The Therapist


It had been Lady Morton who had first mentioned him.

“Did wonders for my melancholy,” she said in that off-hand way of hers.

I had been completely shocked at first. After all it was such a scandalous idea. I don’t think Lady Morton would ever have made such a disclosure had her maid not directed me into her bathroom while she was bathing.

That had been uncomfortable enough, why the woman was quite naked, but when she stood up from the water I saw what I took for a rash had ravaged much of her lower person. That is to say her bottom. There I said it. Then her eyes had followed the course of my gaze and at that moment I realised what I was looking at.

“Your husband?” I enquired.

That is when she explained.

What I didn’t tell her about was my adventure with my children’s former governess.

Now I get ahead of myself or is it behind myself. I never can tell. I was about to tell you about the therapist and now I digress.

Let me start from the beginning.

When I was a girl of no more than 14 summers my parents both drowned on their way to India. I was therefore dispatched to the Miss Eldridge School for Young Ladies in Bedfordshire some distance north of London. This was 20 years ago in the autumn of 1884, which is an age ago when you consider how the world has moved on.

Oh dear I am digressing again.

At Miss Eldridge’s I became acquainted with harsh and stimulating custom of whipping, first as a spectator and later as a recipient. Thinking back I think Miss Eldridge must have had a penchant for the practice as she tended to be quite lenient with the younger girls such as I, but would take the great girls to task at the least thing.

I have to tell you that girls of 18, 19 and even as old as 21 were frequently seen coming from her rooms in great displays of distress having been soundly thrashed at her hands. So it was no great surprise that shortly after I turned 18 with an indefinite period still to go under her tutelage I found myself summoned.

Once before her, she berated me for tardiness and general slovenliness, none of which seemed particularly just and finally ordered me to turn about. It was in a state of much consternation that I obeyed I can tell you and as I suspected, once turned she seized me and began to tuck up and pin my skirts to themselves at the small of my back. No sooner had she done this then she began to draw down my bloomers until I was left denuded to her gaze.

“Please Miss Eldridge,” I wailed. “I have done no wrong.”

But this was to be to no avail as she proceeded to place me across her lap and whip me sharply with a short birchen rod. I don’t have to tell you that this harsh treatment was metered out to my stark naked bottom until I was quite in tears and all rosy behind.

“Let that be a lesson to you,” she chided me and then I was released.

Afterwards I was beset with confusion and I could think of nothing but my whipping for days after. So it was with some surprise that when I was again called to see Miss Eldridge, I felt uplifted and almost eager to go.

I think in the days that followed she sensed my receptiveness as she took ever greater liberties with my person until I was often all but stripped quite nude and thrashed with a great rod until I broke into wailing. Such were the corrections I received at her hands that I could not hope to sit down for days to come after one of these encounters.

All too soon my days at the school came to an end I had thought to put my whipping adventures behind me. I was engaged and subsequently married to my husband and in due course bore him two daughters.

Then 10 years later we engaged a governess for their education and my adventures were re-joined in quite a curious way.

Miss Stein was a stern and striking young woman, who took great pains with our daughter’s education with such an efficient and confident manner that I began to feel quite inadequate in her presence.

Then one day I became so befuddled in conversation with her that she had occasion to put me in my place. I was mortified of course and paced the garden until well after dinner just to calm myself. Finally I decided to confront her to denounce her challenge to my authority. I steeled myself for the encounter and made my way to her room.

What I discovered there was to change my life.

Miss Stern had her back to me when I entered her room and at once I could see she was naked save for a severe black leather corset and her stockings. This shocking attire seized my gaze as it served to emphasise her rather full buttocks presented as they were towards the door as she stood braced against the wall with her left arm. In her right she held a martinet whip with which she was scourging herself so that vivid rills were engraved across the white flesh of her bottom.

“You have caught me at my devotions,” she drawled regarding me with her heavy-lidded mauve eyes.

“I…” I could scarcely speak and stood mumbling like a silly maid.

