one finger at first. In a second I felt another slide in next to it.
“Fuck,” I whispered, without thinking.
“If you insist,” she giggled. Slowly, ever so slowly, she slid her fingers in and out of my ass, twisting them as they entered or left me.
“Fuuuck,” I said as the pleasure started to build.
“Try to move your legs more apart,” she said clinically, pausing her movements. It was hard to move like that with her fingers where they were, but I managed. She resumed.
My breathing sped up and became very shallow. My whole world seemed centered in my anus. Just when I didn’t think I could take anything else, she reached her other hand down and between my thighs. She fumbled for a second until she found my clit and squeezed it hard between her thumb and forefinger.
I passed out then. I’d never done that before, ever. But the orgasm was so intense that I lost consciousness in a pleasurable nirvana.
When I came to, probably no more than a couple of seconds later, Dr. Barrows’ fingers were out of me and she was once again washing her hands in the sink. “I don’t think there’s anything at all wrong with you, Pamela,” she said. She turned and picked up her clipboard and a pen and made some notes on the paper. “But I’m a little worried about your black out. I’d like to follow up with you on Friday. Can you come in late in the afternoon? The office normally closes at three, and I’d like to see you then.”
“Um, sure, Doctor. Friday at three.”
“Good. Leave your email with my receptionist and I’ll send you an appointment notice. We’ll give you a more thorough examination, okay?” She didn’t wait for an answer, just let herself out of the room. I got dressed and let myself out, walking a little unsteadily, still recovering from her exam.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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