She turned tugging at the leather strands of her scourge with her fingers, threatening in her raw nature. I could see the thick black triangle of her sex stark beneath her corset contrasting with the firm white globes of her breasts that were in immanent risk of escaping.

“Shall you dismiss me now?” It was a challenge.

“No,” I breathed.

I don’t recall now exactly how it came about, but the usual station of mistress and servant was reversed and she began scolding me for entering her room uninvited.

“I’m sorry, I…”

“I am afraid sorry is hardly adequate,” she said thickly. “You must be punished.”

I was hers.

Stripping me nude, she secured me face down on her bed with silken cords. Then placing a pillow beneath my hips she took possession of my naked bottom, her fingers exploring every cleft and curve of it. Then she took some oil from her dresser and soothed the cool silk liquid into my skin until my bottom globes rolled in her hands like the ivory balls upon my husband’s billiard table.

“You should have me call someone to release you,” she teased.

I suddenly thought of how I would be undone if anyone saw me secured thus.

“No? Are you sure?” She pressed me.

“Please,” I said.

“Please yes, or please no?”

Truly I did not know.

“Once I begin, I shall be cruel and nothing will save you except the dawn if I wish it,” she said with a kiss to my naked shoulder.

I thought of my school days, but Miss Stein had no need of the deceptions with which Miss Eldridge used to employ in order to hide from herself.

“Please,” I said again.

The first slash of her martinet stung like bees and I screamed.

“Perhaps you should strive to be silent,” she said striking again. “If the maid comes I will let her see.”

I grunted then, swallowing the pain.

“That’s a good girl,” she cooed lashing in so that the tails of the whip bit into the soft flesh on the underside of my bottom.

I chewed the edge of the bed pane as she added sister strokes to the first. She knew well her trade for she lay on stroke after stroke in slow heavy sweeps each drilling into my flesh making me writhe with its fire.

Eventually I broke to sobbing and she held me for the longest time and I took comfort from it, grateful to her for no longer beating me and craving her touch.

“Just a little respite,” she whispered. “I will begin over in a little while. I intend to make your bottom quite raw and you will not be able to bear it, but of course you will bear it for you must.”

She was as good as her word, not once, but in sets of whippings that were too many to count. By the time the grey light of dawn touched the window I was exhausted and my bottom held a fire beyond anything I had ever had at Miss Eldridge’s.

“If you come again I will impale you as a man might or as a man might a boy,” she told me. “But I will make you beg for it first, I will not be this gentle again.”

Was she mad? Was I?


The next day I rose late. The very touch of my linen and heavy skirts was torture on my hidden raw flesh. I could scarcely move without the previous night reasserting itself and all thoughts of sitting were driven from my mind. I do not believe I could sit down for most of that week and even in church that Sunday the bench was a curse.

Yet as I knew I would, the next day after I slipped away to Miss Stein’s room.

Over the months that followed I was to suffer at her hands. Sometimes as she had threatened and sometimes as a school girl again where she had me bend and bare my bottom for a harsh birching or a lengthy dose of the cane. There were other things that I am ashamed to think of.

We dallied together off and on for the next three years until circumstances and a new position asserted themselves and we parted.

So when Lady Morton told me of her strange therapist, I was not as innocent as I seemed.

The Therapist, when he called, took me by surprise. He was neither old nor young, tall nor short, he was instead quite ordinary looking. Not so much the doctor, but more like a bank clerk or a curate. However it was not his demeanour that first held my attention that day when he called, but his bag. It was heavy and long and thinking of Miss Stein and her extensive collection, my mind raced with what it might contain.

“Your husband knows of this?” He said brusquely as he removed his gloves. I noticed he didn’t look at me.

“Yes,” I lied.

“You deceive me of course,” he said at once.

I blushed.

“You must be quite honest with me if I am to help you,” he said.

Then he looked at me for the first time and looked me up and down as if appraising a horse. He even described a circle in the air to indicate that I should turn about. I did so.

“Were you spanked as a child?”

“No,” I said truthfully.

He cocked one eye and fixed me with a stern look.

“I was not chastised until my last days at school,” I explained.

“And not since?”

I cast my eyes down and blushed again.

“Your husband?”

I shook my head.

“On occasion my former governess obliged. My children’s former governess I mean.”

He seemed to accept this and began to walk slowly around the house as if trying to discern my worth from the trinkets and bric-a-brac adorning the shelves.

“Tell me would you adjudge your past corrections, mild, severe or very severe.”

“Not mild certainly, not even at school. Miss Stein was harsher still. In fact really quite harsh indeed,” I supplied eagerly.

“We shall see,” he said ominously. Arrange your clothes so that your draws are at your ankles and your skirts are pulled high off your naked posteriors.”

I baulked.

“And then present your nose to that wall with your naked bottom facing me,” he added casually.

He had a commanding air and the matter-of-fact way he instructed me served to reduce me to proper humility. Without a maid it took some time to obey and by the time I was revealed to him I was utterly shamed. No man but my husband had ever seen me thus.

It was strange and arousing to be stood so half-naked before him, but he did nothing but take a seat and I believe he took up a book.

“How long am I to stand so?” I enquired.

“Be silent and remain as you are until I instruct otherwise.”

I was to stand facing the wall for a very long time, far longer than I had anticipated at any rate.

“Now you lying and procrastinating baggage, come here,” he said at last.

He placed me across his lap like an errant child and patted my exposed bottom in a scandalous way. Then reaching to his bag he retrieved a short thick strap which he puddled at my nether cheeks.

“This is sufficient for most of my ladies. It will certainly test your mettle.”

With that he brought the spanking strap down hard with a crack that rebounded around the room. I grunted and felt the sting of it fade and grow into a modest blaze.

He spanked again so that I gasped.

“Most women are screaming ab-dabs at me by now,” he observed.

Then he set to spanking me with a speed and vigour that set my heart racing and my bottom burning. I squirmed in his lap, feeling his hard thighs and yet something else stirring beneath me. Although all this I endured with a few grunts and groans.

He must have spanked me for 10 or 15 minutes before he set me to my feet.

“You colour well. Now return and face the wall.”

I did as I was told, breathing heavily and resting the urge to rub at my seared flesh, not through discipline, but because I was too ashamed to have a man see me touch myself so.

“If you engage my services I will call once every two weeks in return for two guineas. But be advised I will be the master of your soul. I will thrash far beyond anything you have yet experienced and you will need the two weeks just to recover.”

“I agree,” I said somewhat muffled by the corner.

“Good. When I next come I will birch you soundly across a low stool I think and if you don’t do me the courtesy of shedding tears I will thrash you until you do. Good day to you.”

With that he was gone.

He had not even dismissed me from my place at the wall. I was to learn that this was his way. If I took it upon myself to move before a scheduled time he kept secreted in his head, then when questioned at our next encounter I would be punished.

And so it was that the Therapist entered my life.

13 Responses to “The Therapist”

  1. 1 Patron

    Nice tale of old-timey taboo submission here. Well done, DJ.

  2. 2 OldSchoolGirl

    I have been reading your historically set stories and been having so much fun I have neglected many things I need to do…I suspect such procrastination warrants some correction 🙂 ! I have been previously inspired to start writing my own stories, but with all these wonderful stories here I have neglected this too.

    This is probably my favorite so far, nicely written, you have captured the late Victorian flavor quite well. I’m reminded of the treatments for “hysteria” that were popular in these times with bored housewives seeking a legitimate, medically sanctioned, release at the hands of a professional though they did keep their skirts on…they would have to have removed or dropped their drawers if they were of the non open type (not every woman preferred the conviance of open drawers, though from old patterns I’d say they were in the minority).

    Please keep up the good work maybe you’ll inspire me to post my stories some day. Now I must go and pin up my skirts 🙂 .

  3. Wondering why all of a sudden I have an urge to go and find a Therapist?

    Love this!



  4. 4 DJ

    Spanking therapy available from DJ Black on demand 😉

    unfortunately there is no North American branch as of yet.

    Yes old fashioned girl – I knew about the hysteria therapy – in part that was my inspriation. A great deal was done in the name of ‘medicine’ – the only the unlikely part of my story – I suspect – is that a woman would submit naked to a man. But who knows – maybe she could trust him cos he was a doctor.

    Thanks as ever ladies (and gent)


    ps Patron when are you going to update your site?

    • 5 OldSchoolGirl

      Well I think by the 1890’s attitudes were starting to change. From what I’ve read in the 1860s and earlier a lot of ladys would have probably rather died than let even a doctor, let alone a therapist, see their neither regions, but by the 1890’s it wasn’t all that unusual for a woman to be seen by a male doctor in a state of undress if necessary…female doctors still being in somewhat short supply. I believe they got this right in the BBC series “Bramwell”, though I’m not sure the reverse would have been true.

      Since you aren’t available over here 😦 , any suggestions on exactly what my punishment should be for procrastinating here on your site? I have just located a near three foot long handle from a broken shovel should you think this necessary, though perhaps my crime isn’t quite wicked enough for that…my fate is in your hands (by proxy) 😉 . I’m dressed for the early 1850’s should the time period make any difference.

      • 6 DJ

        oh six of the best at least and 20 mins in the corner

  5. 7 OldSchoolGirl

    Ok I had to interrupt my 20, which will be started over shortly, to given an update. Firstly I was ordered to pin up my skirts and take down my drawers. Well after struggling for some time and only getting a quarter of my dress pinned up, stabbing myself innumerable times and discovering I had to ruin the pins by bending them into a loop and twisting the point around the head which was going to add up to a considerable waste of pins. The safety pin wasn’t readily available in 1850. A maid or cooperative partner would have helped my was just amused at my increasing frustration. Finally I was given an option to strip down to my chamise, pinning just that up and take an extra couple of the best instead–tired of the struggle I went for it. That went much better and I am right now sivering in the cold here with by bottom exposed to the world, even with all the years on it it’s still a good looking bum as you Brits call it, my only remaining girlish feature. I must say for a woman used wearing Victorian clothes running around in a pinned up chamise is quite disconcerting, I only hope I don’t have to go outside to cut a switch that would be very embarrassing.

    Secondly the rod, or possibly birch or ash, was less successful. Maybe because it was the first time. I don’t think leverage was the problem the er bloody thing is near four feet long and the texture is quite rough. Probably my assistant was afraid of doing damage the rod does look quite fearsome. Well the first two smacks left me grinning they sounded good, but had far less impact then a hairbrush. The grin was perhaps not a real good idea I could have pretended something more and because of the sound I might have got away with it, but oh well. So we started over. This time a lower down whack was administered and it briefly had a pretty good sting almost compared to a decent hap with a braided leather belt. Things were looking up for my punishment to make a real impact on my lazy ways. But it never got more 9 more followed, they all stung briefly but never produced even a groan. I must admit I have a very high pain tolerance and I do take pain killers though at a comparatively low dose compared to other people like me many of whom are in wheelchairs, not bending over to get six or more of the best. So don’t expect tears from me, the only time I can remember even my eyes watering a bit in recent years was when a doctor was sticking a large needle in my big toe to administer anesthetic before minor surgery and managed to hit a nerve, it was unexpected and intense and I had to blink a bit, she looked at me and said, “most people yell out when that happens.” Well I might have too if it had happened a second time.

    My assistant, who is admittedly not one of natures doms, she’s just a friend who enjoys a bit of role play, grew a bit frustrated with my lack of response, and had an idea inspired by this site: I was made to go bare assed to the kitchen and mix up some mustard, I just used water and colmans mustard powder. It went on smooth but after awhile it did get those welts to stinging again. The big problem is that is dries out too fast and looses it’s effectiveness and I have to keep applying water every few minutes to keep the discomfort going, although that may have a certain charm from an observers point of view. I think the solution to that is to use mineral oil instead of water and maybe a bit of vinegar as the acid might add to the effect also mixing more for a thicker dressing might help, but still it is burning and uncomfortable and I look forward to being able to wash it off but I suspect it may be awhile as my assistant is still unhappy, maybe she can wield the rod with more authority next time I’m bad. Or perhaps a nice bundle of switches like I see in a lot of Victorian spanking pictures? Well I’ll let you all know how the mustard think goes next time if you’re interested. Now it’s back to the corner for me; it’s a nice 62 degrees in here but in just a pinned up chamise and stockings that’s now feeling a bit cold, hmmm don’t tell my assistant she might get the idea to open the window it’s 40F out there and a bunch of mosquitoes on the prowl already got one bite on my thigh, at least I got the bugger.

    Finally some may wonder why someone with chronic pain would choose more pain. Well there is a world of difference between inflicted externally applied pain (and that includes a butt plug) and generated by chronic disease, in fact a good whipping can actually help distract you from the internal pain (well it presumably gets those endorphins flowing) highly recommended but I suggest doing something naughty to earn a thrashing you’ll have less resentment knowing you deserved it and the help with the other pain is then a bonus. Would I be a sub without the chronic pain? Yes sir, how many sir? Thank you, sir!

    • 8 OldSchoolGirl

      Update to update, my iPad was temporarily confiscated and my post draft was read. I think I finally pissed my assistant off, or maybe her inner dom is coming out. Anyway I’ve been granted temporary rights to my iPad back so I can let you all know what’s going on.

      I was informed that interrupting my Corner time of my own initiative was not allowed even if I did intend to start over with the time. So for that an extra 10 minutes was added. Further more the window was to be opened, the one facing the road, and I was to stand there for the 30 minutes in my pinned up chamise with my “sorry ass” out there for anyone to see. If I froze it off, too bad. I was allowed to put a wrap around my back and neck, most sensitive to cold, it was just my neither regions exposed.

      But before all this was to start I was marched down to the kitchen like some errant school girl and forced to mix up a new mustard batch along my ideas (silly me). So here goes: use vinegar and mineral oil, about half each plus mustard powder to make a paste and apply to bottom liberally. Sorry to all you other subs out there for this recipe, though like the OP said any already made mustard should work (check to make sure it has vinegar, I think most do), add mineral oil if needed especially in dry climates.

      It’s been an hour and my caboose is now officially on fire! It’s getting worse. I’ve been allowed to unpin and put on a night dress, and I’ve been ordered to bed, it’s morning here, with shades down and lights off. I really do feel like a naughty girl and I’m not to be allowed to wash. Maybe a way has been found to bring me to tears. Ok were are now at the squirmy ouch that smarts stage and building. I’ll let you know but for now I have to go, sorry. Oooo this is…oh my. I promise promise PROMISE to stop procrastinating

      • 9 OldSchoolGirl

        Well last report it turned out was near the peak, it slowly faded over the next few hours but with periodic episodes of fairly intense burning. 7 hours out and there is just a faint sensation left. A lot has rubbed off by now. I’d say a fresh application somewhere around two hours out would be most unwelcome.

        Anyone try horseradish? It’s usually a lot hotter than mustard. Easy to grow too I believe, don’t have any handy but maybe someday…Might compare to tabasco or other capsicum types but use water not milk to wash off.

      • 10 OldSchoolGirl

        Final update. My respect for the rod/cane has gone up. A day later and sitting has become decidedly uncomfortable. Just as well– I need to be up and doing things.

    • 11 cindy

      What a pleasure reading your post.


  6. The best therapy for any naughty woman, is to be spanked and spanked well, be it with the hand, paddle, hairbrush, birchrod, cane or whip. Of course on her naked bare bottom, with panties, or knickers down.

  1. 1 - Chross Guide To The Spanking Internet

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